Cornered! by James McKimmey

don’t afford that from being dumb, huh, Sam? Now I didn’t ask you to ask me what the point was or what I was after. That’s my business. I asked you to tell me what Mrs. Dickens’s name is.”
    Gloria looked at Sam Dickens, anger flaring in her eyes. Then she said to Billy Quirter, “The name’s Mrs. Dickens. I’m his wife. His name is Dickens. I’m Mrs. Dickens. Okay?”
    “Gloria, listen,” Sam Dickens pleaded. “He means business. Isn’t that obvious? That’s a gun in his hand.”
    But Billy suddenly laughed. “That’s all right, Sam. I like your wife. I really do. Lots of pepper, huh?”
    Sam Dickens had his hands on the counter. He opened and closed them without answering.
    Gloria’s mouth tightened. She looked at her husband, then away.
    “Now this gun in my hand,” Billy said. “Are you scared of it, Dickens?”
    Sam would not lift his head.
    Billy nodded. “He is, Gloria. Gloria—I like that name.”
    “That’s grand.”
    Again Billy laughed. “You kill me, Gloria. Why don’t you come around the counter and pour us all some coffee?”
    “Why don’t you climb a rope?”
    Billy’s face suddenly froze, the dark eyes thinned a little.
    Sam Dickens said, “For God’s sake, Glory! Don’t—”
    “Shut up!” Billy snapped. He stared grimly at Gloria. “Now I mean it, sister. I told you to do something. I said come around here and pour us some coffee. Did you hear me?”
    Gloria met his stare steadily. “Go to hell.”
    Sam Dickens opened and closed his mouth. Suddenly Billy’s face wreathed into the broadest smile he’d yet demonstrated. “No kidding! What a broad, huh? I mean it! Beautiful and sheer guts!”
    Gloria said, “Why don’t you pour the coffee, smart boy? I could use some.”
    Billy shook his head in pure and obvious admiration. “Smart, Dickens. Real smart to grab a dame like this. How’d you do it? Well, never mind. I’ll tell you what. You pour the coffee, Dickens. Now you ain’t going to tell me to climb a rope, are you?” Billy smiled jovially at Sam Dickens. “Come on! Make like a bus boy, huh?”
    Sam Dickens sat motionless for a second. Then he stood up and walked slowly around the right side of the counter to the glass coffee containers. He got cups from the shelves and poured five cups.
    “Distribute,” Billy grinned.
    Sam Dickens carried two cups to the table where Reverend Andrews and Lottie sat. He came back and carried two cups to the counter for Gloria and Billy. Then, as if sensing that Billy would demand it (in his mind was the memory of a western he’d produced in which the bad man said to the good man, “Ain’t you going to drink with me, pardner?” he took the final cup for himself.
    “Fine, Dickens,” Billy said when Sam had reseated himself. “Now that’s real fine. He did that good, didn’t he, Gloria?”
    Gloria didn’t answer.
    Billy grinned, his enjoyment of this outweighing the pain of his arm. “What do you do for a living, Dickens?”
    “Motion pictures,” Sam Dickens said quietly. “I’m a producer.”
    “No kidding,” Billy said. “The movies, huh? Now I could give you some real material, Dickens. Not that slop you put out. What the hell are you doing in this little dump anyway?”
    At that Reverend Andrews stood up, started to speak, found a fuzziness in his throat, cleared it, and finally said, “I’ll thank you not to swear in here.”
    Billy looked at him in utter astonishment.
    Gloria half turned, looking at the reverend. Sam Dickens also looked back.
    “I might remind you,” Reverend Andrews went on doggedly, “I am a clergyman.”
    Billy sat there for a moment, then carefully got off his stool and walked along behind the counter until he was even with Reverend Andrews. The movement jolted pain through his arm, but he ignored that. He stood there, one arm limp, the other crooked up, carrying the gun in his right hand so that it half pointed at the reverend. “Yeah,” he said, eyes thinning. “Yeah,