The Ultimate Solution
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It started out bad, and got worse. An air-raid siren shrilled me awake and I fumbled the phone off the receiver, croaked something to the duty operator and slumped back into sleep. An hour later some subliminal guilt mechanism clawed me up to consciousness and I managed to scrabble a Picayune out of the crumpled pack on the nightstand, light it and shove it between my teeth, no mean logistics job. The room was hot, still sour with stale cigarette smoke and schnappes. I forced myself up, turned the cooler to high, then lurched into the head, shaved bloodily, and writhed for five minutes under an icy shower. Shit, what a night. Nothing registered after that dive on Bleeker, the two dumb greedy blondes, the fat one trying to grope my balls. The miserable sow. There could have been trouble, but I checked the Schmeisser Special before tucking it into my belly clip and there were no expended rounds. I shrugged on a short-sleeved nip sports shirt over my slacks and rifled through the jumble of bills on the dresser. Sixty-five gone, half a week’s take-home. For what? 1 tossed a lightweight jacket over my arm and took it all out on the door.