This one, standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, said, “You Carl Webster?”

“Yes, I am. Tell me who you’re related to.”

“You killed my brother.”

The third one to come along with a dead brother. Carl said, “You mean the one use to beat the shit out of you when he felt like it? Which one was he?”

“Luigi Tessa.”

Jesus Christ, Lou Tessa the backshooter. Carl shook his head. “You know he ambushed me? Right here as I’m going in the hotel? You could’ve busted me from behind yourself, but you want to do it face-to-face, uh? There’s hope for you, boy. What’s your name?”

“Why you want to know?”

“So when I tell what happened here I can give your Christian name. Who you were.” Carl freed the button holding his suitcoat closed and said, “Wait a minute. I never killed your brother, he went to prison.”

“Where he got the chair,” the kid gangster said. “It’s the same as you killin’ him.”

“Listen,” Carl said, “you don’t want to shoot me.” He held his suitcoat open wide with both hands. “You see a gun on my person?” Carl dropped his arms, his right hand sweeping the coat aside to bring out the .38 revolver from his waist, hard against his spine, and put it on Lou Tessa’s brother, telling him, “Now you see it. Lay your left hand on that cannon you’re holding and eject the loads till the piece is empty. You pause,” Carl said, “I’ll take it to mean you want to kill me and I’ll shoot you through the heart.”

Virgil, Carl’s dad, said, “I thought you liked a shoulder holster.”

“I’m not gonna wear it driving. I get in the car,” Carl said, “my gun goes in the glove compartment. I checked out of the office and stopped by the Mayo for a drink. You ought to move to Tulsa. That bar in the basement keeps right up.”

“What’d you do with the kid gangster?”

“Turned him over to Tulsa police. They’ll look him up, see if his big nickel-plate is dirty or not. Vito Tessa, they can have him. I’m leaving from here in the morning, six-thirty.”