“No, Albert!” Nick bawled.

Craig Toomy saw Albert coming and shifted the muzzle toward him. For one moment Albert looked straight into it, and it was like none of his dreams or fantasies. Looking into the muzzle was like looking into an open grave.

I might have made a mistake here, he thought, and then Craig pulled the trigger.

Instead of an explosion there was a small pop — the sound of an old Daisy air rifle, no more. Albert felt something thump against the chest of his Hard Rock Cafe tee-shirt, had time to realize he had been shot, and then he brought the violin case down on Craig’s head. There was a solid thud which ran all the way up his arms and the indignant voice of his father suddenly spoke up in his mind: What’s the matter with you, Albert? That’s no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!

There was a startled broink! from inside the case as the violin jumped. One of the brass latches dug into Toomy’s forehead and blood splashed outward in an amazing spray. Then the man’s knees came unhinged and he went down in front of Albert like an express elevator. Albert saw his eyes roll up to whites, and then Craig Toomy was lying at his feet, unconscious.

A crazy but somehow wonderful thought filled Albert’s mind for a moment: By God, I never played better in my life! And then he realized that he was no longer able to get his breath. He turned to the others, the corners of his mouth turning up in a thin-lipped, slightly confused smile. “I think I have been plugged,” Ace Kaussner said, and then the world bleached out to shades of gray and his own knees came unhinged. He crumpled to the floor on top of his violin case.

He was out for less than thirty seconds. When he came around, Brian was slapping his cheeks lightly and looking anxious. Bethany was on her knees beside him, looking at Albert with shining my-hero eyes. Behind her, Dinah Bellman was still crying within the circle of Laurel’s arms. Albert looked back at Bethany and felt his heart — apparently still whole — expand in his chest. “The Arizona Jew rides again,” he muttered.

“What, Albert?” she asked, and stroked his cheek. Her hand was wonderfully soft, wonderfully cool. Albert decided he was in love.

“Nothing,” he said, and then the pilot whacked him across the face again.

“Are you all right, kid?” Brian was asking. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” Albert said. “Stop doing that, okay? And the name is Albert. Ace, to my friends. How bad am I hit? I can’t feel anything yet. Were you able to stop the bleeding?”

Nick Hopewell squatted beside Bethany. His face wore a bemused, unbelieving smile. “I think you’ll live, matey. I never saw anything like that in my life... and I’ve seen a lot. You Americans are too foolish not to love. Hold out your hand and I’ll give you a souvenir.”

Albert held out a hand which shook uncontrollably with reaction, and Nick dropped something into it. Albert held it up to his eyes and saw it was a bullet.

“I picked it up off the floor,” Nick said. “Not even misshapen. It must have hit you square in the chest — there’s a little powder mark on your shirt — and then bounced off. It was a misfire. God must like you, mate.”

“I was thinking of the matches,” Albert said weakly. “I sort of thought it wouldn’t fire at all.”

“That was very brave and very foolish, my boy,” Bob Jenkins said. His face was dead white and he looked as if he might pass out himself in another few moments. “Never believe a writer. Listen to them, by all means, but never believe them. My God, what if I’d been wrong?”

“You almost were,” Brian said. He helped Albert to his feet. “It was like when you lit the other matches — the ones from the bowl. There was just enough pop to drive the bullet out of the muzzle. A little more pop and Albert would have had a bullet in his lung.”

Another wave of dizziness washed over Albert. He swayed on his feet, and Bethany immediately slipped an arm around his waist. “I thought it was really brave,” she said, looking up at him with eyes which suggested she believed Albert Kaussner must shit diamonds from a platinum asshole. “I mean incredible.”

“Thanks,” Ace said, smiling coolly (if a trifle woozily). “It wasn’t much.”  The fastest Hebrew west of the Mississippi was aware that there was a great deal of girl pressed tightly against him, and that the girl smelled almost unbearably good. Suddenly he felt good. In fact, he believed he had never felt better in his life. Then he remembered his violin, bent down, and picked up the case. There was a deep dent in one side, and one of the catches had been sprung. There was blood and hair on it, and Albert felt his stomach turn over lazily. He opened the case and looked in. The instrument looked all right, and he let out a little sigh.

Then he thought of Craig Toomy, and alarm replaced relief.

“Say, I didn’t kill that guy, did I? I hit him pretty hard.” He looked towards Craig, who was lying near the restaurant door with Don Gaffney kneeling beside him. Albert suddenly felt like passing out again. There was a great deal of blood on Craig’s face and forehead.

“He’s alive,” Don said, “but he’s out like a light.”

Albert, who had blown away more hardcases than The Man with No Name in his dreams, felt his gorge rise. “Jesus, there’s so much blood!”

“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Nick said. “Scalp wounds tend to bleed a lot.” He joined Don, picked up Craig’s wrist, and felt for a pulse. “You want to remember he had a gun to that girl’s head, matey. If he’d pulled the trigger at point-blank range, he might well have done for her. Remember the actor who killed himself with a blank round a few years ago? Mr Toomy brought this on himself; he owns it completely. Don’t take on.”

Nick dropped Craig’s wrist and stood up.

“Besides,” he said, pulling a large swatch of paper napkins from the dispenser on one of the tables, “his pulse is strong and regular. I think he’ll wake up in a few minutes with nothing but a bad headache. I also think it might be prudent to take a few precautions against that happy event. Mr Gaffney, the tables in yonder watering hole actually appear to be equipped with tablecloths — strange but true. I wonder if you’d get a couple? We might be wise to bind old Mr I’ve-Got-to-Get-to-Boston’s hands behind him.”

“Do you really have to do that?” Laurel asked quietly. “The man is unconscious, after all, and bleeding.”

Nick pressed his makeshift napkin compress against Craig Toomy’s headwound and looked up at her. “You’re Laurel, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, Laurel, let’s not paint it fine. This man is a lunatic. I don’t know if our current adventure did that to him or if he just growed that way, like Topsy, but I do know he’s dangerous. He would have grabbed Dinah instead of Bethany if she had been closer. If we leave him untied, he might do just that next time.”

Craig groaned and waved his hands feebly. Bob Jenkins stepped away from him the moment he began to move, even though the revolver was now safely tucked into the waistband of Brian Engle’s pants, and Laurel did the same, pulling Dinah with her.

“Is anybody dead?” Dinah asked nervously. “No one is, are they?”

“No, honey.”

“I should have heard him sooner, but I was listening to the man who sounds like a teacher.”

“It’s okay,” Laurel said. “It turned out all right, Dinah.” Then she looked out at the empty terminal and her own words mocked her. Nothing was all right here. Nothing at all.

Don returned with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth in each fist.

“Marvellous,” Nick said. He took one of them and spun it quickly and expertly into a rope. He put the center of it in his mouth, clamping his teeth on it to keep it from unwinding, and used his hands to flip Craig over like a human omelette.