“Oh, it’s to be cute, is it? Well, suppose I teach you some manners the same time I teach you not to dip purses, eh? You like to come out here where I can get my hands on you, or do I reach in there and snatch you up like a chicken? My word!”
“Ah, me!” Wilson sounded sad about the whole affair. He started to come to his feet when Da Silva reached across the table, pushing him back into his seat.
“If you don’t mind,” he said politely, “you had the pleasure of lifting the man’s wallet; let me have the pleasure of guaranteeing that he doesn’t get it back. Share and share alike, you know. Besides, he’d only spend it on rum.”
The complete effrontery of this confession momentarily held McNeil silenced, but only momentarily. With a bellow like a bull he started to grab at the wallet, still held loosely in Wilson’s hand. Da Silva slapped the outstretched hand smartly. His eyes came up coldly.
“Speaking of bad manners,” he said chidingly, “my friend and I are having a discussion. We are deciding which of us is to tear off your ears and stuff them into your pocket. In lieu of your wallet, I might mention. So please be polite enough not to interrupt. Do you mind?” He turned his attention back to Wilson.
McNeil stared and then burst out laughing. One thing was certain, neither of the strangers could get past him and escape, and when they were done with their farce — obviously intended to distract him and allow them to get past him — he would pick up his wallet and then take the two of them apart.
“Be my guest, mon,” he said, “but if it’ll ease things, why not let me take the two of you at once?”
“You’re interrupting again,” Da Silva said coldly, and turned to Wilson. “A coin, I’d suggest, as being the fairest way. Heads or tails. Do you have one?”
“I really don’t know.” Wilson unsnapped a small side pocket of the strange wallet and nodded. “Ah, yes. Here’s one. All right: I’ll flip, you call.”
McNeil watched the charade, his smile now gone, his hate returning, warming him, preparing him for the fight he knew would soon be coming. The two of them would obviously rush him together, in one move, and if they were armed or not, it wouldn’t save them. Nothing would save them! Not only stealing his purse but trying to put him down, as well. Let them have their bloody fun; they’d be laughing through broken teeth in a very few moments.
The bartender stood hesitant, not knowing what to do. One solution never occurred to him, and that was to call Constable Jamison. No matter what the outcome of the argument he knew he would get paid, so why interfere? He moved a shade down the bar to be in a position for a better view. The cane cutter was totally unaware of any argument; he tossed a coin on the bar and staggered into the street.
Wilson flipped the coin, caught it, and covered it instantly.
“Heads,” Da Silva said.
Wilson removed his hand from the coin and sighed.
“You’re just lucky.”
“It runs in the family,” Da Silva said modestly, and smiled pleasantly up at McNeil. “It’s my honor. Be happy. My small friend here is a lot tougher than he looks. Judo and things, you know.”
“Don’t fash yourself,” McNeil said. “He’ll have his turn, my word! And just hand over that purse before you even start getting up. I get your plan. While I’m thrashing you, your pal takes off with it, is that the drill?”
“Is that your only worry?” Da Silva sounded surprised. “Of course you can have it, friend. I’ll take it off you later, so that’s no great problem.”
He reached over, picking the billfold from Wilson’s fingers, tossing it to the far side of the room. McNeil turned with the gesture, moving swiftly, pouncing on it and coming erect, twisting, all in one movement. To his. surprise, the two men had not taken advantage of their ploy in order to make a getaway, as he had expected. Instead, Wilson was carefully pouring himself a drink, preparatory to leaning back and enjoying the show; Da Silva was facing him calmly in the center of the room.
“Sorry,” he said apologetically. “I know it’s not polite to throw things, but I hate being sucker-punched while I’m standing up.” McNeil stared at him. Da Silva’s voice took on a touch of concern. “You did want to fight, didn’t you? Because if you didn’t, I’ll have to ask you to give back the wallet. After all, my partner stole it from you fair and square.”
McNeil smiled, a grim humorless smile. Trying to needle him, eh? Trying to get him to lose his temper and be careless, eh? Not William Trelawney McNeil, mon. What a lesson this pockmarked bostard with the thick mustache was about to learn, my word! He went into a slight crouch, measuring his opponent carefully. Tall and slim, probably heavier than he looked, and probably tough enough, too, the ugly bostard! But not as tough as Bill McNeil, and that was the important point. He moved forward, fingers curved to grab or form fists as required, shuffling lightly. His eyes never left the other’s face. Once he got his arms around that wise chap, he’d break him like a twig!
Da Silva backed away, well aware of the other’s power, and then suddenly feinted with one hand. McNeil. had been waiting; he grabbed the outstretched arm and pulled, turning, flinging Da Silva against the bar, moving in quickly to take advantage, but the mustached man wasn’t there. He had wheeled away in the same motion, hitting out sharply as he did, catching McNeil a ringing slap on the ear. The two circled each other again, each a bit more cautious this time, each beginning to pant a bit. Suddenly Da Silva moved in again, this time contrary to McNeil’s expectations; a sharp slap on the face and he was out of reach again, his Indian-like face stony, his black eyes fixed on the other.
McNeil fought down the first blinding anger that swept him, knowing the importance of not losing his head. That ugly mulatto bostard was slapping him, slapping him! Slapping him like a sma’ one, not even closing his fist. He took a shuddering breath, bringing himself under control. Well, he’d teach him when this was over; he’d break those domned fingers one by one. The taunting hand wavered temptingly before him and then moved in as swift as a striking snake to slap again, but this time McNeil made no move to avoid it. He took the slap and chopped down viciously, catching the other on the forearm with the side of his hand. Da Silva stepped back sharply, his one hand falling uselessly to his side, the other coming up automatically.
McNeil grinned in savage joy and moved in for the kill; a ringing slap on the ear and Da Silva was away, watching him steadily, no sign on his face to indicate the pain in his arm. McNeil took a deep breath and paused a moment, then began edging closer, trying to work his injured opponent into a corner where his moves would be limited. The hand snaked out again; McNeil took the slap in favor of gaining position, but when he looked up again Da Silva was back in the open, waiting.
There was only one thing for it, McNeil thought, and made a feint. That punishing hand moved out swiftly as always, but this time McNeil reacted differently. He took the slap but fell as he did so, going to his two outstretched hands, twisting in the same movement, peering over his shoulder, his thick leg shooting out as if discharged from a cannon, aimed at the face above. Only the face somehow wasn’t there when his leg reached its full extension. Instead of the satisfying and battle-ending thud of his foot against that hated pockmarked head, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach as a shoe was driven viciously into his solar plexus, knocking the wind from him, putting him flat on the floor. He started to push himself to his knees, gagging; an expertly placed kick alongside his jaw knocked him over on his back, fighting for air, dazing him further. One final boot in the side slid him against the bar, out of the battle. The bartender gazed at the new pub-champion with awestricken eyes.