“Not mine,” I said, smacked him across his face with the barrel of my gun.
His head jerked back. A red weal appeared on his harsh skin. His eyes glinted murderously.
“Where’s Bat?” I repeated.
He snarled at me so I hit him again.
“I can keep this up all night,” I told him pleasantly, grinned. “Where’s Bat?”
He pointed to the ceiling. “Top floor; the door facing the stairs.” He began to curse me softly, a mumbling flow of obscenity.
“Alone?” I said, lifting my hand, threatening him.
“Yeah,” he said.
I studied him. He was too dangerous to leave. I decided to provoke him into a fight. It turned out to be a dumb idea.
I nodded, shoved the .38 down the waist-band of my trousers. “Why couldn’t you have said so before?” I asked. “It’d’ve saved you a lot of grief.”