When he reached the street, he began walking toward the train station on Westchester Avenue. He thought about the job as he walked, thought about how wrong the job had gone, couldn’t have gone wronger — he’d killed one cop, Jocko had maybe killed another one. He thought about Jeanine, and how that had gone wrong, too, some consolation that had been; Jocko calling from the other room. Colley’d never made it with a stripper in his life, probably never would get another chance at her, no matter what she said about later. Shit, he thought, and kicked at something on the sidewalk, didn’t even know what it was, something shiny. Times he wanted to quit this racket, get himself a nice girl, his mother was always telling him to get himself a nice Italian girl, settle down someplace. Times like tonight he was tempted to do it. Who the hell needs this kind of life?
He felt the gun in the waistband of the pants.
The gun was cool against his naked skin.
Colley took the steps up to the elevated platform two at a time. He waited for the train, feeling the gun, knowing the gun was there, feeling everything would work out fine, he had a gun, he knew how to use it, everything would be fine again.
He was whistling when the train pulled in.