Mack ground his cigarette with the toe of his wingtip shoes, pulled down his fedora and rucked his collar up against the lashing rain.

“Of all the places I coulda ended up,” he grumbled, “I had to land in this two-bit joint.”

He looked at the body lying on the pavement, a pool of blood surrounding the exit wound. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the back of the victim’s head. From the inside.