Flaggerty gave me the boots. I got my head out of the way, but his heavy toe-cap sank into the side of my neck.
“We don’t want to carry the creep.” Hyams said, worried.
Flaggerty drew back. “Get up,” he snarled.
I was lying near the blanket-covered body of Herrick, and I pretended to be dazed. I put my hand over my eyes so they couldn’t see what I was looking at: peeping out from under the blanket was my Luger. They’d forgotten to pick it up, and when they’d covered Herrick, they’d covered the gun.
Flaggerty was bawling at me. “Get up, you louse, or I’ll boot you again!”
“I’m getting up,” I said, crawling slowly to one knee. I acted like I was half dead.
The blood-smeared gun butt was six feet from me. I tried to remember if any of the dicks carried guns in their hands. I didn’t think they did. They were all too cocky, now they were sure I was unarmed.
Flaggerty booted me.
I flopped over on top of Herrick. It gave me a funny feeling to lie on the body, stiff in death. My hand closed around the gun butt. It was slippery with blood, but I didn’t care.
I stood up.