The headlights reflected off the rain-scarred streets. I saw her eyes,twisted, bloodshot red, dazed, as she looked at me. She didn’t see the gunshot wound. It wasn’t the first and I know it wouldn’t be the last. I had fucked up. It’s fucking hard trying to make a quick peso, a fast G, in the back streets of Marseilles. I sipped the last drop of bouillabaisse, took a long taff, and asked for another nasty Richard.
Enough, I was bleeding,
I asked the Marocaine toiletgirl to call her sister.
She had stitched me up before.
It wasn’t a problem, I’m a fast healer.