"Please," he whimpered, eyes cast up from the polished linoleum as if in prayer, a single rivulet of blood trickling from a nostril. "I I have a family."
"A family?" Charlie glanced from one crumpled heap of flesh and gristle to another, a distinct disinterest building behind insect black eyes. "How many kids?"
"Boy or girl?"
He squatted next to the man, spinning the massive .357 on his finger like the protagonist of some spaghetti western. The barrel whirled around the blur of his hand like Death's private helicopter, gaining and losing momentum in an evident but indecipherable rhythm. He blew a breath out his nose, tightening on the smooth wooden handgrip.
"Shame," he said, shifting his gaze to the man's eyes. He donned an expression of false concern, snatching the tail of the man's hot pink striped power-tie and roughly wiping away the bloody nose. "There we go. Shame. What're their names?"
"Both of them? Not terribly origina