The house was a small one in a row of small houses. We took the big boy out of the car and between us to the door. He could just about make it with our help. The street was dark. No light showed from the house. I rang the bell.
Nothing happened. I rang again, and then once more.
“Who is it?” a harsh voice demanded from the inside.
“Red’s been hurt,” I said.
Silence for a while. Then the door opened half a foot. Through the opening a light came from the interior, enough light to show the flat face and bulging jaw-muscles of the skull-cracker who had been the Motsa Kid’s guardian and executioner.
“What the hell?” he asked.
“Red was jumped. They got him,” I explained, pushing the limp giant forward.
We didn’t crash the gate that way. The skull-cracker held the door as it was.
“You’ll wait,” he said, and shut the door in our faces. His voice sounded from within, “Flora.” That was all right—Red had brought us to the right place.
When he opened the door again he opened it all the way, and Nancy Regan and I took our burden into the hall. Beside the skull-cracker stood a woman in a low-cut black silk gown—Big Flora, I supposed.