The Removers by Donald Hamilton

people who made this a busy place at night were sleeping late this morning. I didn’t want any interference, so I waited until Tony had escorted me around the car before I took him.
    I’d been a good boy long enough. He was nice and relaxed now, in exactly the right position. I got him by the arm and made the throw in fine style, bringing his arm down sharply across my knee at the finish. He screamed once as various anatomical items tore and snapped; then he hit the pavement with his head and was quiet. It was a little drastic and I felt a little sorry. Unlike some of them, Tony hadn’t seemed to be working full time on being as big a louse as possible.
    The gun had hit the pavement without going off, which was a relief. It had bounced under the car, which was all right. I didn’t want it, anyway. I had other, less noisy, plans for Switchblade Ricky.
    He’d been about to open the car door for us. He turned at the single, cut-off scream, and there was a comical, shocked look on his face as he realized that his partner was out of action and he was on his own. The knife came out fast, I’ll hand him that. He pushed the button, and the long, thin blade clicked into place.
    “All right for you, Buster,” he said in his best, menacing tone. “You want it here, you can have it here, the full treatment!” He started forward.
    I took my hand out of my pocket and gave the little snap of the wrist that flicks that kind of knife open if you keep it properly cleaned and oiled and know the technique. Opening it two-handed is safer and more reliable, but it doesn’t impress people nearly so much. Tony’s eyes widened slightly, and he stopped coming. This wasn’t supposed to happen. When you pulled knives on suckers and squares, they turned pale green and backed off fearfully; they didn’t come up with blades of their own.
    He hesitated, saw that my cutting implement was only about half the length of his, regained confidence, and came in fast. I was tempted to play with him a bit, but it was hot, I was tired and sleepy, and when you start playing cat-and-mouse with human beings you deserve trouble and sometimes get it. I sidestepped his clumsy thrust, moved inside the knife, clamped a good hold on his arm, and made one neat surgical cut. The knife dropped from his fingers. That made two of them who’d be operating left-handed for a while, if not forever.
    He backed off, holding his wrist, staring at the blood pumping from between his fingers.
    I said, “You’d better get a tourniquet on that before you bleed to death.”
    I stepped over and put my foot on the blade of his knife and pulled up on the handle until the steel snapped. It didn’t seem to be very good steel. I kicked the pieces towards him.
    “The cheaper the punk,” I said, “the longer the blade.”
    I backed away until I was fairly sure he couldn’t hit me left-handed even if he had a gun and came out of his trance long enough to use it. I turned and walked away across the parking lot, taking out my handkerchief to wipe my little knife clean before putting it away. Then I looked up, as a small open car that I recognized came off the street in a hard flat turn that would have had an ordinary sedan wallowing and screeching. I stopped where I was and waited for her to reach me. She flung the right-hand door open.
    “Get in! Quick!”
    “What’s the rush?” I asked in a puzzled voice. I mean, she was a pretty girl I’d spent the night with, and I’m not superhuman.
    She stared at me for a moment, and looked at the knife and at the stains on the cloth with which I was wiping it in a leisurely manner. Then she looked across the area to where one man lay unconscious on the ground and another stood leaning against a car, clutching his wrist and watching the blood run out.
    She said, “Damn you, stop grandstanding and get in before somebody else comes out here!” I got in. She swung the little Mercedes around sharply, and sent it away. “Are you. all