The Name of the Game is Death

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On the day they sentenced Oily Barnes to fifteen years, I quit the human race. I never went back to my job and I've never done a legitimate day's work since.I bought a gun in a hockshop and was surprised to learn how easy it is to knock off gas stations. The money piled up and I bought a second-hand car and drove the 180 miles back across the state. Back to Winick, the guy who railroaded Oily Barnes.

I rang his doorbell one night and shot him in the face four times. He went backward in a kind of shambling trot. "That's for Oily," I told him. But he didn't hear me. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Winick was the first.

He wasn't the last.

I

From the back seat of the Olds I could see the kid's cotton gloves flash white on the steering wheel as he swung the car from Van Buren onto Central Avenue. The strong, late-September, Phoenix sunshine blazed off the bank's white stone front till it hurt the eyes. The damn building looked as big as the purple buttes on the rim of the desert.

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