He pulled Miche over on his back, then looked closer, feeling for the heartbeat. He looked up abruptly, got to his feet.
"He dead," he said. "Miche is dead." He looked at me with a strange expression. "It's quite a punch you got, mister," he said.
"I tried not to use it," I said. "But I'll use it again if I have to."
"Search him, boys," Gros said. They prodded and slapped, everywhere but my wrist. "He's clean, Gros," a man said. Gros looked the body over carefully, searching for signs of a wound. Men crowded around him.
"No marks," he said at last. "Broken ribs, and it feels like something funny inside; all messed up." He looked at me. "He did it barehanded."
I hoped they would go on believing that. It was my best insurance against a repetition. I wanted them scared of me, and the ethics of it didn't bother me at all.
"All right," Gros called to the men. "Back on the job. Miche asked for it. He called our new man 'Mouth.' I'm naming him 'Hammer-hand'."
I thought this was as good a time as any to push a little farther.
"You'd better tell them I'm taking over Miche's spot here, Gros," I said. "We'll work together, fifty-fifty."
Gros squinted at me. "Yeah, that figures," he said. I had a feeling he had mental reservations.