They wiped Mon’s prints off the gun and stuck it back in Fats’ hand. They climbed out of the shelter and left the compound, ignoring the party, which was in full swing, bombs bursting in air. They took Mon’s Fiat, and Jack called the cops from her car, told them the whole story over the phone.
Half a dozen uniforms and a pair of detectives in cheap suits were waiting for them when they pulled up in front of Jack’s place. In the elevator on the way up, one of the detectives, kidding, said to Mon, “You gonna force the lock for us, Gucci?”
But it was Jack who let them in, the man who didn’t let nobody in, not nobody, not nohow. He took them back to the bathroom and, no big surprise, Randy had failed to rise from the dead. He was still lying there, starting to stink, and Jack said he could e
