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out into the dark shaft but managed to grab and catch the metal cable. Blood gushed from a huge exit wound in his stomach. He weakly pulled his service revolver and, hanging on by one hand, dripping blood like icehouse beef, he tried to aim at Tommy, but his grip slipped and he had to drop the gun to grab the cable with his other hand. As he hung there, they lockedgazes. At the bottom of the shaft, Bobby Manning hit. The sound was faint, like a snowball hitting a brick wall. “Nice try,” Tommy finally said to the Deputy, whose intestines were now snaking out of him, blood and stomach acid raining down on his dead partner. Then Tommy fired his silenced Desert War Eagle again, this time hitting the Deputy in the mouth. Tony Corollo’s head snapped back and he was blown back off the cable. Little pieces of his teeth recoiled forward and rained ivory chips on the purple and red hallway carpet. Then he too was gone, cartwheeling freely down the shaft.
    On the ground floor, Texaco Phillips heard both of them splat in the oil and shale goop that was in the bottom of the shaft. He gathered up his suitcase of brushes, sponges, bleaches, and hand vacuums, then pushed the elevator button. In seconds he was riding up to join Tommy.
    She was in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, pinning the hem on her new tan dress, when Tommy walked in on her. “Who are you?” Carol said, looking up in alarm. “What’re you doing here?”
    “Taking care of my brother and having a pretty damn good time to boot,” Tommy said. And then he finished the job, right there in the overUt tile bathroom, exploding little pieces of her into the bathtub, covering the tub wall with a fine spray of brain tissue and cerebrospinal fluid.
    Demo pulled the van away from the building, screeching the tires.
    “Don’t burn rubber. Just go slow,” Tommy said from the back seat. Demo slowed down. “Go to this address.” Tommy handed a slip of paper to the Rastafarian.
    “We still be chillin’, right, mon?”
    “You ask a lot of questions. You’re gonna be onedead fucking rent-a-nigger, you keep it up,” Tommy growled.
    Texaco saw Demo’s shoulders tighten. But the Rasta didn’t do anything; he just drove slowly, heading across town toward the address Tommy had given him.
    They arrived at a locked junkyard in Hoboken. Once they parked, Tommy took out a key. Texaco opened the gate and they pulled in. Tommy looked at Demo and smiled. “That pissed you off when I called you a rent-a-nigger, didn’t it?”
    The Rasta turned in his seat and looked into Tommy’s eyes. He saw craziness and changed his response.” We be hat up, brotha. De work be done. Ain’t no need ta be disrespectin’,” he finally said.
    “Fuck there ain’t. You come here, you sit in my van, you drip fuckin’ chicken grease all over the seats, you make a fuckin’ mess. You’re nothin’ but a ganja-smokin’, voodoo-dancing, low-bone motherfucker who oughta be buried up to his scrawny neck in pig shit and hosed down with donkey piss.”
    The Rastafarian looked at Tommy like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
    “Now you’re probably so pissed I can’t fuckin’ turn my back on you, right?” Demo said nothing. “So now you gone and give me a big fuckin’ problem. Y’see what I’m saying? Now I gotta either watch my back constantly or buy you a fuckin’ suit right now.”
    And with that criminal logic he fired the SIG-Sauer right through the back of the seat. The Jamaican was thrown into the dash. Blood shot up onto the windshield and stained the headliner over his head. Tommy looked at Demo with interest. “Maybe you can help me with something.” he said to the dying Jamaican. “That was the Kraut cannon … okay, now here’s the Jew gun.” He fired two more rounds through the upholstery from the Desert War Eagle. The body danced on the seat asthe bullets slammed into Demo Williams, killing him. “You tell me, Demo, ‘cause I’ll be damned if I can tell.