Duffy saw it coming a split second too late. A bomb burst inside his head. A bright light blotted the room out.
“Spill his guts,” the little guy said with a snigger. “Go on, Joe, burst him open.”
Joe walked over to Duffy quickly with long, sliding steps. He put his hand down on Duffy’s body, seized Duffy low and swung him off the floor. He lifted him quite easily and smashed him down on the boards, as if he were dumping coal.
The little guy said, “Let’s get him out of here.”
Joe said, “Sure.” He dragged Duffy to his feet and began pulling him to the door.
Gilroy stood like a waxwork, only his great eyes rolling in terror. The little guy looked at him, curling up his tight mouth.
“Here it is, nigger,” he said, and squeezed the trigger. The gun crashed. Gilroy stood with his hands folded over his belly, gradually sinking at the knees. His curiously coffee-coloured skin glistened with sweat. He went down very slowly. First on his knees, then a little on one side. His hip-bone struck the floor hard, and his face followed, cutting the flesh on the boards.
The little guy stood over him, looking at Joe. “Shall I finish him?” he asked.
Joe paused in the doorway, holding Duffy by his shirt-front. “Let the punk bleed,” he said, with a snarl. “It takes longer that way, don’t it?”
The little guy giggled and pushed his gun back in his holster. “You get ideas,” he said.