Lady—Here's Your Wreath

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THE BOYS, WHO had come to see Vessi die, were lined up before the bar. They were putting up a good front, but they were all scared sick.

I came into the bar just when the liquor was hitting them. When they saw me, they let out a groan.

“For Gawd’s sake, look who’s here,” Barry shouted. “The nine days’ sensation himself.”

Barry Hughson was a good guy, but he’d got plenty of gristle mixed with his brains. I just called for a rye and gave them a grin. “H’yah, boys,” I said, waving my hand. “I bet some of you’re goin’ to change your tune mighty soon.”

They didn’t like that crack, and gathered round looking tough. Hughson poked me in the chest with his forefinger. That’s a thing I love. Some guy poking me in the chest. Barry was tight, so I let it slide.

“Listen, Bud,” he said, screwing up his eyes to get my face in focus, “this little business is by invitation only. You don’t stand a chance. Be a nice lad an’ scram.”

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