telling you to do what you want to do anyway, and everyone always does it.
Jack, Tom says again, but Jack doesn't even look at him. Jack, this is fucked up, man, put that thing down.
Jimmy hears something in Tom's voice he never heard before. Jimmy flashes back: a warehouse fire last month, four alarms. A roof collapse takes a guy from a ladder company with it. His brothers on radios, searching frantically; the guy at first responding, but sounding so exhausted; then apologizing; I'm sorry, guys. I can't. Going silent. Jimmy's there when they bring the body up.
Jack, don't, says Tom again, in that guy's voice.
Tom, Jack says, hard and so cold, Little brother, I should've stopped listening to you years ago.
Jack takes a swaying step toward Markie, looks at him. Say it, he screams at Markie. Say it was Eddie! You're sucking that wop motherfucker's dick, and I want to hear you say it!
Markie opens his mouth, maybe he's going to say it, maybe he'd say whatever Jack wants him to, but nothing comes out.
Jack, says Tom.
Jimmy, too, he says, Jack, and he starts to stand.
Fucker! screams Jack, and the gun screams, too, the loudest bang Jimmy's ever heard, the brightest flash he's ever seen. Splinters fly out of the wood above Markie's head. Jimmy dives for Markie, pushes him down flat. Tom grabs Jack's arm, but Jack flings him off. They both stumble. Jack's the one who's stinking drunk, but it's Tom who can't stay on his feet. He thuds onto the plywood, a sawdust cloud flying up around him.
Jack points the gun again. Jimmy's covering Markie, so Jack shoots at Jimmy. The bullet slams into the wood an inch from Jimmy's face. The third shot, Jimmy hears it and thinks he's dead, dead for sure, but he doesn't feel anything. He twists around, looks up at Jack. Jack is standing over him, and Jimmy waits for him to shoot again, but Jack just says, Fuck. He says, Oh, you fucker.
Then he falls.
Jimmy turns, looks for Tom. Tom's on his belly, covered in sawdust, right arm straight out, and there's a gun in his hand.
It's like some freezing wind came and blasted them all, changed them to ice or to frozen stones and it's been centuries now, forever, and still no one can move.
That's how it feels, but Jimmy knows it can't be true. The echoes of Tom's shot are still fading as he scrambles across the plywood to where Jack's sprawled. He checks for a pulse in Jack's neck, they taught him that in paramedic class, but he doesn't have to do it. He already knows. The dark spot on the front of Jack's shirt is small, but the blood under him is spreading so fast, the sawdust can't soak it up.
Jack, says Tom, whispering. Jack.
Tom, still flat on his belly, stares at his hand, his own hand with his own gun in it, his eyes wild like he's seeing a monster he never knew was there on the end of his arm. Very gently, he puts the gun down on a bed of sawdust, like now that it's quiet he doesn't want to make it mad again. He lurches to his knees and crawls over to where Jack is, leans close to Jack. I'm sorry, he says. Oh, Jesus, Jack, I'm sorry, man, come on.
Jimmy takes hold of Tom's arm, pulls him back. Don't, Jimmy says. Tom, man, there's nothing you can do.
Tom looks at Jimmy like Jimmy's speaking Chinese.
I have to, Tom whispers. I'm supposed to do something.
You can't.
When he gets like that. I'm supposed to do something. Get him to stop. I'm supposed to. Jack? Hey, Jack, hey, man—
Tom, says Jimmy. Tom, he's gone.
Tom looks at Jimmy like he still doesn't understand a word. Markie gets up, moving like he's asleep. He crouches down with them, all three of them next to Jack. Jack's gun is lying in the sawdust, too, like Tom's, two coiled serpents, resting now like they just fought a battle.
Something happens Jimmy's never seen before: Tom starts to cry.
After a while, it's not very long, Tom pulls away from Jimmy, from where Jimmy's been holding him tight. Jesus, Tom says. Shit.
He would've killed us, says Jimmy. Me and Markie. You, too, maybe. Jimmy's shirt is damp on his shoulder, from Tom's crying, and he can't stop shivering.
Tom looks down at Jack, like maybe something's going to happen, like maybe he's wrong about what happened already. Softly he says again, Jesus.