Free Down These Strange Streets by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois

floor.”
    “Spare key?”
    He nodded at a rack of them. The keys were on nails and they all had little wooden pegs on the rings with the keys. Numbers were painted on the pegs. I found one that said 52, took it off the rack.
    I said, “You better not be messing with me.”
    “I ain’t. He’s up there. He don’t never come down. He’s been up there a week. He makes noise up there. I don’t like it. I run a respectable place.”
    “Yeah, it’s really nice here. And you better not be jerking me.”
    “I ain’t. I promise.”
    “Good. And, let me give you a tip. Take a bath. And get that shit out of your hair. And those teeth you got ain’t looking too good. Pull them. And shoot that fucking cat, or at least get him some place better than the kitchen to piss. It stinks like a toilet in there.”
    I walked out from behind the desk, out in the hall, and up the flight of stairs in a hurry.

    I RUSHED ALONG THE HALLWAY ON THE FIFTH FLOOR. IT WAS COVERED IN white linoleum with a gold pattern in it; it creaked and cracked as I walked along. The end of the hall had a window, and there was a stairwell on that end too. Room 52 was right across from it.
    I heard movement on the far end of the stairs. I had an idea what that was all about. About that time, two of the boys I’d seen on the street showed themselves at the top of the stairs, all decked out in their nice hats and such, grinning.
    One of them was about the size of a Cadillac, with a gold tooth that shone bright when he smiled. The guy behind him was skinny with his hand in his pocket.
    I said, “Well, if it isn’t the pimp squad.”
    “You funny, nigger,” said the big man.
    “Yeah, well, catch the act now. I’m going to be moving to a new locale.”
    “You bet you are,” said the big man.
    “Fat-ass behind the glass down there, he ain’t paying you enough to mess with me,” I said.
    “Sometimes, cause we’re bored, we just like messin’.”
    “Say you do?”
    “Uh-huh,” said the skinny one.
    It was then I seen the skinny guy pull a razor out of his pocket. I had one too, but razor work, it’s nasty. He kept it closed.
    Big guy with the gold tooth flexed his fingers and made a fist. That made me figure he didn’t have a gun or a razor; or maybe he just liked hitting people. I know I did.
    They come along toward me then, and the skinny one with the razor flicked it open. I pulled the .45 out from under my coat, said, “You ought to put that back in your pocket,” I said, “save it for shaving.”
    “Oh, I’m fixing to do some shaving right now,” he said.
    I pointed the .45 at him.
    The big man said, “That’s one gun for two men.”
    “It is,” I said, “but I’m real quick with it. And frankly, I know one of you is gonna end up dead. I just ain’t sure which one right yet.”
    “All right then,” said the big man, smiling. “That’ll be enough.” He looked back at the skinny man with the razor. The skinny man put the razor back in his coat pocket and they turned and started down the stairs.
    I went over and stood by the stairway and listened. I could hear them walking down, but then all of a sudden, they stopped on the stairs. That was the way I had it figured.
    Then I could hear the morons rushing back up. They weren’t near as sneaky as they thought they was. The big one was first out of the chute, so to speak; come rushing out of the stairwell and onto the landing. I brought the butt of the .45 down on the back of his head, right where the skull slopes down. He did a kind of frog hop and bounced across the hall and hit his head on the wall, and went down and laid there like his intent all along had been a quick leap and a nap.
    Then the other one was there, and he had the razor. He flicked it, and then he saw the .45 in my hand.
    “Where did you think this gun was gonna go?” I said. “On vacation?”
    I kicked him in the groin hard enough he dropped the razor and went to his knees. I put the .45 back where I got it. I