NINETEEN
Hagen paid for our tickets on the monorail, which was good, because with our recent purchase of weaponry, I was out of lira. I kept my collar up and my hat pulled low as we boarded a crowded middle car that smelled like curry and wet dog. Finding a pair of empty seats I slumped and kept my head low like a snoozing passenger.
When a conductor asked us for our tickets and inquired after me, Hagen did a bang up job, making up a story on the spot about me just getting out of the hospital and returning home to Reservoir. If the conductor was interested, she sure didn't show it; she nodded and punched our tickets, then moved on before Hagen was barely into his story.
We had acquired two heavy .45s that the dauger who ran the shop referred to as "Judges." My gun hung in the pocket of
