The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

John Peyton Cooke After You’ve Gone

From Stranger

I loved it so much I was cradling it in my hands, fondling its stock, bracing its chamber between my thumbs, staring into its barrel like you’d look into a lover’s eyes, in search of some kind of truth. It stared back at me deeply and gave me the ultimate truth: Yeah, you got it right, Grant. I’m your trusty Glock. You can count on me. I’m going to kill you.

I kissed its muzzle. My tongue tasted oil; and I could smell powder traces on my fingers. I’d cleaned it out after being down at the firing range all afternoon, blasting at all those black hanging targets, trying to get rid of all my black thoughts but only making them blacker. It was all I could do to keep from turning my Glock on myself then and there.

I didn’t want to go out that way, in front of everybody. I wanted to have some privacy and leave a note — three notes, maybe, addressed to different people and taped up on my bathroom mirror. One to my landlord, saying sorry about the mess and take what you want. Another to Captain Feliciano, telling him thanks for your support when the going got tough, but face the facts, guy, I’m a screwup. The last to Mom, saying love you lots and none of this is your fault, even if you did put Poncho to sleep.

I loved my Glock so much I was laying four of its six inches on my tongue, forming my lips around it, hooking my thumbs around its safe-action trigger. There’s no such thing as a safety catch on a Glock — you have to apply direct pressure in the right spot, or the trigger acts like a safety and refuses to fire.

My thumb was in the right spot. The rest ought to be cake.

I was telling myself that if I was a real man, I’d do it.

I was sweating bullets, staring down at the trigger cross-eyed. The last thing I’d see would be the knuckly creases on my thumb parting ever so slightly.

I depressed the safe action so it wouldn’t be safe anymore — and I wouldn’t be depressed anymore.

I did it. I squeezed the trigger.

It should have fired. But it didn’t. It jammed on me.

For the first time in my career, my Glock had let me down.

And now my hands were shaking and my heart was beating so fast I thought I was going to have a heart attack. If I tried again, I was going to screw it up. And I didn’t want to fail.

I set the gun down. My stomach churned in disgust. With fumbling fingers, I tapped out a cigarette and lit it on the third match. It felt good to have that smoke in my lungs. The nicotine got my mind to thinking — maybe the ol’ Glock was giving me a sign, that I needed help, that something was terribly wrong with me. And you don’t argue with a Glock.

I didn’t know where to begin. The brass always encouraged us to use the departmental psychiatrists — but everyone knew what that was about. I couldn’t count on total confidentiality. Whatever was wrong with me might get leaked to IA. It might get subpoenaed in some future court case if my policing skills were called into question, and such a case was not outside the realm of possibility. It might simply get spread around as interprecinct gossip: Officer Grant’s a loose cannon. Yeah, you can’t trust Tom Grant as your backup. The guy’s nuts. Let’s find, him a nice desk job and pull him off the streets.

I couldn’t turn to the department. No sir, not on my life.

Facedown on the kitchen table in front of me lay the Village Voice. One of the classified ads on the back page caught my eye:

LONELY? DEPRESSED? SUICIDAL?

CALL THE 24-HOUR HELP LINE!

555-HELP 555-HELP 555-HELP

It looked like what I needed. Help was only a phone call away. Even though it was two in the morning, somebody would be there on the other end of the line to talk me down.

I picked up the phone and called.

“Hello?” A man’s voice, exceedingly mild, somewhat sleepy.

“Um, yes, is this the help line?” I croaked.

“Yeah, sure.” He cleared his throat. “How can I help you?”

“I–I just tried to kill myself.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“What happened? Why didn’t it work?”

“My gun jammed.”

“Oh, you’re using a gun? What kind?”

“What kind? Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. What kind of gun do you own?”

“Well, it’s a Glock.”

“Mmm,” said the guy on the help line. “What model?”

“It’s a seventeen-L. Semiauto, six-inch barrel.”

“What does that use? Nine-millimeters? Forty-caliber Smith & Wessons? Or forty-fives?”

“Nine-millimeters,” I said.

“How many in the clip?”

“I’ve got seventeen in the clip and one in the chamber. The one in the chamber jammed. I’m going to have to start all over.”

“How much does a gun like that cost?” the help line wanted to know.

“I don’t know what it costs now. I got mine, what, four years ago, when I joined the academy. It set me back about eight hundred.”

“The academy?” he said. “You mean the police academy?”

“Yes, I’m a policeman.”

“How interesting.”

“Listen, I’m serious about this. I’m going to take my Glock apart, clean it all up, reload it, and try again. Probably one chance in a billion that it’ll jam again.”

“Probably,” the help line said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Aren’t you going to try to talk me out of it?”

“Why should I?”

“I thought that’s what you were there for.”

“If you want to kill yourself and you thought I was going to try to talk you out of it, why would you call?” he asked.

“I don’t follow,” I said.

“Why don’t you do it right now, while I’m on the phone?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Talk to me while you’re unjamming your gun or whatever it is you have to do. I’ll wait. Get it all nice and ready, and then do it. Just do it. I want to hear it.”

“Listen, maybe I dialed the wrong number, buddy.”

“No, you didn’t. You dialed five-five-five-H-E-L-P, didn’t you? That’s me. I’m the help line. You got what you wanted.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Who cares whether you understand? You’re about to kill yourself. In a few minutes, no one’s going to give a damn about you anymore. You’ll be gone, and we’ll still be here. It’s not for you to understand. Are you beginning to see my logic?”

“Not exactly.”

“How are you going to do it? Side of the head? In the mouth? Through the chest?”

“In the mouth.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s best. Side of the head, there’s too much chance you’ll turn yourself into a vegetable. Through the chest, you’re not guaranteed to hit the heart. You might only wound yourself, pass out, and wind up in the hospital.”

“I don’t need your advice,” I said. “I want help.”

“Help? You want help? What do you think I’m giving you?”

“Not that kind of help.”

“I didn’t specify what kind of help in my ad, now, did I?”

“No, but—”

“Everyone always assumes I’m here to rescue them. I’m not. You want to kill yourself, that’s fine by me. I can’t abide suicides who get halfway there and then can’t finish the job. Some of them only need a little push to be on their way. So I put the number in the paper. I want them to call me at that moment of crisis, when all they need is a little encouragement.”

“You’re sick.”

“Ho-ho!” he said. “You’re the one who’s already tried to kill himself once this evening, and you want to do it again. Which one of us do you think is sick?”

“Wait a minute,” I said, and began to laugh. “I see what you’re doing. I can see right through you. You’re smart, you know that? You really take the cake. You’re using reverse psychology, just like my mother used to do when I was a kid.”

“Oh?” the help line said. “Just how am I doing that?”

“By pretending you want me to go ahead and do it, acting like you get some kind of kick out of other people dying while you hang there on the line. You think all we’re doing is feeling sorry for ourselves and looking for someone to hold our hands and tell us it’s okay, tell us we’re somebody special, tell us there’s a brighter day dawning somewhere over the rainbow.”

“Stop wasting my time. Are you going to do it or not?”

“See?” I said. “Instead of giving us soothing words, you give us abuse. You try to make us feel even more worthless, because you think we’re going to react against it and tell ourselves we’re really okay. We listen to you and think you’re a jerk, but we say to ourselves, ‘Hey, why should I listen to this guy?’ and before you know it, you’ve cured us of our mania and sent us on our merry way. Isn’t that how it goes?”

The voice on the help line gave a rude, audible yawn.

“Hello?” I said. “Are you still there?”

“I’ve been making a sandwich. You were saying?”

“Never mind what I was saying. I’m onto you, and it won’t work. Maybe with some other schlemiel, but not with me, man.”

“What won’t work?”

“The reverse psychology trick. You’ve just proved to me what a lousy world it is that we live in. I don’t want any part of it. I’m going to clean my gun up and blow my brains out.”

“Do you really mean it this time?”

“Of course I mean it!” I shouted. “If you want to hear it for yourself, just stay on the line. It won’t take very long.”

“You promise? You’re not just pulling my leg?”

“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“That’s the spirit! Where do you live?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not telling you. Now you believe me, and you want to send somebody over. Somebody from my precinct, maybe, or an ambulance or some goddamn social worker.”

“No,” he said in that calm, level voice of his. “No, I want to come over. I want to see it for myself. Maybe I can even help you do it. That is, if you really want my help—”

“I can take care of it myself, thank you very much.”

“I’m not so sure. You sound chicken to me.”

“Chicken?” I said. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

“What’s your name?” he asked, unfazed by my suggestion.

“Tom,” I said.

“Tom what?”

“Just Tom, okay? I don’t want you reporting me.”

“I’m not going to report you. You can trust me, Tom. My name’s Ray. I’m your friend Ray. I’m here to help you.”

“Lot of help you’ve given me so far, pal.”

“I have,” Ray said. “Only you just don’t appreciate it. Now why don’t you tell me where you live? I want to come over.”

“As long as you promise not to interfere,” I said.

“Oh, I won’t,” Ray said. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I gave him my address. He said he lived only fifteen blocks away and could be there in ten minutes. We hung up.

I laid out some newspaper and started cleaning my gun.

“Why a nine-millimeter?” Ray asked from across my kitchen table. He was my age, with an altogether too intense look in his eyes. “Why not a revolver? Revolvers never jam. You never would have had this problem. You never would have had to call me.”

“If you must know,” I said, carefully reloading seventeen live rounds into the clip, “I really believed the nine-millimeter was the way to go. Right after I joined the academy, the department had just changed regulations to allow us to carry something more powerful than a thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-eight Special,” Ray beamed. “Standard police issue.”

“Yeah, in the old days,” I said. “Most of us supported the change, but the old-timers were opposed. They kept nagging at us that semiautos were unreliable and prone to jamming.”

“See?” Ray said. “They knew whereof they spoke!”

“They were so scared of the change, they drummed up other reasons. They thought that we youngsters would lose control and empty our clips into every unlucky punk who crossed our path.”

“Did they switch?”

“No. They kept their thirty-eight Specials. Switching would be like ending a love affair. Most of us under forty went for the nine-millimeters, though. We were the ones facing the front-line action. The gangstas were outgunning us, with AK-forty-sevens, sometimes. We had to be on as equal a footing as possible.”

“Thus the Glock,” Ray said admiringly. “It is nice, Tom.”

“Thanks. My Glock and I have been through a lot together. I had to use it once to stop a sixteen-year-old kid who was armed with a beautiful silvery Colt Double Eagle ten-millimeter.”

“Do tell!”

“The kid had just robbed a liquor store. I identified myself and asked him to drop his weapon. He refused to do so. He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, I guess, and I had little choice but to oblige him.”

“Good for you,” Ray said with a gleam in his eye.

“Ever since, I wished he could have got a bead on me and let fly. Anything to make it seem less like an execution. But to do that, he would have had to have had at least a few shells in his gun. Once the kid was down, we examined his Colt, and we found his magazine just as empty as mine was after I’d shot him.”

“Oh, too bad!” Ray pouted his lips. “Poor Tom!”

“It only takes a second holding that trigger down to let all those slugs come spewing out. I thought I only let him have a few, but the count we did of his chest came up seventeen.”

“Wow!” Ray said. “And you didn’t get in any trouble?”

“Of course not,” I said. “It was all okay. I’d done what I had to do to protect my fellow officers and the citizenry. My captain, Captain Feliciano, said, ‘Good work, son,’ and gave me this big slap on the back. ‘Don’t sweat it,’ he said. ‘He was asking for it, and you gave it to him. Go home and take a nice long shower. You’ll feel fine by tomorrow. ‘”

“Your captain sounds like my kind of guy,” Ray said. “Was he right? Did you feel okay about it the next day?”

“Sure, I felt fine. I mean really fine. I believed what my captain said. I’d done my duty. If the kid’s gun had been loaded, I might have gotten a commendation for saving the lives of all those pedestrians standing outside the store to watch all the fireworks. Officer Grant to the rescue. Handshake from the chief. Kudos from the mayor. Champagne all around.”

“Tell me about the other times,” Ray said huskily.

So I told him about the high-speed pursuit up the FDR Drive, when we managed to bring the driver to a stop, and I stayed by my vehicle to cover my partner while he approached the car, and the driver leapt out brandishing a Rossi 851 .38 Special in blued steel. I had no choice but to bring him down. Captain Feliciano later agreed with my course of action, and everything was okay.

Then there was the out-of-control traffic incident, when a Sikh taxi driver cut off a Jamaican bike messenger at a stoplight, and the messenger retaliated by shattering the driver’s side window with his bike lock and beating the driver across the turban with it, and the bloodied driver reached under his seat and pulled out a bright stainless Colt King Cobra .357 Magnum and aimed it at the messenger’s head with a shaky trigger finger. I was on the corner and calling for backup when I saw the gun. I pulled out my Glock, identified myself as a police officer, and told the Sikh to throw down his weapon. I gave him more time than I should have, really, but he kept the gun trained on the messenger. Again, I had no choice. I shot the driver dead and charged the messenger with assault as well as criminal damage to property. We later learned that the driver never understood a word of English, but Captain Feliciano insisted that I’d done the right thing. He even bought me a beer.

“I think this captain of yours has the hots for you,” Ray said. “He lets you get away with murder because he wants to get into your pants.”

“Feliciano? No. If you knew him, you wouldn’t say that.”

“Yes I would,” Ray said. “Isn’t that reason enough to go through with killing yourself? I mean, doesn’t that just disgust you? You’ve killed all these people in the line of duty, and you don’t even get any suspensions or reprimands because your captain thinks you’re a dish. Believe me. I may never have met him, but I know human nature. You’re his little buddy, his one special boy. He goes home at night and dreams of you, Tom.”

“I doubt that.” I laughed nervously. “Feliciano’s married.”

“As if that meant anything! Tom, don’t be so naive!”

“I left him a suicide note,” I said.

“You did?” Ray’s dark eyebrows rose. “Can I see it?”

“It’s sealed, taped to the bathroom mirror.”

Ray got up.

“No!” I said. “I told you, it’s sealed.”

“So we’ll reseal it!” Ray said, heading for the bathroom.

“It’s for his eyes only,” I said, getting up and going after him. I don’t want you reading it!”

“I bet it’s a love letter!” Ray shot ahead of me.

“It is not!”

Ray got to the mirror first and snatched the middle envelope of the three, the one clearly addressed to Captain Feliciano.

“Ha-ha!” Ray said, backing up to stand in the bathtub. “I’ve got it.” He ripped open the envelope, started reading it, and began to laugh. “Oh, this is great! I love suicide notes!”

“Give it to me!” I said, reaching out for it.

Ray snatched it away and started reading it aloud:

“ ‘Dear Tony’ — Tony, eh? You two are that buddy-buddy? You don’t call him captain? Oh, well, never mind — ‘Dear Tony, What you see is the end result of my wasted life. I don’t know what ever kept me going this long. I guess it was you. You were always there for me when the going got tough. If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I would have even lasted this far.’ — Oh, Tom, this is a riot! — ‘But it’s all catching up with me, Tony. I’m a bad cop, and you know it. I can’t walk into any situation without my gun going off and leaving somebody dead. No matter what you say, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. Someone should have taken me off into a room somewhere and punished me.’ — Oh, now you’re asking Captain Tony for a spanking! Tom’s been a bad boy! — ‘I don’t deserve to wear this badge. But what else can I do? This was my last chance. If I’m a failure at this, I’ll be a failure at everything else. I’ve failed at life. I’ve got no choice but to end it. Sorry for being such a screwup. Don’t bother sending flowers to the funeral. Save the money for yourself and Stella. Good-bye forever— Tom.’ ”

“Give that to me,” I said, finally snatching it away.

“Tom, that is so precious!” Ray said. “Can I have a copy? I could just run this down to the Kinko’s around the corner—”

“No. Get away from me.”

“Oh, Tom! Don’t be like that!”

“I think you’re the one who’s got the hots for me, Ray,” I said, heading back to the kitchen table.

“I shall but love thee better after death,” Ray said. “That’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning, you know.”

“I used to own a Browning,” I said.

I put the letter back in the envelope, resealed it with cellophane tape, and posted it back up on the bathroom mirror.

“What do the other letters say?”

“More of the same. Don’t you dare touch them.”

I grabbed Ray’s collar and threw him out of the bathroom.

“Hey!” he said.

“In fact, I think you’d better leave.”

“Oh, no, Tom. I’ve got to stay and make sure you follow through with this. You might turn back, for all I know. I’d hate to come back here tomorrow and find you’re still alive.”

“Beat it. Out. Sayonara. Asti Spumante.”

I gave him a push toward the front door.

“I knew it,” he said. “You’re chicken. You don’t want me around because you’re too chicken to go through with it. You’re not man enough. You don’t have what it takes to put that gun in your mouth and blow the back of your head off. You’re more of a pansy than I am, Thomas.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Pansy, pansy, pansy,”

“I said shut up!”

“The minute I’m out that door, you’re going to turn around and pout and say, ‘Oh my God! What was I thinking? I can’t go through with it! I love life so much! Life is so good!’ And then you’re going to put your gun away, lock it up in its box, get it out of your sight, and try to get it out of your mind. You’ll go back into your bathroom, rip those suicide notes off the mirror, tear them into confetti, and flush them down the toilet. You’ll look at yourself in the mirror and thank your lucky stars that your gun jammed and you’re still alive. Only I bet it didn’t jam on its own. You fixed it up that way.”

“I did not,” I protested.

“Did too,” Ray said. “It wouldn’t be so hard. You knew just what to do to make that bullet lodge there in the chamber. Maybe you did it unconsciously. Whatever, you didn’t want to do it. Why not? Because you’re weak! You’re not a man at all. You’re just a fluffy little kitten, playing a fun game with a bright, shiny toy. And when the kitten gets tired of playing, it curls up in its little basket and falls asleep. Beddy-bye. Nighty-night. Sweet dreams, little kitty.”

I held Ray by the front of his shirt and gave him a left uppercut to the jaw. He swayed, but I held him up.

“Oh, Tom,” he said. “You didn’t have to hurt me. But the fact that you did only proves my point. What I’m saying is true. You don’t have what it takes to kill yourself. You’re pathetic.”

I let go of Ray, went back to the kitchen table, and stared at the gun. I picked it up and put the last of the parts in place. I slammed the clip firmly into the grip and loaded one more slug directly into the chamber.

“It’s all set to go, now,” I said.

Rubbing his jaw, Ray came back and sat down across from me.

“You sure you’re going to be able to do it?” he asked.

“Sure, I’m sure.”

“If you can’t quite manage it, you could let me.”

“No thanks. I can do it myself.”

“No one would ever know,” Ray said. “I could kill you myself, and no one would ever know. Just by putting that gun in my hands and letting me do the job, why, I’d be a murderer. But you’ve got those notes all neatly prepared — for your landlord, your captain, your mother — and no one would ever suspect a thing. I’ve got no connection to you. We’ve never seen each other before. The only person who knows you called is me, and I won’t tell anyone!”

“That won’t be necessary. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not so sure,” Ray said. “Let’s see you do it.”

“You better stand back,” I said, turning the Glock around toward me, just outside my mouth. “It might get messy.”

“I know where to sit to get out of the way,” Ray said. “I’ve done this dozens of times.”

“You’ve what?”

“You don’t believe me? You think you’re the only special person in the universe? That’s not the first time I’ve run that ad, you know. You’re a cop, you’re probably aware of how many people commit suicide in this city every year. A lot of them call for help. Some call me. I try to talk them through it over the phone, but every once in a while I get a really special case — like you — and no matter what time of day or night it is, I drop what I’m doing and come over to see how I can help. I was asleep when you called tonight, did you know that? Yet I hopped out of bed and came on over. How’s that for dedication?”

“Then it’s not really a twenty-four-hour help line, is it? When you’re over here helping me, you’re not taking calls.”

“I can only help one person at a time, you know.”

I had the muzzle almost to my mouth, but I was curious:

“How many suicides have you witnessed, exactly?”

“I’ve lost count. Funny, isn’t it? You’d think that a guy like me would keep a log or something to keep track, but I don’t bother with it. Each customer deserves my undivided attention. I don’t want them ending up just another statistic. I don’t always just witness, you know. Sometimes I assist. It’s perfectly legal, you know.”

“Bull.”

“Assisted suicide? Of course it is! Dr. Kevorkian paved the way. I bet he’s lost count of all his assisted suicides.”

“There’s a difference,” I said. “You’re not a doctor, and you’re not helping people who are terminally ill.”

“Don’t pick nits with me, Tom! Dr. Kevorkian helps people who are in great pain and want out. I’m no different. Everyone who calls me is in excruciating pain. Aren’t you? I mean, Tom, the kind of sickness you have, it just eats at your heart, doesn’t it? It’s painful, and you can hardly bear it.”

“Something like that,” I said, “but—”

“But nothing, Tom! Assisted suicide is the wave of the future. The precedents are set. Soon enough, you’re going to see suicide centers spring up all over the country. A whole chain of centers. Suicide superstores, next to every Barnes and Noble.”

“You’re insane,” I said.

“If you’re tired of listening to me, why don’t you just pull that trigger and get it over with?”

I put the four extending inches of the barrel in my mouth, with my bottom lip resting against the trigger guard. I had it in both hands, with my thumb wrapping around the trigger. There was no chance it would jam this time. It was ready to go.

Ray looked at me with those intense eyes of his. He looked about ready to start slobbering. In fact, he looked lustful.

I shall but love thee better after death...

I took the gun out of my mouth.

“Wait a minute,” I said, turning the gun on Ray.

Ray’s lascivious grin collapsed into a thin red line.

“What’s the matter, Tom? I was so proud of you. I thought you were going to make good on your promises.”

“Shut up,” I said. “I could kill you right now.”

“You won’t,” Ray said confidently. “Everyone else you’ve killed was armed. I’m helpless, and harmless. You won’t do it.”

“You want to make a bet?”

“Hey, Tom, come on, buddy! Don’t you see it worked?”

“What worked?”

“You were right! I was playing reverse psychology on you all along, and it worked. Another life saved. Damn, I’m good!”

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

“Don’t, then.” Ray shrugged.

“You’re sick. Death turns you on. Everything about death. It gets you going. Ever since you came over here, you’ve had this covetous look in your eye—”

“Covetous?” Ray played the innocent. “Covetous of what?”

“Of my body, that’s what!”

“Nonsense!” Ray said.

“And you know what? I don’t think you’re even a pansy or anything. All you care is that it’s a body, and that it’s dead.”

“Tom, I can’t believe you’re saying that. It’s too awful!”

“It’s awful because it’s true. You don’t care how they do it, or why, just so long as you’re alone with them afterwards.”

“Tom, don’t be ridiculous! I do nothing of the sort!”

“Oh yeah? I don’t believe you. And I don’t believe you have it in you to kill anybody yourself. In this city, you could pick up just about any stranger you saw on the street, if you were clever enough. All you’d have to do is take them home, or to a dark, secluded spot — maybe the park. If you were capable of killing anyone, that’s what you’d do.”

“Put the gun down, Tom. You’re talking crazy! I’m — I’m worried about you. You don’t really want to hurt me, do you?”

“Oh, yes, I want to hurt you, Ray. You bet I do. You’re scum. You’re worse than scum. You’re a scavenger. I’d rather hurt you, but I’m going to take you in. Come on, get up.”

I stood up and waved the gun at him. Ray got up.

“Take me in? On what charge? You can’t prove anything!”

Ray had a point. I had no evidence of his crimes.

“What am I going to do with you, then?” I asked aloud.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” Ray suggested.

“No good,” I said. “I’d never beat the rap.”

“Kill me, then kill yourself. Solves all your problems.”

“You have a death wish or something? I’m sorely tempted.”

“If that doesn’t grab you, why not join me?”

“Join you?” I was incredulous.

“Sure, we’d make a great team! Tom and Ray, the help line boys! Two is better than one. Hey, we could use the good cop, bad cop routine on them! I bet we’d have more successes that way. It’s clear to me from that suicide note that you’re finished with police work. Well, now Ray’s here to hand you back your future on a silver platter. You could quit your job at the police force and come work with me full-time. What do you say?”

“You do this full-time? How do you make a living?”

“Tom. I thought you were brighter than that! I invite myself in. I help them out. I get my kicks, and then I go rooting around for loot. They can’t take it with them, and I may as well have it. That’s how I collect my fee.”

“Your fee,” I repeated.

“You think I’d do any of this out of the goodness of my heart? It’s a business, Tommy baby. So are you in or out?”

“How much do you make?”

“Some nights are better than others. I bet you don’t have much dough lying around. Maybe you got some baseball cards—”

“You’re not getting my baseball cards,” I said. “Or me.”

“And I was so close.”

“Your apartment must be filled with stolen goods,” I said.

“It’s not easy to fence everything so fast.”

“Uh-huh.” I said, grinning. “That’s what I figured.”

I emptied my clip into Ray. He fell down all bloody.

I set my Glock down on the kitchen table. I opened my front door, looked up and down the hallway to make sure no one was watching, and went into the hall. I closed my door. I kicked it hard three times with the heel of my boot until I busted the lock and splintered the jamb and the door flew wide open. I went to the bathroom, tore down the suicide notes, and set them aflame using one match. I let them burn in my fingers until I dropped them into the toilet, and I flushed the ashes down and away.

I went to the phone and called the precinct house. Captain Feliciano happened to be the operations officer on duty tonight.

“Tony, it’s Tom,” I said.

“Hey, Tom!” he said. “You’re off tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, and I had a bit of a problem here. I was just sitting here watching television in the dark, and some guy broke in through my front door. It looked like he was pointing a gun at me through the pocket of his jacket. He said if I didn’t give him all my money, he was going to kill me. I didn’t want to take any chances, so—”

Feliciano sighed. “How many times did you shoot him, Tom?”

“That damned trigger jammed on me again, Tony, so I blew the one in the chamber and all seventeen in the clip.”

“Eighteen, huh? So I take it he’s dead.”

I glanced at Ray, not moving. “You take it correctly, sir.”

“What kind of a gun did he have on him?”

“It wasn’t a gun at all. It must have been his fingers.”

“Well, that’s okay,” my captain said. “Just swear in court that you saw the butt of the gun poking out of his jacket. And you’re sure he intended to burglarize you?”

“Oh, I’m positive,” I said. “He had his moves down cold, like he’s done this dozens of times before. I bet he’s got tons of stolen goods at his place. Can we get a warrant?”

“Don’t sweat it, Tom. You did the right thing. I’ll have dispatch send a car over to take your report. Just relax. You don’t have a thing to worry about. I’ll see to it myself.”

“Thanks, Tony, captain, sir,” I said, to cover the bases.

Captain Feliciano laughed good-naturedly and hung up.

Ray lay there darkly staining my carpet.

I looked over at my Glock and smiled. In the end, it hadn’t let me down at all. It had given me one last chance to prove I was worthy. I picked it up and found the barrel still warm and smoking. I cooled it off with a nice, long, sloppy kiss.