Somers picked up a stapler and chucked it. It hit the yapper on the back of the head, and he screamed like he’d been shot. He stumbled, and then he got caught up in Lansdown’s legs, and both men started to fall. Somers pitched an empty mug. He had a good eye and a good arm, and the mug should have caught Lansdown in the shoulder. By that point, though, Lansdown was tangled up with the other and starting to fall, and the mug cracked against his cheekbone. Somers winced when he saw blood.

Russell danced clear of Lansdown and the other guy, and he spun around, shouting, “What the fuck, what the fuck,” and caught a block of sticky notes right in the balls. Somers was pretty proud of that one; he’d tried for a fastball, and judging by Russell’s squeals, he’d done all right.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Foley stood in the doorway, scrubbing his red hair. The big guy looked a lot better after a few months, but he still looked thin and tired, and he looked even more tired as he stared at the assholes playing Twister on the floor. “What happened?”

“That’s a good question,” Somers said, leaning against the supervisor’s desk, legs crossed at the ankle. “It’s kind of a matter of perspective.”

“It looks like you knocked the shit out of three of Wahredua’s finest.”

“That’s one perspective.”

“With a sticky pad.”

“Well, yeah.”

Russell, Lansdown, and the third guy were still trying to untangle themselves. Lansdown was bleeding, but he had a hand over the cut, so Somers couldn’t tell how bad it was.

“Jesus Christ,” Foley muttered.

“I’m going to shoot you, you stupid faggot,” Lansdown was screaming. With his hand pressed against his cheek, though, he was having a hard time delivering the words with their full force. His other hand was drawing his gun. “You think just because you’re some hotshot fag detective you can—”

For a big guy, Foley moved fast. He wasn’t sprinting, by any means; it was more of a controlled charge. Russell and the other guy saw him coming and wriggled away, but Lansdown was too busy shouting and trying to get the safety snap off his pistol. Foley kicked him once, kicked him like the big Irish jackass that he was, and Lansdown’s breath whooshed out of his lungs. He flopped onto his back, gagging and gasping for breath. Foley stepped on Lansdown’s hand, and Lansdown screamed.

“If I ever see you touch that fucking gun again,” Foley said, “for any reason, anywhere, I will break every bone in your fucking hand. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a bank robbery. I don’t care if you’re stopping terrorists. I don’t care if Jesse fucking James wants to shoot ’em up. You touch that gun again, night or day, and I find out, you’ll have that hand in a cast for a year, and you can hump the sofa to get off. Understand?”