“Those guns are not going back to my city,” I said. “The town I come from is an ugly place, but I love it and I care for its people, and I am sick of watching them die.”

“I’m not afraid of any woman.”

“Then fear the cops.”

“When half of Centre Street is on my payroll?”

“Not the city cops,” said Virgil. “The Volstead boys. They’ve been hungry for you for a year now. It wouldn’t take more than a phone call for them to come down hard.”

“But you’ve got no proof!”

“When has that ever mattered? I could get an eviction notice on this door this afternoon,” said Virgil. “I could put your parents on the street. I could have them deported.”

That last word he said with great relish, stretching out the three syllables like he was savoring the last bites of a meal. By the time the sentence ended, Van Alen was broken.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I got other ways of making money. This whiskey tastes rancid, anyway. I’ll give back the liquor and keep my guns.”

“And you’re coming downtown.”

“Fine. If that’s what you need to feel like you’re still a real cop, do it. I’ll answer whatever questions you’ve got.”

I lowered the gun. My muscles burned. Across the room, Van Alen’s mother twitched with rage. Van Alen stood, his head brushing the decrepit chandelier that dangled unevenly above the table. He leaned over and gave his mother a hug.

“Turn around,” said Virgil, “and I’ll cuff you.”

As he turned, his mother smiled at me, a bitter little smile. The knife on the counter was gone.

Van Alen spun on his heels, and Virgil screamed my name. The sun splashed across the knife, blinding me just as the gun went off.

I hadn’t felt myself aim the gun. I hadn’t felt my finger pull the trigger. It was like it exploded in my hand.

Mrs. Van Alen howled like a gutted pig. Her husband didn’t move. Firecracker grew smaller with every breath, a punctured balloon deflating on its way back to earth.

A cockroach crawled down the wall. Van Alen’s eyes focused on it. Something came out of his mouth that was not quite a sound. He swayed slightly, then fell onto his mother’s table, shattering it into splinters.

He’d said one bullet couldn’t stop him. He’d been wrong.

The knife was buried in the floor. The man who looked so much like my father kicked it. The tip snapped off, and it skidded across the rug.

I dropped the gun. I looked away from the body, but I could not escape the odor of death in the air. I do not remember how I felt, my first victim at my feet. It would be some time before I felt anything at all.

“Goddamn, Gilda,” said Virgil.