Riding the elevator to the fifth floor of the immense pre—World War II building, Gary steadied his partner. Inside the cluttered apartment, Frank made a beeline for his bedroom. Gary closed and locked the door. One minute later, Frank emerged sniffling with white powder under his nose. He appeared very much relieved, as if his gunshot wound didn’t matter. “Help yourself.” Frank nodded at the bedroom. “No, thanks.” One of us has to stay clearheaded. “Let’s go look at that wound in the kitchen. You’re bleeding all over everything.” Frank looked down at the blood drops on the blue carpet. “Oh, fuck. I’m going to kill those cocksuckers for sure.” In the green and yellow kitchen, Gary flicked on the overhead light and pulled out a chair for Frank, who sat facing the chair’s back. Gary dabbed at the exit wound below Gary’s shoulder blade with a wet paper towel, which soaked up the blood from the penny-sized hole. Frank groaned, snorted coke, then moaned. You sick fuck, Gary thought.
