I grabbed Doe, twisted her around, and went to the floor on top of her.
Costello was knocked off his chair.
An M-16 started chattering.
Bronicata did a toe dance in the kitchen while his pots and pans exploded around him, then fell across
the hot stove as if embracing it.
His two pals were slammed against the wall and riddled.
In the other room Nance whirled and dropped to his knees behind the bed.
Chevos was on his knees, a .32 in his fist, his glasses hanging from one ear, hissing like a snake.
Costello rolled over and shook his head.
The smell of gunpowder flooded the room.
Nance turned toward me, his smashed face curdled with hate, his Luger in his hand.
I dragged Doe to her feet and pushed her toward the far corner of the room, away from the doorway.
The Luger roared and I felt the round twirl through my arm and hit the wall beyond. I knocked
Chevos? glasses off, grabbed his arm, and twisted him around, turning his gun hand down and away
from his body.
The M-16 thunked again and the waterbed erupted. Geysers of water plumed up from it. Nance dove
face down on the floor, huddling by the bed.
Costello pulled a .38 and leaped for the corner, grabbing at Doe.
I got the .32 away from Chevos, shoved him out of the way, jumped across the room, got a handful of
Costello?s jacket, and threw him against the other wall. It didn?t stop him. His lips curled back and he
swung the .38 up. I shot him twice in the chest. He fell back against the wall and dropped to his knees.
The gun bounced out of his hand. His knuckles rested on the floor. He stared at my belt buckle; then
his mouth went slack and dropped open.
The window beside me burst open. The drapes crashed down, and then I heard the dentist?s drill, an
inch from my ear, hum its tune.
Brrdddtttt.
So much for Chevos.
I stuffed a handkerchief inside my jacket. The bullet wound burned. I could smell the almond odour or
arsenic. The Stick jumped through the window with the grace of a dancer, the 180 submachine gun in
one hand, the M-16 in the other. He held a finger to his lips and pointed toward Nance?s room.
We heard footsteps run across broken glass and debris and smash a window. Stick jammed the 180
under his arm, pulled a .357 out of his belt, tossed it to me, and dove through the doorway into the
bedroom, the chattering 180 back in hand as he went.
