Bond had no time to clear his head before the gangster gave a thick grunt and came for him head downwards with both arms flailing.
Bond twisted to protect his stomach and the gangster’s head hit him in the ribs and the two fists crashed into his body.
Bond’s breath whistled through his teeth with the pain, but he kept focus on McGonigle’s head below him and, with a twist of the body that put all his shoulder behind his hand, he whipped in a hard left, and, as the gangster’s head came up, he lashed out with his right to the chin.
The impact of the two blows straightened McGonigle and rocked him back on his feet. Bond was on him like a panther, crowding him and raining in blows to the body until the gangster began to sag. Bond grabbed at one weaving wrist and dived for an ankle and yanked it away from the floor. Then he put out all his strength, made almost a full turn to gather momentum, and slung the body sideways into the room.
There was a first twanging cra&h as the flying figure hit the upright pianola and then, with an explosion of metallic discords and breaking wood, the dying instrument toppled over and, with McGonigle spreadeagled across it, thundered to the floor.
Amidst the diminishing crescendo of echoes, Bond stood in the centre of the room, his legs braced with the last effort and the breath rasping in his throat. Slowly he lifted one bruised hand and ran it through his dripping hair.
“Cut.”
It was a girl’s voice and it came from the direction of the bar.
Bond shook himself and turned slowly round.
Four people had come into the saloon. They were standing in line with their backs to the mahogany-and-brass bar behind which ranks of gleaming bottles rose to the ceiling. Bond had no idea how long they had been there.
A step in front of the other three stood the leading citizen of Spectreville, resplendent, motionless, dominant.
Mr Spang was dressed in full Western costume down to the long, silver spurs on his polished back boots. The costume, and the broad, leather chaps that covered his legs, were in black, picked out and embellished with silver. The big, quiet hands rested on the ivory butts of two long-barrelled revolvers which protruded from a holster down each thigh, and the broad, black belt from which they hung was ribbed with ammunition.
Mr Spang should have looked ridiculous, but he didn’t. His big head was thrust slightly forward and his eyes were cold, fierce slits.
On Mr Spang’s right, with her hands on her hips, was Tiffany Case. In a Western dress of white and gold, she looked like something out of Annie Get Your Gun. She stood and watched Bond. Her eyes were shining. Her full red lips were slightly parted and she was panting as if she had been kissed.
The other half of the quartette was the two men in black hoods from Saratoga. Each of them held a -38 Police Positive trained on Bond’s heaving stomach.
Bond slowly took out a handkerchief and wiped his face with it. He was feeling light-headed and the scene in the brilliantly lit saloon, with its brass fittings and its homely advertisements for long-vanished beers and whiskies, was suddenly macabre.
Mr Spang broke the silence. “Bring him over.” The hard jaws that operated the sharp, thin lips separated and cut off each word as cleanly as a meat-slice. “And tell someone to call Detroit and tell the boys they’re suffering from delusions of adequacy up there. And tell ’em to send down two more. And tell ’em they got to be better than the last lot. And tell someone else to clean up this mess. Kay?”
There was a faint jingle of spurs on the wooden floor as Mr Spang left the room. With a last look at Bond, a look that held some message that was more than the obvious warning, the girl followed him.
The two men came up to Bond and the big one said “You heard.” Bond walked slowly after the girl and the two men lined up behind him.