59
I show up dead on eleven, with a chance I'll be dead by eleven-thirty.
Studio Seven is empty. The floor is a dark-grey. Only the wall lights on, with a series of overhead rigs and gantries cast in darkness.
Three figures stand in the middle. Two men. One woman. As I walk towards 'em, I recognise all three.
Art Solomon stands to the left, smoking a fat cigar. Wyndall Buck stands to the right, a grip on the back of Naomi's neck and a snub-nosed revolver in the small of her back.
Naomi looks terrified. Solomon and Buck look thoroughly miffed.
I hear footsteps behind me. I turn and see Detectives Roach and Thomas bringing up the rear, coming out of the shadows from left and right.
I stop in the middle of the sound stage in front of Solomon and Buck. Thomas and Roach take their places
