Free Gat Heat by Richard S. Prather

names, Jimmy. I get upset when creeps call me names. And I’m more than a little upset already.”
    â€œI don’t give a gahdamn what you are,” he said. “I asked you—”
    â€œStow it. You wanted me to come out here. O.K., I’m here. Tell me what you’ve got in mind, and maybe I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
    He opened his mouth, then closed it. “O.K. It won’t take long. I figure you got enough sense to know a word to the wise when you hear it. So here’s the word. Lay off the Halstead thing. Just drop it. I’ll see you don’t lose no money about it; that’s on the one hand. On the other, well, guys get killed every day making dumb mistakes.”
    It really jarred me. Not the threat—that was par for the Jimmy Violet course—but his blunt reference to Halstead. True, I had toyed with the idea that there might be some kind of connection—because I couldn’t think of any ot er reason why Violet would want to see me—but I hadn’t really believed it.
    â€œHalstead?” I said. “The guy who bought it last night?”
    â€œWho else? There some other Halstead?”
    â€œWhat’s your interest?”
    â€œMy interest is, you lay off, you get it? It’s simple. Just forget it. You won’t lose nothing by it—”
    â€œSave your breath.”
    â€œLook, don’t be a jerk. I’m giving you a good out—”
    â€œI said, save your breath.”
    The dull dark eyes seemed to get even duller. He took the hand from behind his head, slapped his thigh with it. “I shouldn’t of tried it this way,” he said finally. “That’s what I get for trying to be a nice guy.”
    I laughed.
    â€œAll right, what’s with the boys?” he said.
    â€œBingo and Stub and Little Phil are enjoying one of the sights of Hollywood which they seldom see, namely the Hollywood can. The clink, the slammer, the jail. In fact, if you haven’t got a call already; the phone should soon be merrily ring—”
    He didn’t let me finish. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, started getting to his feet. “You’re lyin’!” he yelled. “You dumb crud, they ain’t in jail. Where they at?”
    I closed my eyes, shoved my teeth together, then opened my eyes. “I’m not going to tell you again about the bigmouth, Jimmy. Your boys picked me up and tried to do your bidding, but I managed to tip the fuzz, and the boys are indeed in the can. Temporarily, at least. I hope, of course, that they get electrocuted or something infinitely worse, but they’re being booked, mugged, and printed, at least.”
    He stalked over the carpet, stopped before me and leaned down, his face a couple of feet from mine. “You dumb sonofabitch,” he yelled. “Who the hell you think you are? You stinking son—”
    That was all he said for a while.
    I got him on his nice nose. Well, reasonably nice. Before I got him on it, that is. It was practically the same situation as when I’d popped Bingo in my Cad: I wasn’t able to get set, get any real leverage or power into the blow. But I did my very best, and threw my left arm up, turning my body and pressing with my left foot against the floor in front of my chair; and all in all it was a fairly satisfactory operation.
    My knuckles covered his nose and upper lip and made a surprisingly loud and meaty sound when they landed. He did not quite do a back flip. But his head snapped back and he traveled about nine feet, arms flailing, before he fell with a thump to the floor at the end of the couch where he’d been sitting.
    All three of the guys on my right were reaching, two of them for their hips and one for the gun under his coat, but while I may not be the most brilliant fellow under the heavens only an idiot could have failed to anticipate that development. So I was a little ahead of them.
    As