Lefty had the gun at my head. And not a modern weapon with a stun setting either: a bullet-firing hand pistol. Lefty’s a traditionalist.
“Wait,” I said.
“You know what happens, you pull that trigger?”
“Yeah: your brains go all over the fuckin’ wall.”
“That’s right. And then you get caught, and they erase you. All the way, too, not a selective wipe. You’ll be as gone as me.”
His expression said he was thinking about it.
“Lefty, it’s five years. You can do five years standing on your head.”
He got seven years, but he’s still Lefty.