“Ugo!” Marcello said, coming tremulously back into sight from where he’d been crouching behind the hood of the car. He looked terrified.

“You lousy-you lousy-” Ugo screamed. “You just let him-you just let me-”

Marcello was staring into the car. “Ugo, Ugo, you shot him!”

“Yeah, I shot him! Where the hell were you?”

He was having a hard time focusing. His pant leg was blood-soaked, clinging to him; his shoe was squishy with it. “Marcello, I’m not.. . uh…”

He was sitting on the pavement, his back against the jamb between the limo’s front and rear doors. He didn’t remember going down. “Marcello, you better get me back to the car,” he said, only his head was rolling around on his neck and his mouth didn’t work right, and all that came out was this horrible mewling, like a cat that had been run over. He could no longer move his head, but from the corner of his eye he saw Big Paolo running heavily toward them from the rear car. Paolo-big, dumb, stupid Paolo-had forgotten, in his excitement, to put on his mask.

“Paolo,” he heard Marcello say urgently from around the far side of the limo, “the bastard kid’s giving me trouble. Help me out.”

“No, please-” It was the kid’s voice, cut short by a little gasp as Paolo swatted him.

Don’t forget about me, Ugo tried to say, don’t leave me here, but this time not even the mewling sound came out. His chin was on his chest. He couldn’t lift his head; it was as if someone were pushing down on the back of his neck. All he could see were his pants, black and glistening with blood, and even that small field of vision was rimmed with a darkening pink haze, as if he were looking out from a tunnel. The stocking mask was squeezing him, cutting off his air. He couldn’t breathe.