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A second before his opponent fired, however, there was a second click. The big man stopped dead, his eyes widening as a dark-skinned, one-eyed man pressed the barrel of Bolan’s dropped .38 to one pudgy cheek. “I was attempting to sleep,” the one-eyed man purred.
“What the hell is going on here?” Sweets cried out, kicking aside the broken chunk of table. He glared first at Bolan, and then up at the tableau above. “Damn it, Digger! What did you do?”
“He came into my room, Django,” the big man said, cutting a glance at the man pressing a pistol to his face. “Nobody comes into my room. You said, Django. You said nobody would come into my room.”
“I was just looking for the toilet,” Bolan said, getting to his feet slowly, the KA-BAR in his hand. Sweets eyed him suspiciously.
“Were you now? Cousin Frank, you do seem to get into fights.”
“It’s a bad habit,” Bolan said, trying for nonchalance. He sheathed the knife. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t have to go anymore.”
Sweets guffawed. Then he looked up at Digger and said, “Mr. Tuerto, if you’d kindly take that gun out of my brother’s face, I’d be most obliged.”
Bolan fought the urge to whip around. Tuerto! The man with one eye smiled genially and moved down the stairs, the revolver dangling from the trigger guard. He tossed it to Bolan nonchalantly. “I believe that this is yours?” he said.
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