“To the provider must go the honor of opening it,” Fallon said.
As Dillinger reached out, a shadow fell across the table. Rojas pushed Chavasse out of the way and wrapped a huge hand about the bottle. “I always wanted to try this stuff.”
Dillinger grabbed the neck of the bottle firmly. “Then go and buy your own.”
“Why should I, Yankee, when you are here to provide it for me?”
The Mexican tried to lift the bottle from the table. Dillinger exerted all his strength to keep it there. Rojas grabbed the edge of the table and tried to turn it over while Dillinger leaned his weight against it.
As Dillinger half turned in his chair, he had a glimpse of Rivera still sitting calmly on the other side of the room sipping champagne. Only now there was a smile on his face, and Dillinger knew that the whole thing had been arranged. Rojas imagining he was going to teach Dillinger his place on the patron’s orders. Rivera intent on discovering just how good he was.
Rose took Rojas by the arm and tried to pull him away. “Please,” she said. “No fighting in my place.”
Rojas, his hand still on the champagne bottle, turned toward Rose and spit in her face.
Chavasse was livid. All Dillinger’s repressed anger boiled up. A hard ball of fury rose in his throat, choking him. With a swift movement, he leaned back, removing his weight from the table, and Rojas lost his balance, releasing his grip on the bottle as he sprawled on his hands and knees. Dillinger smashed the bottle across the back of the bull neck and stood up.
The others moved hurriedly out of the way. Rojas shook his head several times and started to get up. Dillinger snatched up his chair and smashed it across the great head and shoulders once, splintering the chair like matchwood.
Rose was wiping her face, crying.
Rojas shook his head, wiping blood from his face casually. He got to his feet, his eyes never leaving Dillinger.
He stood there swaying, apparently half out on his feet, and Dillinger moved in fast. Rojas took a quick step backwards, then smashed his bull fist savagely into Dillinger’s face.
Dillinger lay on the floor for a moment, his head singing from the force of the blow. Rivera laughed, and, as Dillinger started to his feet, Rojas delivered a powerful blow to his stomach and hit him again on the cheek, splitting the flesh to the bone.
Rojas came in fast, boot raised to stamp down on the unprotected face. Dillinger grabbed for the foot and twisted, and Rojas fell heavily across him. They rolled over and over, and as they crashed against the wall, Dillinger pulled himself on top. He reached for Rojas’s throat and was suddenly thrown backward.
As Dillinger scrambled to his feet, Rojas rose to meet him. Dillinger feinted with his left and smashed his right fist against the Mexican’s mouth, splitting the lips so that blood spurted. Dillinger moved out of range, then feinted again and delivered the same terrible blow. As he stepped back, his foot slipped so that Rojas got home a stunning punch to the forehead that sent Dillinger staggering back against the open window, where he almost went over the low sill. As he straightened up, Rojas lurched forward again. Dillinger ducked, twisted a shoulder inward, and sent the Mexican over his hip through the open window in a savage cross-buttock.
Dillinger scrambled across the sill, almost losing his balance, and arrived on the boardwalk as Rojas rose to his feet. Dillinger, enjoying the best fight he’d had since he was a kid, hit him with everything he had, full in the face, and Rojas went backward into the street.
For a little while he lay there as Dillinger hung on to one of the posts that supported the porch. Slowly, the Mexican got to his feet. He swayed in the lamplight, his face a mask of blood, eyes burning with hate, and then his hand went around to the back of his belt. As he came forward, a knife gleamed dully.
Behind Rojas, old Nachita appeared from the darkness like a ghost. The Indian’s hand moved in a single smooth motion, and a knife thudded into the boardwalk at Dillinger’s feet.