Beside me lay a shattered bedside lamp, whose fall—caused by carelessness with my feet, or one of the Kid’s bullets—had K.O. ’d me. Across the room, face down, arms spread in a crucified posture, the Whosis Kid sprawled. He was dead.
From the front of the apartment—almost indistinguishable from the throbbing in my head—came the pounding of heavy blows. The police were kicking down the unlocked door.
The woman went quiet. I whipped my head around. The knife stung my cheek—put a slit in the lapel of my coat. I took it away from her.
There was no sense to this. The police were already here. I humored her, pretending a sudden coming to full consciousness.
“Oh, it’s you!” I said. “Here they are.”
I handed her the silk bag of jewels just as the first policeman came into the room.