the last smoke, the bullet was out of Red, the bleeding had stopped, and he was bandaged.
“Thank God that’s over,” I said, lighting one of my own cigarettes. “Those pills you smoke are terrible.”
The little scared man was cleaning up. Nancy Regan had fainted in a chair across the room, and nobody was paying any attention to her.
“Keep your eye on this gent, Pogy,” Big Flora told the skull-cracker, nodding at me, “while I wash up.”
I went over to the girl, rubbed her hands, put some water on her face, and got her awake.
“The bullet’s out. Red’s sleeping. He’ll be picking fights again within a week,” I told her.
She jumped up and ran over to the bed.
Flora came in. She had washed and had changed her bloodstained black gown for a green kimono affair, which gaped here and there to show a lot of orchid-colored underthings.
“Talk,” she commanded, standing in front of me. “Who, what and why?”
“I’m Percy Maguire,” I said, as if this name, which I had just thought up, explained everything.
“That’s the who,” she said, as if my phony alias explained nothing. “Now what’s the what and why?”
The ape-built Pogy, standing on one side, looked me up and down. I’m short and lumpy. My face doesn’t scare children, but it’s a more or less