Polynice dropped the scalpel and raised his hands. “You’ve got me. I surrender.”

I shot him in the kneecap, and when he hit the floor I put another slug through his shoulder.

Dick.

The cops were pretty decent about this arrest. They usually gave me a hard time, being an ex-cop and all, but the whole state had been looking for Polynice since he’d escaped. He had killed four guards and a nurse just to get his vengeance on me. What an idiot. For a doctor, someone who was supposed to save lives, Polynice had destroyed quite a few.

Plus, the bastard bled all over my apartment. There were holes in the hardwood floor from the shots I’d fired. The window was shattered. Rain was blowing in and the whole place had a thick layer of gunpowder and body odor floating right at nose level like milky fog.

Just then my landlord, Judy something-or-other, decided to stop by for an impromptu inspection of the building with some people who were along to assess for refinancing or some such shit. Judy was a dried up, little old lady—a strip of overcooked bacon in a jogging suit.

In the past, I’d managed to keep her at bay. I had “avoiding the landlord” and “pretending not to be home” down to an art. But when the cops dragged Polynice right by her, bleeding and squealing like a stuck pig, she would not be denied. The jig was up.

I smiled, but she didn’t notice. She stepped through the open door and slowly scanned the blood, smoke, and broken glass. Her face slowly turned red, starting at her shriveled neck and climbing right to the top of her small, bulb-shaped head like mercury up a thermometer. I dropped the smile. What was the use? She had me, dead to rights. It didn’t help that I was three months behind on rent.

Even the cops still hanging out in the apartment sensed the tension. They packed up their shit and edged toward the door as the landlord slithered toward me.

“Strike three hundred, McDonald,” she said. “I want you out of here by the end of the week.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Try me.”

She started counting on her fingers. “Unpaid rent. Running a business from your home without proper zoning or license, constant damage . . . and GUNFIRE!”

I glared down at her, but she stood firm.

“You’re throwing me out?”

She nodded.

I spoke low. “I can get you the rent.”

Now she smiled. A tight, wrinkled little smile. “You’ve been here for years and I’ve looked the other way. I’m tired of the noise. I’m tired of the police, the damage, the constant complaints. Did I mention the gunfire? I’m tired of having a non-paying tenant who gets shot at twice a week.”

A couple of cops giggled like schoolgirls in the doorway until I leveled them with an evil glare.

I couldn’t believe she would throw me out. I had zero in the bank. Make that zero with dust on it. I’d narrowly escaped being slashed to death by a Jamaican voodoo doctor. But this? This I found very upsetting.