Dead on Arrival

And then Danny saw Charlie give a little shudder and die.

Vince hadn’t shot him in the gut, he’d shot him in the heart.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Vince said.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Danny said, still looking down at Charlie.

‘Come on. Let’s go!’ Vince said. He turned toward the door and started running.

By the time Danny got to the door, Vince had almost reached the fourth floor landing, one flight down. Danny started to follow him, then for some reason, for some fuckin’ reason, he pulled out a handkerchief so he wouldn’t leave prints and started to close the door to Charlie’s apartment. That was his big mistake.

Just as he was shutting Charlie’s door, the door across the hall opened. He and the woman stared at each other for about two seconds. She was a short, heavy old broad with a fat nose and gray hair tied up in a bun. Polish or German, Danny thought, and she looked tougher than elephant hide.

‘Danny!’ Vince cried out from the stairwell. ‘Come on!’

Great, just call out my fuckin’ name, Danny thought, as he tore his eyes away from the old Polish woman and started to run. But Vince wasn’t through. Just as Danny reached the stairs – the woman now standing in the hall looking at his back as he ran – Vince yelled again.

‘DeMarco!’ Vince screamed. ‘Move your ass!’

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