Max stepped out of the store into the evening mist. Half rain, half fog, all discomforting. The clerk hesitated at the door. She replayed the scene in her head searching for the moment of offense but found none. Why had he suddenly scowled, turned and walked out the door?
A limo pulled up and Max got in. On the floor, wrapped in bloody rags, was the man who sold his nephew the heroin. Carlson, the driver, turned to Max smiling the smile that Max so disliked but so depended upon. They left the city in search of some place dark.