I landed all sprawled out on my back. I kept dragging at my gun while I tried to roll under the bed.
Missing me, his lunge carried him over the low footboard, over the side of the bed. He came down beside me, on the back of his neck, his body somersaulting over.
I put the muzzle of my gun in his left eye and said:
“You’re making a fine pair of clowns of us. Be still while I get up or I’ll make an opening in your head for brains to leak in.”
I got up, found and pocketed my document, and let him get up.
“Knock the dents out of your hat and put your necktie in front, so you won’t disgrace me going through the streets,” I ordered after I had run a hand over his clothes and found nothing that felt like a weapon. “You can suit yourself about remembering that this gat is going to be in my overcoat pocket, with a hand on it.”
He straightened his hat and tie and said:
“Hey, listen: I’m in this, I guess, and cutting up won’t get me nothing. Suppose I be good. Could you forget about the tussle? See—maybe it’d be smoother for me if they thought I come along without being dragged.”
“OK.”
“Thanks, brother.”
Noonan was out eating. We had to wait half an hour in his outer office. When he came in he greeted me with the usual “How are you? … That certainly is fine …” and the rest of it. He didn’t say anything to MacSwain—simply eyed him sourly.