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Even God cannot undo
What already has been done.

Agathon, ca 447–401 B.C.E.


"Hey, Limey" mumbled an unusually quiet Skipper, "Something heavy's going down."

Time stopped. Whitey stuffed the papers, all of them, in the inside pocket with the button (proper tailoring at work) and slogged silently through the nightmare quicksand to the door. He hushed Skip the Beard with a finger and leaned round the corner by the stairs. He could see the door to Yusufi's office, and framed in it was Rodge the Enforcer, with one hand yanking back a fistful of Gita's gorgeous hair and the other shoving into the small of her back what looked like the biggest revolver Whitey had ever seen. Clotted 45, like that.

There was some yelling.

One chance, Erroll Flynn. Whitey jumped from the balcony, landed with a foot on the back of the Enforcer's left leg. Rodge crumpled backwards and a shot went wide into the ceiling. Whitey rolled out from under as Gita squirmed away and Rodge began to turn, still sitting awkwardly. Blackie jumped and Rodge fired and Blackie's face disappeared. Whitey was on his feet and he kicked and the hot gun went flying and the big man grunted and then Whitey's boot got his face and blood spurted out of his nose and the next one damn near took his head off, snapped his neck and suddenly Rodge was lying impossibly bent and Gita was sobbing and Skip was panting and even Yusufi was shaken out of his usual calm and Blackie was on his back, not moving, saying nothing, nothing at all, and never would again.


"Shit," said Skip, breaking the sudden silence.

"He made me tell him," moaned Gita hysterically.

"Go to my cousin's," advised Yusufi. "He will help you go to Pakistan."

Whitey vamoosed pronto. Scarpered sharpish. Made like a motor and rolled.

No thinking, no feeling, no looking back.

Just split.