It was colder than a witch’s titty when I made the walk from Ned’s bar to Little Greeley’s house on the hill. The wind was numbing my ears as I walked, and I silently cursed the police for having staked out my car.

“The cops shot Earl and Vic this afternoon.” I told Little Greeley as he opened his door.

“For what?” he asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Some bogus drug charge, they say. Shot Earl in his underwear on his couch before he even stood up, then they flattened Vic in the hallway trying to run off.”

“Jesus Christ. Earl didn’t have nothing to do with no drugs. Sounds like somebody paid to have that warrant served.”

“Well, if they did,” I said, turning to glance up and down the street, “they paid it on all of us.”

I told him about how Hank was ambushed by cops in the parking lot when he went to fetch some cigarettes out of my glove box. I told him how I had stood there watching the steam rise off of his guts on the cold concrete sidewalk and knew that it was time to leave town for good.