The other bug-eyed him.

Bert tensed up and repeated, “Start shooting, friend.”

“Why… why…” The other darted a surprised look down at the gun, as though the small weapon had betrayed him.

Bert held his peace, only looking coldly at the other. There were butterflies in his stomach, a whole bevy of them, but his eyes were level and he knew that the interloper was more frightened than he was. He had been shot at before—all too, many a time—and he doubted that this one had ever heard the sound of a gun, outside a shooting gallery, or hunting rabbits, or whatever.

The stranger, his face working, came to his feet, the gun still at the ready. He began edging for the door. Bert Alshuler stayed where he was. There was no point in pushing his luck.

When the would-be gunman reached his avenue of escape he said, trying to keep his voice firm, “I warn you. For your own good, tell me what it was that Katz wanted with you.”

“Go on, get out of here,” Bert said in disgust. “Or maybe I’ll change my mind and take that peashooter away from you and stick it where it won’t do you much good at all.”

The other was upset, but he had already lost the game and obviously knew it. He wasn’t ready to shoot, and a gun is valueless in controversy if you aren’t willing to use it.

He grabbed the door open, fled through it, banged it behind him.

Bert Alshuler continued to sit there in disgust. “Now what the hell was that all about?” he snarled.

On second reflection, now, he decided that he should have taken on the twitch, got in contact with Katz and delved into the thing. Kay, great. But suppose the other had had luck and managed to drill him between the eyes. That’s all he needed. Two more holes in the head, one neatly centered between the eyes, the other taking out the back of the skull.