The body was carted out on a stretcher. There was blood on the hardwood floor, ceiling, lamp shades, old black and white photos of men, and women dressed up for celebrations, George’s black shoes, and dried on his wrinkled face.

George was taken down to the police station in Manhattan with a blanket wrapped around him. Mumbling, Well, at least it’s not Brooklyn.  

The old queen sat on a hard metal chair with his head in his hands, and the questioning began.

So let me get this straight, the fat detective said. You came home, and this guy was there. Is that correct? George nodded yes. And he attacked you?

Yes, George said. Well, I mean no. He…

Well, which is it, sir?

He stared at me and then came after me.

And that’s when you got the gun?

Yes. Thank God I was by the hutch. I pulled out the gun from the drawer and began firing. Twice.

There’s three bullets in him.

I can’t remember. 

Had you seen him before?

No. Never.

Never saw him?

No.

Had nothing to do with him?

Do I need a lawyer?

You just might. The detective smiled. I think you two had a spat. A lovers quarrel. Things got a little out of hand. And you shot the kid. That’s putting it mildly.

I think I’d like to make a phone call, George dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

Whatever you want, sir. Whatever you want.

Yes. I’d like to call my attorney.