Kirra was at Louisa’s apartment, where these two scumbags wouldn’t get past the lobby. Thank God. If Louisa had been here tonight, Conor had no doubt these two would have raped and killed her. The bar was noisy on Friday nights, and with the volume of the band earlier, Conor hadn’t heard them busting up his furniture. Would he have heard a woman scream? Probably not.

“You’re a fucking liar,” the kid snapped.

Where were the cops? They should come looking for him if he was gone more than a couple of minutes.

“There are thousands of pit bulls in this city. Why don’t you just go find another one?”

“It’s a matter of principal. If I let one person take what’s mine, word gets out.” The kid’s statement was 100 percent bullshit. There was something he wasn’t saying. “A man has to protect what’s his.”

The man was about fifteen. Conor searched the kid’s face. The eyes that stared back were cold, dark, and mean. Nope. No compassion there. This kid would kill him without remorse. He’d have no trouble pulling the trigger and watching the bullet rip through Conor’s head. These two would go through Conor’s pockets and use his cash to hit Popeye’s on the way home for a chicken sandwich.

Sweat broke out between Conor’s shoulder blades and dripped down his back. His alibi was the least of his worries. “There are better ways to make a buck. I could give you a job.” But he knew the answer to his question before disgust uglied up the kid’s already busted face.

“What, you want me to wash dishes or some shit?”

“It’s honest work.” Conor had washed plenty of dishes and worse.

“Fuck you. I ain’t cleaning up nobody else’s mess.” The kid pulled back the hammer. The click was as loud as a firecracker and sent a wave of bowel-loosening fear ripping through Conor. His pulse jumped. The door behind him opened, and he caught a glimpse of the cops. The kid’s eyes widened. He pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, the bullet ricocheting off the steel door and hitting the back of the building. Pieces of brick scattered. The cops ducked behind the door. Conor dove to the asphalt and covered his head with his arms. He heard the slap of feet running away.

The cops came out from behind the door, guns drawn. They swept the narrow space.

Still prone, Conor pointed down the alley to the exit one block over on Johnston Street. “They went that way.”

The cops ran down the alley. Conor got to his feet and brushed the dirt off his jeans. He picked a few bits of gravel out of the skin on his arm.