To the pistols!

He suddenly appeared, pulled the door behind him, slamming it. He stood there at the top of the stairs, checked himself. ("All good. The leather isn't over-inflated!..") He tried the zipper again, all the way down, in a flash. ("Great!") The cross ammo pouches showed, modified as he had them, right against his chest: loaded with 30 magazines, and three in the back pocket, with the "aggressive". (For two days he had trouble - "Holsters, I tell you, holsters! Angled, at the ready; don’t slip! No covers; they should pull free!" - on the old leather, from thick canvas, and it broke her needles...)

He made the move for the stinger: to grab it immediately from the battle - and closed - hanging from his shoulder. ("Extra primo!") And the mills in his pockets, three and three, with cigarettes, lighter... ("Does the ID fit too? And what do you need it for? "Oh brother, the old paper! Enough!..") He tossed it away over the fence.

He jumped down the stairs three at a time. He poured out onto the street. He took off from the Park, towards the avenue. Midday. - Hey, are you crazy? .. - No! I will clean up during the day! - And how will you turn? - With this here! (And he slapped his palm on the automatic.) You won't say anything to the dead! - They'll find out. - If it happens, you see! (And he made a gesture with his hand.) - They will erase you! - And? .. Did they sign me? .. Did I ask them for it? - Well, no! - Yes, yes!.. Phantom came to me one night: "They have you," she says, "for their own"! .. Last year. - But you didn’t leave... - And I didn’t "come" either!