Free You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

gasket and a drunken kid yelled, “Yahh!”
    A few seconds later the door behind the bar opened and three figures came out, outlined in strong light behind them. They closed the door and disappeared in the darkness near the bar. My irises kicked back, and I saw two of the men were the familiar winners of the Lon Chaney and Lou Costello look-alike contest. The third guy was the mustached villain from Nitti’s room in the New Michigan Hotel.
    “You Gino Servi?” I asked. My voice took a half bounce back off the walls. No answer. The five men looked at me as if I were a dog act about to begin.
    “You should have left town this morning,” said Servi. “You don’t get two chances.” Servi went back through the door behind the bar.
    “Hey, wait—” I yelled. “Let’s talk. I’ve—”
    He was gone.
    My best hope was that the quartet had not been told to kill me, just have a little fun and send me on my way in my underwear with an hour to get out of town. I could either take what they were planning for me or try to get out. With both doors covered, my chances for escape were less than that of Mamkos against Zale.
    “O.K.,” I said, putting up my palms and chuckling. “You win. I’m going. Give me time to get my suitcase and I’ll be gone. A man should know when he’s beaten.”
    At one level of consciousness, I told whatever gods may be that I would get out of town if I had the chance. At another level, I knew that if I got out of here I wasn’t leaving town. But there really wasn’t any issue or debate. The four horsemen weren’t having any.
    “I travel light,” I said.
    “You don’t travel anymore,” said Costello, stepping forward. “You get a long rest.”
    Chaney started to move toward me from the left, a phantom in the shadows. The juke box man and the guy from the pillar just watched. They were back-up men and probably wouldn’t be needed against the likes of me.
    “I’ve had too much rest recently,” I said, backing away. Costello was coming at me slowly. I said a few more things, but I don’t remember what they were. What I wanted was for Costello to keep coming forward while I backed away, to get him off balance and somehow get past him and make a run for the door behind the bar. There wasn’t much chance I’d make it, but no one had a better idea. I backed into a card table, babbled something, and put everything I had into a right to Costello’s face. He staggered with the punch, but didn’t give me room to get by on his right. Chaney was blocking the left. Costello’s face came into a patch of light. He was smiling in a way I did not like, and a thin line of blood trickled from his left nostril to his mouth. I pulled back for another swing, but Chaney caught me with an underhand right to my gut. I flew back, gasping for air, and bounced over the black-jack table behind me. The table went over, sending cards, ash trays, and an unfinished drink flying into the dark.
    I was on my back when they reached me. Somebody pulled me to my knees. Somebody else got a good grip on my hair and held my head up. The next move would be a fist in my face. Nausea hit me first, and I tried to see if the leveling fist held a glint of metal.
    The knock at the door was sharp and hard. It broke through shadows and split the smoke-filled shafts of light in the hidden corners of the room and my mind. The five of us froze, staring at the door. The knock came again, followed by a cheery English voice.
    “Hello in there. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something rather important in there. Mind opening up for a moment?”
    A thick palm smelling like garlic, urine, and tobacco covered my mouth.
    “Come now,” said English. “I hear you in there and I simply must have what I left. It’s quite valuable. I’d dislike my alternative, but if I do not get in I’ll have to solicit the aid of the police.”
    “Let him in,” croaked Costello.
    The juke box man turned, slid the bolt and opened the door. English