“That you are a bit dotty,” Club answered. “It must be because you have about gone by.”
“You are English, aren’t you? With that accent and all.”
“I was born and raised in a city called Liverpool, yes,” Club revealed. “Why do you ask?”
“It explains why you talk so strange,” Sally said. “You being a foreigner and all.”
Paunch Stevens snorted. “You tell him, lady.”
“Sod off, the both of you,” Club rejoined, then turned to Chester Luce. “I have had all the silliness I can take for one day. Where are the permits? Is there a form for us to sign?”
Chester was momentarily at a loss. It was Adolphina who had come up with the idea of requiring permits, and he had thought it delightful once she explained about the fees he should collect. But it had never occurred to him to go have the permits printed, or even to draw them up himself.
“Well?” Club Caine asked. “Is there a problem?”
“There is nothing to sign,” Chester said. “You pay the fee, I make out the form and keep it on file.”
“One form for both of us or one form for each of us?”
Chester almost said, “What the hell difference does it make?” He could not understand why the Englishman was making such a fuss. “One form for each of you. I will need you to write down your names, where you live, next of kin, that sort of thing.”
“What are we to write with?”
Chester’s irritation mounted. He had not thought to bring ink, pen, and paper. “To make things easier, just tell me what I need to know and I will write it down later. I have a good memory.”
“Rather a shoddy way of doing things,” Club Caine said. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to write it on the actual permit? Why do I have the impression you do not have this whole thing worked out yet?”
“Nonsense,” Chester said. To agree was to suggest he did not know what he was doing. He turned to the bar. “Win, can I borrow paper and something to write with?”
Winifred came back with “How do you borrow paper? Once you use it, it is of no use to me.”
“Quit quibbling and help out,” Chester chided.
“I would like to oblige you but I can’t. The only paper in this whole place are the labels on the bottles.”
“Organized as hell,” Club Caine muttered. “Bloody Yanks.”
“I have plenty of paper in my store,” Chester said. “If you two gentlemen would be so kind as to follow me, we will soon have the preliminaries out of the way and you can get down to the killing.”
“That suits me just fine,” Paunch Stevens said. He had refilled his glass and took a healthy swig. “All this jabbering made me thirsty.”
“I am surrounded by idiots,” Club Caine said. “But very well. Let us repair to your establishment.” He started toward the batwings.
Chester turned to follow, promising, “The delay will be short, I can assure you.”
“Jabber, jabber, jabber,” Paunch Stevens said. He set down his empty glass and winked at Winifred Curry. As he winked he drew the Smith & Wesson. Win opened his mouth to shout, but Paunch pointed the gun at him, put a finger to his lips, and shook his head. Then, grinning, he extended the revolver in the direction of Club Caine. “It is a good thing you are so short, Mr. Mayor.”
“What did you say?” Chester had not been paying attention. He glanced over his shoulder and very nearly screamed. The Smith & Wesson’s muzzle seemed to be pointed right at him. “No!” he bleated.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Paunch Stevens said.
Thunder boomed, and a leaden bee buzzed past Chester’s ear. In pure reflex he fell to the floor, squawking in terror.
Club Caine was knocked violently forward. He stumbled, recovered, and sank to one knee. Unlimbering the Webley, he pivoted, a look of intense concentration on his face.
Paunch Stevens laughed. “That will teach you to steal my woman.” He took a step, swaying slightly, and sighted down the barrel. Again his revolver spewed smoke and lead.
The slug missed.
Club Caine gripped the Webley with both hands and was taking deliberate aim. Beads of sweat had broken out on his face. “Back shooter!” he rasped.
“Tea drinker.” Paunch fired a third time and a corner of the left batwing exploded in a shower of wood slivers. “Damn.” He stared at his revolver in disbelief. “How do I miss at this range?”
“I won’t,” Club Caine said. The Webley cracked and Stevens’s hat went flying. “Bollocks!”
“Stop shooting!” Chester shouted, waving an arm. “You haven’t paid for your permits yet!”
Paunch took an unsteady step. “Forget your stupid permit. In another couple of seconds this will all be over.”
“That it will!” Club Caine cried, and banged off his second shot. He winced as he fired, and his whole body twitched.
“Ha!” Paunch Stevens bellowed. “You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn if you were standing next to it.” His Smith & Wesson bucked. “Take that, woman stealer!”
Club Caine looked down at himself. “Bloody hell,” he said. “You missed again. Drink more whiskey, why don’t you?” Suddenly rising, he lurched toward his enemy. “I will do this right even if you can’t.”
“Can’t I?” Paunch angrily countered. “This time for sure.”
