Bill pulled a revolver. It's broken, but got me a little cold. Time to crawl back, let sweet Guadalupe hum me to sleep. I hand Bill the bottle. His eyes are dull and smoke-filled. I bid him farewell. Bill tells me I'm a class-act guy. The original gentleman. A real man-about-town. I start making my way and Bill’s still sitting out front of Doc's. I turn the corner and get one last look at him. I can't see him. Instead, a single point of fire. I trace its movement low near his side then up to his mouth. A plume of smoke. Concrete bottle-clink. In the electric amber light shining out from over the door of Doc's into the street, a suspended lead revolver, mad, wild, thrashing quiet in the quiet night