The Thug was 15 yards away; his .38 caliber detective’s staring me down.
I squeezed off shots in pairs tap-tap; tap-tap; tap-tap. They hit left-center chest in a circle smaller than a hockey puck. I smiled and fired a final round through his left eye for good luck.
“An easy grand,” I said, returning the pistol to Mick Doherty.
“You shoot like a girl O’Keefe,” he said.
“I’ll relay your compliments."