A Pure Double Cross by John Knoerle

over. They made a great show of ignoring me. They wore off the rack J.C. Penney suits with hanger peaks in the shoulders and didn’t know enough to remove their hats. Itchy young men, but none I recognized.
    â€œBut their name’d be mud, like a chump playin’ stud, if they lost their old ace in the hole.”
    I was offended. Now that I was comfortably nestled onto a barstool, enjoying the musical stylings of Blondie and Long-fingers, I wanted to hike my eyebrows at Mushy Wexler and have him 86 the riff raff. I pushed my Rob Roy into the bar gutter and ordered a rye rocks.
    The punks drank beer from the bottle. I felt their darting looks on the side of my face. I was safe for now, they wouldn’t try anything inside. The question was why they were here at all. Could be I wasn’t as anonymous as I thought. Could be Mushy Wexler was quite the sharp-eyed
restaurateur.
    Nah, it didn’t read right. Mushy Wexler wouldn’t invite the punks inside the high temple. If he knew or cared who I was he’d tell the goons to wait for me outside.
    The torch singer collected her applause on outstretched palms and launched into a sultry version of “East of the Sun.” I ate a salt stick and ordered another rye.
    Had I been tailed? I had got sloppy and didn’t check, didn’t take evasive action on Short Vincent, just plowed straight down the sidewalk. Dumb. But this didn’t smell like Jimmy. Jimmy was a lone wolf.
    I drank my drink and ate the ice cubes. ‘You know what the enemy is planning by the questions he asks.’ You knew the Krauts were planning a U-boat attack near the Orkney Islands because they were asking their agents for shipping schedules in that area. But that rule had a flip side. Note the questions the enemy doesn’t ask.
    The Schooler knew I was determined to get shed of Jimmy. He should have asked me what I planned to do next. He did not. Which might mean he had read me like a book and skipped ahead a few pages. The three loogans might be more of The Schooler’s felons in training, sent to make sure I didn’t tell any tales out of school. They weren’t a hit squad.
    I sat back, relaxed and didn’t fall off the barstool. The rye was earning its keep and Blondie and Long-fingers were easing into something risqué, if their quicksilver grins were any indication. I was happy here. I wanted to live a good long life, die and be buried here.
    The punks were digging into pockets, shagging for quarters. I considered offering to buy them a round of beers, thought better of it, made for the men’s room and slipped out the back door, leaving my vicuna topcoat behind.
    I know what I said about the punks not being a hit squad and all but I’m not always as brilliant as I think I am. I walked east down the alley, the warmth and jollity of the Theatrical carried off in one gust of icy wind. I heard quick following footsteps.
    I pulled my belly gun and pivoted. A tipsy young couple stopped giggling and raised their hands. I put up my gun. The young couple ran the other way.
    When I turned back around the three punks blocked my path. Their dukes were empty. I kept mine the same way.
    â€œI surmise that you gentlemen have a matter of mutual concern about which you would care to confer.”
    They didn’t know what this meant exactly, but they didn’t like that I smiled when I said it. The oldest one, he had to be allof twenty, sneered like a B movie heavy and started forward, flanked by his two pals. No hardware came out. I was in no condition for hand to hand combat so I reached for my .25.
    The oldest one was quick, on me in a blink, grabbing my gun hand.
    I shot my left elbow at his solar plexus, missed and hit something hard with my funny bone. A gun butt in a shoulder holster. My arm went numb. The other two were on me now, punching my head and grabbing for the gun.
    Shit. What a stupid way to die. I felt the .25 leave my grip. I braced