But he wasn’t. From his hands and knees, Downey flung himself forward, rammed his head into Nathaniel’s gut, and then butted his jaw. His brain reeled, he tasted blood as he was grabbed in a crushing bear hug and wrestled to the floor. Locking both arms into an arm bar, Downey pressed down on his throat. All Nathaniel could see was the other man’s bruised face, twisted in rage, and above it the pressed-tin ceiling and the electric lights and smoke swirling in the lights. The forearm was like a steel rod pressing against his windpipe. He gagged, went limp, and fought to keep from blacking out. Then he could breathe again. The face above him was crazed by rivulets of blood that spread like cracks in a windowpane, and he watched Downey’s eyes roll back in his head, the instant before he tumbled sideways and lay still on the floor. Standing over him was Drew, little Drew, wearing an eerie look of cold, controlled ferocity that reminded Nathaniel of their mother the day she struck Lockwood with her parasol. Drew had used a deadlier weapon—the bartender’s club.

“Are you all right, Nat?” he asked, with no more emotion than if Nathaniel merely had taken a bad fall.

He regained his wind and got to his feet. Spitting blood—the head butt had cut his tongue—he stared, first at the motionless Mike Downey and then at Drew. He was speechless, and so was the crowd, their amazed silence finally broken by a voice that cried out, “Did you see it? The little lad flat cracked Mikey’s head open. Did you see it?” A man Nathaniel recognized as Downey’s drinking companion knelt down, turned his unconscious friend onto his back, and put an ear to his chest. Looking up, he fixed on Drew a puzzled frown, as if he were confronted by some great riddle.

“Mike’s still with us,” he muttered. “You’re a daisy, lad. Could’ve killed him, y’know that?”

“I meant to,” Drew said.

“Can’t think of anyone who needs killing more.” It was the bartender, rubbing his midsection. “Let’s have that stick, young man.” He extended a hand, and Drew gave him the club. “Best that you four clear out, before some of Mike’s chums decide to even the score. Dinner’s on the house.”

“That’s only fair, mister,” said Drew. “We hardly got to eat any of it.”

12