This story was published online in 2014 by The Stockholm Review.

The big Irishman swung his fist. I ducked, but too slow. The blow took me on the point of my chin and snapped back my head. But I’m two hundred and thirty pounds of private eye – I don’t go down easy.

‘You’re gonna make me mad, Red,’ I growled, wiping a smear of blood from my lip.

The Irishman grinned wolfishly.

‘There’s plenty more where that came from, shamus,’ he said.

Feinting a right, I hit him with a roundhouse left and then stepped inside, hammering double-fisted at his midriff. He grunted, stumbling backwards. That gave me the split-second I needed. I went for my hip pocket. But the big Irishman had the same idea.

Two revolvers roared in the alleyway.

He –

The big Irishman –

Hey.

Hey, you.

Yes, you. This time, I wanna…