The Avenger 30 - Black Chariots by Kenneth Robeson Read Free Book Online Page B

outwardly seemed to be a demure and defenseless, not to mention small, young lady, Nellie was far from it. She was, to put it simply, pretty tough.
    She grabbed one of the dark-suited men by the neck, with her other hand gripping his wrist. The pressure on the big man’s neck made him gag and let go of Cole. Using his arm as a handle, the little blonde flipped him across the cocktail lounge.
    He landed on his tailbone, between two tables, but close enough to one to cause it to topple over sideways like a felled tree. It showered him with an ashtray, a candle, and a wooden bowl full of stale popcorn.
    “Accept my,” said Cole, delivering a jab to the remaining man’s midsection, “grateful thanks, pixie.”
    “I’d do the same thing for most anyone.”
    “There.” Cole connected with his opponent’s chin; the man sagged and dropped to the floor. “Now what say we fold up our tents and get the—”
    “Not quite yet, Mr. Wilson.” A thin, dark man in a tuxedo was standing in the arched entryway to the Oasis lounge. A revolver in his hand pointed directly at Cole.
    Nellie moved closer to Cole, nodding at the bar. “And another one back there with a gun, too.”
    “I’m starting to feel like General Custer on his farewell tour,” said Cole. “You have the advantage, sir, in that you know my name and I don’t know yours.”
    “My name is Danker, at the moment,” said the thin, dark man.
    “I see, Mr. Danker,” said Cole. “Well, I am regretful that I felled several of your employees. Any number of the most fashionable members of café society will testify that I am usually very sedate when I visit nightclubs and similar bistros.” He gestured with a thumb at the redhead waiter, who was now on his hands and knees and groaning. “However, when this chap suggested that I come along with him, I must admit I demurred.”
    “I’m afraid he was acting on my orders,” said Danker. “You were recognized, Mr. Wilson, the moment you came in.”
    “I can see why yon don’t have much clientele,” said Cole, “if you treat every familiar face this way.”
    “I truly enjoy badinage, Mr. Wilson. Let us, though, drop the banter for a moment.” Danker snapped his fingers in the direction of the man behind the bar. “Search him, Dirks.”
    Dirks was large, too. His tuxedo, not quite as large as he was, strained at the shoulders and was taut as a sail in the wind across the back. He tilted to the left as he walked over to frisk Cole. “What about the broad?”
    “That will be taken care of later.”
    “She’s a pretty salty little skirt,” said Dirks. “I saw what she done to Haefley. She threw him right on his—”
    “Search the young man, Dirks,” repeated Danker.
    “I really don’t see, old man, why you—” began Cole.
    “I am familiar with the faces of all the members of the illustrious Justice, Inc.,” said Danker.
    “Ah, the price of fame,” said Cole, lifting his arms.
    Dirks began slapping down his sides. “Here’s a rod,” he announced, removing a pistol from its shoulder holster. “And . . . I ain’t sure what this is. A handful of glass balls.”
    “You might drop one on the floor,” suggested Cole. “That way you’ll enjoy the full—”
    “Hand those here, Dirks. Be careful.”
    Gingerly the big man let the half-dozen blackout pellets roll from his palm into Decker’s. “Hot stuff, huh?” He gave a massive shrug and returned to his search. “Here’s some kind of screwy-looking knife. I seen a Chinaman use one once up in Frisco. It was back in—”
    “You can spare me the narrative, Dirks.” Danker took the knife and set it on a table.
    “And what’s this dingus? I remember a peeper planted something like this in my hotel room once when my second wife thought I was—”
    “Let me have it.” Danker took the small eavesdropping bug and placed it next to the confiscated knife. “You remind me of that motion-picture comic, one of the Marx Brothers, I believe, whose