On days like this, I missed being a cop.
Two more, that means the bastard only had one left in the chamber. It made me wonder how far those bullets would travel before they hit something - or something poor unsuspecting sucker - or just lost momentum and fell to the ground. Travelling through the wooden boxes like they did probably slowed them down some, but I ain't no scientist. Just a man used to be a cop.
"You'd be better off just turnin' yourself around and runnin' home to momma, pig," he shouted from somewhere behind the boxes. "This business don't concern you."
It never did and they always insisted on telling me so.
"I ain't a cop no more," was all I said. "I'm a private eye."
I pulled myself over the boxes and went forward at a flat out run. Jesus, I must've gained some weight because that weren't as easy as it used to be. My shoes made a dull thudding as they hit the concrete. As I got to the boxes where he was hiding, I jumped over them.
Or, I tried to.
My foot caught on the edge of one of them and I trip and went head over ass, summersaulting until I stopped in a heap nearby. I got my gun up and pointed in the direction I thought he was in. I got lucky. He sat there, fumbling shells, trying to reload his gun while he stared at me, barely trying not to laugh. Or cry.
"Alright, dirtbag," I liked saying that, "it's time to go downtown."