"Please," he whimpered, eyes cast up from the polished linoleum as if in prayer, a single rivulet of blood trickling from a nostril. "I I have a family."
"A family?" Charlie glanced from one crumpled heap of flesh and gristle to another, a distinct disinterest building behind insect black eyes. "How many kids?"
"I t-two."
"Boy or girl?"
"Both boys."
He squatted next to the man, spinning the massive .357 on his finger like the protagonist of some spaghetti western. The barrel whirled around the blur of his hand like Death's private helicopter, gaining and losing momentum in an evident but indecipherable rhythm. He blew a