I sat there, waiting in this dull Bronx back yard, the gun in my right pocket, safety off. It was simple... wait till he was on top of me, one shot in the heart... then run across the lot to the car. Sid had an ordinary looking heap; nobody would notice it, or the license number. The license number-that was one of the chances I had to take-one of the too-many chances. But this would work, if my luck held out. IF... IF... Damn, I hoped to hell he didn't have a wife and kids, looked too young for that, but even if he did-I had a wife and kid, too. God knows I didn't want to kill this detective, but I was caught in this web, had to do it. Had to... No point in thinking about that-more important to think of some way of disposing of the gun. Couldn't pull the same gag about losing it on Tony again. Well, have to work that out, somehow. Sloppy thinking on my part not to plan.... Hell with plans, no time for it. Not like the other one. Marshal Jameson, the promising young sculptor, sitting on his butt in a strange Bronx back yard on a sunny afternoon... carefully planning his second murder. I grinned, a sour, nervous grin-I was damn near bawling. Me, who'd never hurt a fly, waiting with a gun for a... I heard a car stop in front of the house. It was five to three. The dick was on time. I stood up and peered around the corner of the alley. He was alone. I waited: no running from this, no backing out. Or was killing the easy way out for me?