Flora went over to him, put her fingers on his wrist, held them there a couple of seconds, and nodded:
“You crazy son-of-a-gun,” she said in a tone that was more like maternal pride than anything else. “You’re good for a fight right now. And a damned good thing, too, because you’re going to get it.”
Red laughed—a triumphant laugh that boasted of his toughness—then his eyes turned to me. Laughter went out of them and a puzzled look drew them narrow.
“Hello,” he said. “I dreamed about you, but I can’t remember what it was. It was—Wait. I’ll get it in a minute. It was—By God! I dreamed it was you that plugged me!”
Flora smiled at me, the first time I had seen her smile, and she spoke quickly:
“Take him, Pogy!”
I twisted obliquely out of my chair.
Pogy’s fist took me in the temple. Staggering across the room, struggling to keep my feet, I thought of the bruise on the dead Motsa Kid’s temple.
Pogy was on me when the wall bumped me upright.
I put a fist—spat!—in his flat nose. Blood squirted, but his hairy paws gripped me. I tucked my chin in, ground the top of my head into his face. The scent Big Flora used came strong to me. Her silk clothes brushed against me. With both hands full of my hair she pulled my head back, stretching my neck for Pogy. He took hold of it with his paws. I quit. He didn’t throttle me any more than was necessary, but it was bad enough.
Flora frisked me for gun and blackjack.