A Thompson machine gun erupted its violence as soon as the door began to move. A guy stood in the opening, his big gun smoking in his hand. I took one shot and sent a shell into his stomach. The guy went back on his heels for two very deliberate paces, then folded onto his knees. His gun slipped out of his hands and came into the doorway.
There was another guy with my dying friend—a guy with the most surprised face in New York. He wore a hat over his eyes, but I could see a crooked nose and thin lips and a fat-jowled jaw.
I said, "Sleep tight, punk."
I let him have it.
There's something about me makes me ornery when guys pump lead into my doorway late at night.