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“Step out where I can see you,” Quint ordered.
“Like hell I will,” the man retorted in a voice that was lower still. “I can’t risk being seen talking to you. You either come over here or forget you ever saw me.”
The response had just enough ring of truth in it to draw Quint forward, but he took a course that kept him wide of the corner. When he was level with the tailgate of the pickup parked closest to the sidewalk, he turned into the lot, crossing behind the truck, and stopping in the dark space between it and the next vehicle.
The man still stood by the corner, cloaked in deep shadow now. After a moment’s hesitation, he shifted past the pickup to stand directly opposite Quint. Just enough light from the street reached him to enable Quint to see the turned-up collar of his jacket and the downward angle of his hat brim, both intended to conceal.
“What did you have to tell me?” Quint prompted, alert for any movement to the side of him.
“You’re a cautious one,” the man muttered. “Guess you can’t blame me for being cautious, too.”
Hesitating again, the man threw a glance at the street, giving Quint a glimpse of a thick dark mustache. Then he was in shadow. He seemed to come to a decision and moved briskly forward.
“This is gonna be short and quick,” he said and started feeling around in the pocket of his jacket. “It ain’t what I got to say. It’s what I got to give you.”
The man’s swift approach forced Quint to center his attention on him while maintaining a healthy amount of disbelief that his intention was as innocent as his words.
Almost too late, he detected the roll of gravel to the side of him, the sound masked by the heavy crunch of the man’s footsteps. Someone lunged at him out of the darkness. Ducking sideways, Quint eluded the brunt of it and instinctively grabbed the arm that tried to wrap itself around his neck, lowered a shoulder, and flipped him over his back into the path of the first man.
Before Quint could straighten, a third man slammed into him, knocking him against the parked truck. He came away from it swinging and had the satisfaction of hearing a startled grunt when he buried a fist in the man’s coat-padded midsection.
He never had a chance to deliver a follow-up blow as the second man scrambled to his feet and grabbed Quint’s arm. He twisted free of his grip in time to block a swing from the third. By then the second man had recovered and managed to land a glancing blow along Quint’s jaw.
A fist clipped the side of his head and sent his hat flying. The action was coming too swiftly. Quint no longer bothered to discern which one was pressing the attack. He had his back up against the pickup’s side bed, using the protection it offered to prevent any assault from the rear.
As long as they kept coming at him one at a time, Quint was able to hold his own even though he was outnumbered. But they were bound to wise up any second and coordinate their efforts.
A head snapped back, rocked by a hard jab from Quint. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the cocked arm that was taking aim on his middle. It was pure reflex that turned him sideways, letting the fist ram itself into the side of the pickup. The man yowled and grabbed at the hand he jerked away from the truck. Quint had a split second to hope he’d broken a bone or two in it.
Someone jumped him from behind and wrapped his arms around Quint’s shoulders. “Come on. I got him,” he called in quick excitement, his breath sawing near Quint’s ear. “I got him!”
But Quint’s hand-to-hand training stood him in good stead. Without a conscious thought, he seized the man by one wrist, ducked under his arm, and twisted the wrist behind the man’s back. A quick chopping blow delivered between the man’s shoulders sent him sprawling face forward at the feet of his cohorts. Both reached down to help him up.
In the brief interval of inaction, Quint was conscious of the heavy pounding of his heart and the heaving of his chest to draw air into his lungs. There was a roar in his ears. Blows had landed, but adrenaline blocked any of the pain from them for the time being.
The street remained empty of traffic and no one had ventured out of the bar. Quint was dimly aware of the muffled noise from inside the building, but his focus was on the curses and muttered oaths of three men as they regathered themselves.
Quint tried a bluff. “Pack it up and get out while you can still walk.”
“Like hell,” one muttered.
The response seemed to galvanize the other two. As one they hurled themselves at Quint. As good as he was, three was more than he could handle at one time.
Fists flew. Knuckles smashed against bone, and the air had the tinny smell of blood in it. Grunts, gasps, and curses all mixed together in a seamless sound of confusion.
In the bar’s makeshift storage room and office, Dallas dug through the jumble of papers that littered the solitary desk and uncovered the black telephone hidden beneath them. She picked up the receiver and punched the button with the blinking light.
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“Hello, this is Dallas.”
“Dallas?” a woman’s voice repeated on an incredulous note. “What are you doing there?”
The voice was a familiar one, but Dallas couldn’t place it. “Who is this?”
“It’s Kelly Rae. Kelly Rae Thomas,” she added in clarification.
“Kelly Rae,” Dallas said, recalling the brunette who had been one year behind her in high school. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
