“I was just lookin’. She just layin’ there.”
“Don’t talk back.”
“I ’pologize.”
There was a gentle knock. Lights glimmered as the twins pointed their guns at the door. These two were quicker than mosquitoes when they drew their weapons.
“Who’s out there?” asked the talker in an unfriendly way.
“Alphonse.”
The talker eyed Pickles and said, “Let him in,” though neither he nor his sibling lowered the barrels of the guns that they pointed at the door.
“Don’t shoot me none by accident,” requested Pickles, who then turned to the door, twisted the key in the lock, and opened it wide. The small foreigner in the burgundy suit and bowler cap was back. He walked past the porter with a roll of papers wedged in his right armpit.
“Shut the door and lock it,” the talker ordered Pickles, who then
