Random, so random, like a guy who plays a four digit lottery ticket on a whim and hits the first time.
Walusky was trying to stop Colvin’s bleeding, half concentrating, still frustrated that Dixon did just that –hit the four digit straight on an easy pick– when Walusky hadn't hit in two years on seventeen numbers picked by a psychic.
The cops were here.
They couldn't handcuff Berlick, could they?
It was just random, man.
Celeste handed Walusky a wet bar rag.
Walusky looked at her mean but didn't say anything.
The blood is already wet, ya idiot is what he thought, but now cops were here.
Colvin's nose was broke.
Random.
Colvin kibitzed the shit out of the pool table.
14 years, probably.
14 years, give or take, Berlick told Colvin if he didn't shut up he was gonna whack him with his pool cue, an ancient Meucci that was probably pretty nice once.
It was something guys say, rarely mean, just the foam of testosterone on the top of the third beer.
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