"I'm afraid I was mistaken about you," Zearsdale frowned at her. "You seem to be just about as bad as Corley is."
"Oh, shut up! You just hush," said Red.
"Yes, just as bad," Zearsdale nodded grimly. "So you'll have to suffer as he-Stop that, Corley! Don't snap your fingers when I'm talking!"
"I need a light." Mitch held up a cigarette. "Tell one of your apostles to give me one."
Zearsdale motioned curtly, and one of the mugs thrust a light at Mitch.
Mitch grabbed his wrist, yanked him forward, then swung him backward, simultaneously kicking over his chair as he lunged to his feet.
The thrown guy and another went down in a tangle. The third came in swinging. Mitch ducked inside the flailing arms, brought his head up sharply. There was a messy crunching sound and the guy's chin almost met his nose, and he went down to the floor in a heap. But now the other two were up, were weaving in with blood in their eyes. Mitch sprang squarely between them, his arms outflung.
Their arms whipped around their necks. Locked. Contracted. Their heads smashed together and they wobbled dazedly, then suddenly sat down as he kicked their legs from under them.
"Mitch! Take it, honey…" Red was holding a small gun out to him, the gun she had thought she was going to shoot him with.
Mitch took it, and swung coldly on Zearsdale. "All right," he snapped. "You claim I cheated you. No ifs, ands and buts about it, I rooked you, so you get these punks out here to give Red and me a hard time. Now I want to know just why you think you were cheated."
The oil man was staring at the three beaten hoods. He turned to Mitch, a curious expression in his deep-set eyes.
"Where did you learn to fight like that, Corley? I thought I was the only person who knew how."
"In hotel locker-rooms mostly. I used to be a bellboy."
"That's very interesting. I'll bet you were a very good bellboy, weren't you?"
Mitch began to get angry all over again. Three minutes ago, this character was going to have him worked over and now he wanted to make conversation.
"Let's stick to the subject," he said, curtly. "You say I'm a cheat. I say I win because I'm good, because I go into a game with a big edge; an edge I've gotten through training and experience. Any man who wants to be in the big time has to have one. You have, obviously. When was the last time you went into a business deal without a better than even chance of winning?"
"What?" Zearsdale'e eyes had strayed to the hoodlums again. "Oh, come now, Corley. You're a professional gambler. You can make the dice do anything you want them to."
"Can I? Can I always do it? Then why is it that you broke me the night we played?"
"Well-But you came out winner."
"But you broke me," Mitch insisted. "You took me right down the line, and I was all ready to tell you good night and leave. That's what I meant to do, what I've done many times before when I went broke. But you wouldn't have it that way. You forced a loan on me to keep the game going. Well, isn't that right or not? You won and you have no one to blame but yourself for not staying winner."
"Well." Zearsdale wet his lips hesitantly. "That was purely a come-on. You lost deliberately."
"Oh, for God's sake! I was doing my damnedest to win, and those movies must have shown that I was! Why would I deliberately throw to you, anyway? To get you in another game? How do I know I can do it? What's the percentage in it? Why not take you in the game that I have?"
He waited, frowning. Zearsdale shrugged.
"Whatever you say. I'm hardly in a position to argue about it."
"Why not?" Mitch looked down at the gun. "You mean because of this? Well, we'll fix that right now." He walked over to the oil man, slapped the gun into his hand and stepped back. "Now, argue all you damned please. Or do you want these punks to sit on me before you begin?"
Zearsdale looked a little stunned. He hesitated, then nodded to the three. "All right, I won't need you anymore." They sidled out the door, keeping a wary eye on Mitch, and he shook his head bemusedly.
"Corley… Mr. Corley, I-I hardly know what to say. I seldom make a mistake about a man, but-"
"If you don't know what to say, maybe you'd better not say anything," Mitch told him. "Maybe if you just listen to me, you might learn something."
"Maybe I will," Zearsdale nodded. "Why don't we see?"
"All right," Mitch said. "You asked me if I was a good bellboy. The truth is that I was lousy. I was like a lot of young men you see, wanting a lot but not willing to do much to get it. That's why I took up dice, I suppose. Because it looked like an easy way of making out big. I kept on playing with them, always thinking it would suddenly get easy. And by the time I found out that there was no easy way of being good at anything, it was too late to stop."
But simply being good with the dice wasn't enough, of course. Not if you wanted to move into the upper brackets. You had to be well-informed, well-read, polished. You had to acquire an outlook on life, a certain way of dealing with people-an indefinable thing called class, which could never be imitated. So he had accomplished all that, and in accomplishing it, he had become far more than the very best man in the country with a pair of dice.
"The trouble with you, Zearsdale, is that you've forgotten how good a man can get through nothing but his own efforts. If he's good, as good as I am, then he can't be for real. If he beats you, he's got to be cheating. Well, I'm a ringer, yes, but I'm the straightest player you'll ever come up against. I'm no more a cheat than the baseball pitcher who throws nine strikes out of ten. Or the sharpshooter who keeps ringing up bullseyes. And I'm good at a lot of things besides dice. I'll take you on for a question-and-answers game on any subject you name. I'll take you on at poker-with you dealing all the cards. I'll take you on at golf-and let you pick my clubs. I'll take you on at anything from matches to marbles, Zearsdale, and I'll beat the ever-lovin' socks off of you, because it's been so damned long since you met a good man you're ready to lie down and holler foul before you ever begin!"
Red clapped her hands enthusiastically. Zearsdale sat scowling, squirming a little. He wasn't used to being talked to like that. He certainly didn't have to take it. He liked a man with pride, of course. God, how he loved a man with pride and the guts to stand up and speak his mind! But-
His broad mouth twisted into a reluctant grin. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and he laughed until the tears came to his eyes. At last, after a vigorous blowing of his nose, he got control of himself.
"Corley, I wouldn't have missed this for the world! I honestly wouldn't. I-" He suddenly became aware of the gun he was holding. "My God, what am I doing with this? Let me give it back to you."
"Keep it," Mitch said. "Red and I don't have any need for guns."