A dangerous encounter

I parked the jalopy in the garage and made it a point to plan out exactly how I was going to go jerk off in a paper cup in my office before my balls needed to apply for their own P.I license. I painfully made my way to the elevator. The elevator man said "Nice, sunny day today." I froze. That meant someone he didn't know but who looked tough was up on my floor. "Looks like rain." I said, waiting. "Not at all. The butterflies are out." he replied. Our little code had told me a tough with a gun was waiting in my apartment and not in the hall. I slipped him a 5 and nodded. He nodded back and grinned.

The elevator stopped on my floor. I pulled my hat down, and drew my .45. I kept a casual pace as I walked to my door. I had busted out the light in the hallway so I wouldn't be sillouetted against it. I crouched low, and slid the key into the lock and turned.

The flame roared out of the glass, shattering it into a thousand pieces. In the slow motion eternity between shots, I saw "Michael Reilly, Investigations" fall and shatter on the floor. I heard the second shot ring out and dimly registered plaster explode on the wall across the hall about gut level. I dove low and aimed high. The third shot ripped through the air so close to my face that it felt like someone slapped me. I let loose my .45 and it roared like a demon in the narrow hallway, ripping through wood and flesh. I heard a scream. Shots four and five were wild shots, high and low. I slid against the floor, and fired through the drywall up and toward the door. More screams. A thud.

No more shots now, only gurgling. I slid the clip out and slammed another in, and stood up. I listened, closed my eyes, and angled my gun. I'd hit lung. I knew that. He couldn't talk even if he wanted to. I fired again, and it was quiet. I opened my eyes. Blood pooled from under my door.

"All done, Mr Reilly?" The elevator man asked. I kicked my door hard since I knew his body would be slumped against it. I flicked on the light. Middle aged guy, well dressed. Used a .32 automatic that lay by his side. Three holes in him, two in the chest and one in the neck, with a grazer on his gun arm shoulder.

"Yeah Phil. All done."

I called Derrick McManus on homicide. We jumped together at Normandy. Derrick was a straight laced bastard, but he knew that sometimes you had to get a mug like me to do the dirty work to make the system shine. I told him what had happened. While I waited for the crime boys to show up, I checked out the shooter. No wallet, just a wad of 10's in his pocket. Didn't smell like booze or hash. Lots of scar tissue on his neck, probably from the War. I tugged a paper from his pocket. It had my office address on it and a black x. Touching. I stuffed it back in and lit a Lucky.

McManus asked the usual questions and I gave the usual answers. No, I didn't know him. Yes, I have a permit. No, I didn't intend to kill him, as the angles I fired from prove (which is malarky. I knew the first one was going toward his head or neck and the last was actually aimed at his face, but I got lucky and hit his neck instead). McManus told me to go home and that they'd need a full statement in the morning.

I figured he'd need a lot more before the Sun rose again.