He’s young and he’s well trained, but he hasn’t had too many opportunities to put that training to use, so he’s worried about getting hurt. Dumbshit little boy, he hasn’t been around long enough to develop new reflexes, his brain is still living in a world where large objects fly at you and you flinch; doesn’t get it that pain doesn’t matter. Something hits you, it’s either gonna kill you or it ain’t. The table doesn’t kill him. I do.

He puts his arm up, easily knocking the table out of the air, but I’m right behind it. He wastes time trying to bring his gun back down, centering his aim on my torso instead of simply pulling the trigger and waving it around. I’m on top of him before it can matter. The gun is out of his hand. He’s on his back. My knee is slamming into his crotch. He’s strong, keeps going for my face. One of those other boys is gonna come in here any second. I put my hands in the boy’s armpits and heave, sliding him on the wood floor, and his face disappears under the hem of the burgundy drapes.

The room instantly reeks of rotted meat being scorched by a blowtorch. I hold him there for a couple seconds while he shrieks and tries to pry my hands loose. When he stops struggling I’m off him and turning to see what’s become of Vandewater and the tongue slicer. He sits up. The drapes tent around him for a moment, flashing sunlight over his body, before they swish back into place. Then he sits there, the hole that used to be his mouth oozing cancer, his hands clutching at his peeling scalp, pushing at the tumors that have erupted across it, trying to force them back inside.

The tongue slicer is on his back, trying to restrain Vandewater, trying to keep her from mauling him while not hurting her. That pain thing again. If he’d been around a bit longer he would have pounded her unconscious by now.

The door is opening.

I look at the floor, see the syringe, pick it up. The door swings wide, two of the boys coming through it, weapons up. I bend over and loop my left arm around Vandewater’s neck and bring her up. She’s still blind, still trying to hurt someone. The boys are in. The tongue slicer is picking up his automatic. I’ve got the old lady in front of me; windpipe caught in the crook of my elbow, toes just grazing the floor. Her remaining eye is open, blinking the blood away. She sees her boys.

– Shoot him!

Yeah, she knows about pain, she knows what it takes. She’s ready for a few bullets.

I bring up the syringe and show it to her.

Her remaining eye rolls around and fixes on the syringe. The boys are circling, looking for the shot that will harm her the least.

I stick the needle in her empty eye socket, my thumb on the plunger.

And apparently some things are worse than pain.

– Don’t! Don’t shoot!

They don’t.

The room is quiet. We can all hear each other breathing too hard. Some of Vandewater’s blood drips off her face and hits the floor. The guy by the window hisses and gurgles like a pot of something viscous boiling over. The room stinks of his cancer and the lingering tang of the anathema.

I put my mouth close to her ear.

– Tell them to drop their guns and fuck off out of my way.

– Allow him to-

I clamp my arm tight.

– That’s not what I said.

She gets it right this time.

– Drop your guns and fuck off out of his way.

They drop their guns and fuck off out of my way.

I glance at my possessions scattered on the floor. The.32, the broken switchblade, the gutted Zippo, the broken poker chip, and the spilled bowl of tobacco and shredded cigarette paper. I’ll miss that Zippo, but more than anything, I wish I could have those cigarettes back.

The service elevator’s just off the kitchen. There are also a couple plastic wrapped corpses and more of the boys. The boys drop their guns and fuck off just as well as the others.

I frog-walk Vandewater to the elevator, watched by the boys.

There’s a keyhole just above the call button.

– You got the key?

She nods.

– Use it.

She takes a key ring from her pocket, sorts the proper one, twists it in the keyhole and pushes the button. We all wait a moment. The blood in her eye socket congeals a little more. The boys have brief wet dreams about what they’ll do to me when they get the chance. The elevator creaks in the shaft. If we weren’t all otherwise occupied, we’d be staring at the numbers above the door, watching them light up one by one.

– How long this thing take?

She twists her neck a little, getting some air. Her voice rasps.

– It’s old.

– No shit.

More creaking.

I remember something important.

– Who’s your dealer downtown?

The muscles of her neck tighten slightly. She’s smiling.

I give her throat a squeeze.

– Something funny?

She coughs.

– I thought you’d forgotten.

– Yeah. Well.

I uncurl my index finger from the syringe and point at the boys.

– All this ruckus, it slipped my mind for the nonce.

The elevator creaks closer.

She smiles again. But keeps her mouth shut.

I push the needle a little deeper into her eye socket.

– Who?

Knowing the name, wanting to hear it.

She’s still smiling.

– You won’t believe me.

– Try me.

Smiling. Croaking.

– Tom Nolan.

OK. Not the name I was expecting.

I squeeze her tighter.

– Bullshit.

The elevator clanks into place.

– Tell me the truth.

The words rasp out of her mouth.

– That is the truth.

The door clicks. The boys aren’t looking at me anymore.

Fuck.

I step to the side as the door slides open and the boy inside sprays his buddies instead of me, some of them hitting the deck, some of them riddled before they can react. I slam Vandewater against the wall, forearm across her throat, syringe in front of her face.

– Who?

She laughs.

– Tom Nolan! Tom Nolan!

The boy in the elevator stops shooting. I shove the plunger down, spurting the anathema into the old lady’s dead eyehole.

She screams and I shove her in front of the elevator. Bullets tear up her belly and she’s blown back into the uninjured boys who are getting up from the floor. The boy in the box stops shooting. I reach in and get a fistful of his jacket and drag him out.

Vandewater is freaking out like the enforcer did in the pool. The boys forget about me, trying to get a handle on her, trying to keep her from killing herself as she trashes the room. I throw the boy from the elevator at her and she latches on to him. I grab the key from its slot, step inside and hit the button for the garage.

As the door slides closed I see Mrs. Vandewater with the boy from the elevator in her clutches, dealing with him as the enforcer dealt with the dogs, the rest of the boys trying to bring her down.

I have the key stuck in the elevator control panel, turned to express. The boy’s machine pistol is on the floor. I pick it up. The elevator hits bottom and the door opens. No one is waiting. I flip the key over to hold, leave it there and get out. The garage is small, a dozen very expensive cars for the very expensive tenants of this building. The entrance is gated, a dull gray glow filtering through it. I turn away. There’s no attendant. I look at the cars. Really, it’s no contest, the Range Rover with the all-around tint job wins hands down.

I walk over and press my face against the glass to get a look inside at how serious the alarm is. I get my look. I jump back and bring up the machine pistol. Nothing happens. I take another look.

Mother fucker. You can’t be serious.

I try the door. It’s unlocked. I open it. His head is hanging to one side, mouth slack, one sleeve rolled up, syringe still in his hand. Couldn’t wait to fix, could you? I shove him to the passenger’s seat, climb in and check the back. The briefcase of anathema is right there. I look at his sorry ass.