Slowly, Lorenzo pushed himself up and stood away from the couch. He started to walk around it and head for the hall. Graham raised the revolver and pointed it at Lorenzo. Lorenzo studied the gun's cylinder and knew, and as it came to Lorenzo, Graham squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Graham squeezed the trigger six more times, as he had been told to do. Each snap of the hammer hitting nothing was like the strike of a nail in Lorenzo's heart.
'He said to squeeze it seven times,' said Graham.
'Motherfucker,' said Lorenzo.
'Bullets back in the kitchen, I expect. With that glass of water he got.'
Lorenzo went down the hall and let Jasmine out of the bedroom. He returned with his car keys in hand.
'You comin' with me?' he said to Graham.
'Where?'
'To help Nigel.'
'Too late for that.' Graham looked at his watch, then back at Lorenzo. 'Nigel in the belly of that motherfucker now.'
Nigel went through the kitchen, his back sliding against the counter, out of sight of the hall. Behind him, roaches crawled across the linoleum counter-top.
'Melvin,' said a voice from the living room. 'Melvin!'
Nigel turned the handle of the cold spigot and opened it all the way. Water drummed against the porcelain bowl of the sink.
Nigel rechecked the safety on the Colt; the gun was live. He moved from the kitchen to the hall, holding his weapon out in front of him. He could see a portion of the living room ahead, and it was bright.
Show yourself, thought Nigel. I am gonna murder the fuck out of you tonight. He blinked sweat from his eyes.
He came into the living room. Rico Miller stood in the right corner of the room, his back against the wall. He held a cut-down shotgun, and it was pointed at Nigel. For a moment, neither of them moved.
'I knew you wasn't Melvin,' said Miller. 'Melvin got his own smell.'
Nigel scanned the room: sofa, table, chairs.
'You kill him?' said Miller.
Nigel dove as the shotgun roared. The load blew off a portion of the sofa back, sending upholstery up into the air. Nigel landed behind the folding table, grabbed it, and stood with it in his hand. He heard the rack of the pump. The second shot hit the table square, like the slap of God. Its impact threw Nigel back to the floor.
Nigel crabbed backward furiously, the Colt still in his hand. He pointed the gun and squeezed its trigger. Smoke came off Miller's shoulder as he walked toward Nigel with the cut-down aimed low. The room flashed; hardwood erupted at Nigel's feet. Miller reracked the shotgun and fired as Nigel shot blindly into a shower of plaster and dust. Miller staggered through pink mist. The shotgun spun from his hands, and he dropped like meat to the floor.
A ringing sounded in Nigel's ears. There was a ripping pain where the shot had peppered his upper chest. His silk shirt was slick and darkened with blood. He tore the shirt open and examined his wounds. He stood, fought nausea, and kept his legs.
Nigel went to Miller's corpse. He fired a round into its head. He spit on Miller and walked from the room.
He moved back through the hall, straight through the kitchen, and out the back door. He walked down to the steps to where Melvin Lee lay unconscious in the grass. He shot Lee twice in the chest, holstered the Colt, and walked on.
A dog began to bark. A light came on in a nearby house.
Nigel went to the alley and followed it to Hunt. He saw a midnight blue Infiniti parked near his Lexus. He recognized it but did not stop. He needed treatment and he needed to get off the street. He went to his trunk and opened it. He heard a car door open and footsteps on pavement. He put the Glock into the toolbox but drew the Colt and kept it in hand. Its receiver had not slid open; he still had at least one round.
Nigel looked around the lid of the trunk. He saw Deacon's second, the one who called himself Griff, walking toward him. The hump under his shirt told Nigel that the young man was wearing a gun.
Nigel, his hands deep in the trunk, put his thumb to the long hammer of the Colt and locked it back. He rested a finger inside the trigger guard of the gun.
'Easy,' said Griff, a friendly smile on his face, his hands raised as he approached Nigel.
Nigel could see that this boy was not much older than Michael Butler. Or Rico Miller, the boy he'd just killed.
'Don't come no closer,' said Nigel. 'I can see you're strapped.'
'I ain't hidin' it,' said Griff.
'Say why you're here. Speak plain.'
'Deacon sent me. He figured you could use some backup.'
'It's done,' said Nigel.
Many dogs were barking now. Nigel was dizzy, and there was a deep ache in his chest. He winced against the pain.
'You need help?' said Griff.
'We both gonna need to get gone now.'
