Detective

room. Pedro waited about thirty seconds, then followed. I followed right behind.
    Pedro opened the door of the men’s room and stepped in. I came in right behind him and brought the sap down hard on the back of his head.
    Pedro went down as if he’d been shot. His legs buckled, and he sprawled, face down on the floor. His head twisted to one side, and I could see the flesh on his face begin to sag, as if his life were draining out of him.
    As Pedro melted into the bathroom floor, my body suddenly felt limp and I had to grab the edge of the toilet stall to keep from falling. My head was spinning, and my vision was so fuzzy I could hardly see. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. That may seem an extreme reaction to such a simple act, but the truth is, I had never coshed anyone before. I can’t even recall ever having punched anyone before, nor can I recall ever seeing anyone go down and out from a blow to the head except, of course, in a prize fight, and even that would have been on TV, never in person. So I was not taking it particularly well.
    For all that, I was still doing better than Murphy, whom I found curled up in a fetal position next to the toilet. I don’t know if he knew I was in there with him. I don’t know if he was aware of anything at all. He might have been merely waiting for the bullet.
    I put my hand on his back. “Stay there,” I told him. I needn’t have bothered. He wasn’t going anyplace.
    I stumbled back out of the toilet stall. Pedro lay face down on the floor. He hadn’t moved. I stepped over the body and locked the outer bathroom door, just as Pedro surely would have done if I hadn’t snuck in right behind him. Then I bent over the body.
    He was alive. I could tell that at once from the shallow and raspy breathing. He was definitely out, but I couldn’t tell how long he’d be out. After all, as I said, I’d never coshed anyone before. I’d hit him hard, I knew that, and the sap was good and solid. I wondered if I’d fractured his skull. I was afraid he’d die, but I was even more afraid he’d come to.
    I rolled the body over. It wasn’t easy. He must have weighed about 220 pounds. But I got him onto his back.
    His right hand was inside his jacket. I tugged it out, reached inside, and pulled out his gun.
    I don’t know much about guns, so I couldn’t tell the make or the caliber, or anything like that. All I knew was that it was an automatic. And that it had a silencer.
    I handled the gun, as they say, on long fingers. I pushed it across the floor, being careful to keep it pointed away from me. Slowly, gingerly, I picked it up. I knew I ought to stick it in my pants, but I also knew I’d be sure to shoot my balls off. I set it against the wall, as far away from Pedro as possible. Then I went back to the body.
    I figured the gun wasn’t the only weapon Pedro had on him. I was right. In his inside jacket pocket I found a straight razor, the kind that barbers use. I’d have been willing to bet you Pedro had never shaved with it. I slipped it into my jacket pocket.
    Pedro was showing no signs of coming around, but neither was Murphy. I went inside the toilet stall and shook him, but I got no response. With an effort, I pulled him to his feet. He looked at me with uncomprehending eyes. I slapped him hard in the face. He blinked, staggered, said nothing.
    “Murphy,” I shouted. “Snap out of it. You’re alive. Nothing happened. It’s all right. We gotta get out of here.”
    Murphy looked around dazed. Then he saw Pedro lying on the floor. His knees sagged again, and I had to hold him up.
    “Come on,” I said. “We’re getting out of here.”
    I got him to the door and leaned him against it. Then I bent down and picked up the gun. I hated to do it, but I had to. I stuck it in my left inside jacket pocket. It stuck way the hell out, what with the silencer and all, but by keeping my left arm rigid, I was able to hold it in place. I unlocked the bathroom door, grabbed Murphy, and steered him out of there.
    “All right, Murphy,” I hissed at him. “Here’s the pitch. You’re sick, and I’m helping you out of here. Just act sick.”
    The dramatic coaching was totally unnecessary. Murphy was already giving a hell of a good impression.
    We were conspicuous as hell going through the dining room. The two waitresses who had taken our orders hovered solicitously, as they saw their potential tips heading for the door.
    “This man is sick,” I said. “I’ve