Phyllis caught his arm and pleaded, “Don’t, Mike, please.”
He did not look at her terrified eyes. His face was flinty. He put her restraining hand from his arm and kept moving toward the door.
In the corridor, the two gunsels intercepted him with snarling faces. “Watch your step, lug,” they said in unison.
Phyllis edged toward the doorway, gripping it with white knuckles.
Casey was saying, “You’re a card, Bryant. By God, if you ain’t. I’m out here to soak up some scenery and get some culture — just like you are. Think I’d follow a cheap chiseler around the country?”
Shayne said to the gunsels, “I’m going out,” in a placid voice. His big hands dropped and swung loosely from his shoulders.
“Says who?” one of the punks asked. He put the palm of his hand on Shayne’s chest and pushed.
Shayne’s right looped to the point of his sharp chin in a long uppercut. The back of the gunsel’s head thumped against the wall. He wavered there for an instant, then slid to the floor.
His twin ripped out an oath and clawed under his coat for a shoulder holster, backing away.
Shayne moved swiftly on the balls of his feet, his gray eyes points of steel. He said, “Don’t try it.” He lunged, caught the gun and the man’s hand in a crushing grip, and laughed as an ejaculation of pain dribbled from thin lips. With his right palm up, Shayne caught the automatic as it fell from nerveless fingers. He pocketed the weapon and said, “You need more practice on the draw.”