Then Louie sagged and fell and ran. With seven bullets through his caved-in skull and those feeble brains spilling out like soup, He crawled behind a water hydrant and stood them off for another half minute. Soft music, as the wind moans at curtained windows and shuttered doors. The vibrant throats of steamships hoot a sad defiance at distance and nothing. Space lays its arm across the flat roofs and dreary streets.
Bricks bulge and sag.
Louie's soul arose through his mouth in the form of a derby hat that danced with cigarette butts and burned matches and specks of dust where Louie sprawled. Close-up of Dolan's widow. Of Louie's mother. Picture of the fly-specked Monday evening, and fade out slow.