“That was your fault. You spooked him. He didn’t want to go back to prison and demanded a bigger cut so he could pull up stakes. But we had a deal, just like with Tim and all the others, and I never renegotiate. . . . All they had to do was die when they were supposed to. I only held them to what they agreed to. It was business.... Don’t look so pleased with yourself. None of this will do you any good. You two will be dead and gone before the police get here.” His back was to the railing now, Jung just inches from going over. Jung slumped and Spada flicked a desperate look at him, then glared at me.

He raised his gun slowly. My fingers tightened on mine. His hand twitched some, as the gun drew closer to Jung’s head. I calmed, inhaled, held my breath.

“You’re a two-bit PI way out of your league,” Spada said, “and I’m going to blow his . . .”

I fired. The round caught Spada right below his right shoulder, and he flew back against the railing, sending Jung tumbling out of his grip. He’d left me no choice, but, honestly, I didn’t regret it all that much. The man tried to fry me and Whip alive in an oily chop shop. By rights, I should have shot him twice.

Spada’s gun fell from his hand as he went down, and I quickly closed in and kicked it away, beyond his reach. Writhing around on the deck, he groaned pitifully, his eyes fastened on the night sky, a stunned expression on his face. He mumbled something, but I ignored it. I went to check on Jung, keeping my distance. Jung was out, but breathing. I could see the lights of police boats now, and the helicopter, its searchlight breaking through the clouds, the whump, whump of its rotors music to my soggy ears.

“Self-defense.” Spada winced, pulled himself up to a sitting position, and cradled his shoulder. “You two lured me here to kill me, some twisted vendetta, you can’t prove otherwise.”