On the table before him was a loaded gun, and just beyond it, the two wide eyes of a man he’d very much like to give a third eye. The music from the trumpet and bass and drums was making everything seem dizzy, every now and again a cymbal crashed and the floor would shake, the gun bouncing a bit on the table, bouncing ever so closer to the long-fingered but folded hands of Alonzo, who, yes, damn well yes he deserved a bullet in the head, Smith thought. Yes. How had Tommy gotten here? Things tended to happen this way with him. He tended to make decisions after he’d made decisions, if that made any sense. His uncle had long commented on this trait, the impulsive way Tommy got himself into fixes and only later tried to invent explanations as to how and why. Sometimes those fixes turned out to be good things, like the day he walked up to City Hall and filled out an application to be a police officer despite the fact that he’d scarcely given thought to the occupation until that very moment.
