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The man reached back with his right hand.

“That’s it,” Jamall said. “Real slow, gimme that wallet.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. He reached up with his left hand, grabbed Jamall’s gun and lifted it until the barrel pointed into the air. It wasn’t a fast move, but it wasn’t slow, either: just smooth. No hesitation. Jamall seemed to freeze for a second, almost in disbelief that someone could be so stupid as to f.u.c.k with him, and then he tried to pull the gun free.

It was only then that Rome saw the man’s other hand coming out from behind his back, coming out with that same speed, that same confident smoothness—and holding a gun.

The man put the barrel against Jamall’s stomach and pulled the trigger.

The sound was like a cap gun. It didn’t sound real. Jamall’s face twitched, more in surprise than in pain.

Smooth as before, the man raised his gun up under Jamall’s chin and pulled the trigger twice.

Then the man’s throat started spraying blood. At first Rome thought Jamall’s blood was spraying on the man, but Jamall wasn’t bleeding that much—he just wobbled for a second, then fell.

The fat man dropped the gun and put both hands to his throat. His expression didn’t change. The guy still looked bored, even as blood seeped between his fingers.

The man turned to face Rome.

Rome had fired his .38. That’s what had happened. Smoke curled from the stubby barrel. He hadn’t even known he’d fired, but he must have. He’d shot the man right in the throat.

The man blinked a few times, then knelt, one knee on the ground. He reached back with his hands and eased into a sitting position. Blood continued to pour out of his throat, some of it splattering on the white McDonald’s bags. The blood stained his collar and his s.h.i.+rt, dripping from his red beard.

“I wish,” the man said quietly, “I wish you could know the love.”

Then he lay down on his side and stopped moving.

The blood slowed to a soft pulsing.

Rome saw the man’s wallet in his back pocket. He looked at it for a second, then his common sense returned in a flash of panic. He’d just killed that man. Armed robbery, that made it murder one. He looked at Jamall. Jamall was dead. f.u.c.k! Jamall? How could Jamall be dead?

There were no sirens. There wouldn’t be. No one called the cops around here for a few gunshots.

Rome’s heart hammered away. His breath came fast and deep. This was so f.u.c.ked up.

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