The side window spills its panes over the place, and this person’s hat flips off his head, and lands in my lap, while a chunk of lead bores a neat hole in the wall behind the stranger. He freezes right there.
Magpie slips his gun across his lap, settles down a little lower in his chair, and lights his cigaret. I hands the hat back to its owner, and slides my chair a few inches further back.
“Eight what?” asks Magpie.
“Ca-ca-cakes of ice,” he quavers, examining his hat. “My ——! Was that a—a—bullet?”
Magpie nods and scratches his chin.
“Bullet?” he wonders again. “Did—did somebody shoot at me?”
“Nope,” says Magpie. “At me. What yuh going to do with the ice?”
He looks at Magpie for a minute, and then gasps—
“At a—a time like this?”
He tucks his hat under his arm, sneaks to the door, and goes around the corner so fast his coat simply cracks.