60.

We were sitting with Cato and Rose at a table in the Excelsior, where they no longer worked. They didn’t act like they didn’t work there. When Virgil and I came in, Rose went behind the bar and got four glasses and a bottle and brought them out.

“Nice thing,” Rose said, “’bout being out of work, gives you time to sit around and drink whiskey.”

We all sipped the first sip. I could feel it seep happily through me.

“Whaddya do when you’re working, Frank?” Virgil said.

Rose looked at him. He was puzzled.

“Same as you,” he said.

“And what’s that?” Virgil said.

Rose looked at him some more.

“Shootin’,” he said, and grinned, “or threatenin’ to.”

“That bother you?”

Rose looked surprised.

“Shootin’ people?” he said. “No.”

“You, Cato?”

Cato shook his head.

“Everett?”

“Depends on who I’m shootin’,” I said.

“And why,” Cato said.

All three of us looked at him. It was always surprising when Cato spoke.

“Right,” Rose said. “I mean, I ain’t gonna back-shoot nobody, or shoot no women or kids.”

“How ’bout that sodbuster got killed the other day?” Virgil said.

“No,” Rose said. “That was wrong. Me and Cato both think that was wrong.”

Cato nodded.

“You was working for Wolfson still, would you do it?” Virgil said.

Rose thought about it for a minute. He looked at Cato. Then he said, “No, neither one of us.”

Cato nodded briefly.

“Everett?” Virgil said.

I shook my head.

“Probably not.”

Virgil nodded.

We all drank a little more.

“What’s bothering you, Virgil?” Rose said. “You know what we are, what we do. What the hell are all these questions?”

Virgil shook his head and sipped another taste of whiskey.

“So you shoot who you want and not who you don’t want,” Virgil said.

“Yeah,” Rose said.

Cato nodded.

“Because you can,” he said.

“Pretty much,” Rose said.

He looked at me.

“You, Everett?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Virgil stared into his whiskey for a moment, then drank some.

“You think Swann feels that way?” he said.

“Naw,” Rose said.

“So how’s he decide?” Virgil said.

“He don’t,” Rose said. “He’ll shoot anybody he can get away with.”

“He likes it,” Cato said.

“And we don’t?” Virgil said.

Rose shrugged.

“Me and Cato don’t. I mean, we don’t mind. But it’s not a thrill or nothing.”

“So why do it?” Virgil said.

“Because we’re good at it, and it ain’t hard work,” Rose said. “’Cept if you get killed.”

Cato nodded.

“People always gonna kill other people,” Rose said. “Always gonna be fellas like us, that are good at it. And there’ll be fellas like Swann who are good at it, too.”

“So if you’re good with a gun,” Virgil said, “you can shoot people or not.”

“Uh-huh,” Rose said.

“And who decides?”

“Me,” Rose said.

Cato and I both nodded. Virgil stared further at his whiskey.

“Don’t seem the way it oughta be,” Virgil said.

“Don’t,” I said.

“But it is,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t much else,” I said.

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