Shooting Limpkins

The man dropped his chin to his chest and whispered, “Yes, it’s Nina. It’s my wife.”

The tears came a few minutes later. Almost as though he had been meditating. Not sobs, but the refined tears of a wealthy man who was trying to decide who to call first–his lawyer or hers. His eyes were dripping cold tears into a bucket of ice and nothing was melting.

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” I reached out and touched his shoulder. You cold bastard.

Tino came around the chairs and was about to say something, when a shout from one of the cops came from behind the Ferrari.

“Gun!”