“I know. You’re sorry. Well you shouldn’t be, Ed. I got shot with you, which is more than most girls get.” She tried to laugh again. “Don’t you want to make it with me in the weeds?”

“Rita . . .”

“I’m tired, Ed.”

She didn’t say any more, and her expression didn’t change. Eventually he put her down in the weeds and began to cry. After a minute or two he shouted:

“Otto, you fucker!”

“Yo!” said Rank.

“She’s dead.”

There was a silence. After a bit, Rank said:

“You want to come in?”

“She’s dead, Otto. You’re next.”

There was a laugh.

“If you come in—” Rank began, then seemed to be thinking. “What is it I do?” he called. “Hey, help me out here, Ed. Oh, wait, no, got it: If you come in I see you get a fair trial.” He put a shot where he estimated Ed’s skull had last been. “Guess what?” he said, when the echoes had died away. “I’m shot too, Ed. Rita shot me in the heart, long before she met you. These women! It was point-blank, Ed. You make anything of that?”

“I make suck my dick out of it,” Ed said.

He stood up as coolly as he could. He saw Otto Rank down at the edge of the carwash roof in the classic infantry kneel, the 30.06 up at aim, its sling tight round his elbow. Ed raised the Colt carefully in both hands. He had two shots left, and it was important he spoiled the first one. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and squeezed off carefully. The round went ten, twelve feet wide, and Ed dropped his pistol arm to his side. Otto, who had been surprised to see him pop up out of the weeds like that, gave a wild laugh of relief.

“You got the wrong gun, Ed!” he shouted.

He stood up. “Hey,” he said. “Take another pop. It’s free!”

He spread his arms wide. “Nobody shoots anybody at eighty yards with a Colt .45,” he said.

Ed raised the gun again and fired.

Rank was picked up from the head end and thrown backwards with his feet in the air. He fell off the roof and into the weeds. “Fuck you, Ed!” he screamed, but his face was half off and he was already dead. Chinese Ed looked down at his Colt. He made a gesture as if to throw it away. “I’m sorry, Rita,” he was beginning to say, when the sky behind the carwash turned a steely colour and ripped open like a page of cheap print. This time the duck was huge. Something was wrong with it. Its yellow feathers had a greasy look, and a human tongue hung laxly out of one side of its beak.

“There will be an interruption to service,” it said. “As a valued customer—”