A man and a woman sat in a room on two secondhand chairs, waiting for a phone to ring. Apart from the chairs, the people, and the phone, the room was empty. The man nodded at the woman. "How many people you murdered?"

"Murdered? Why'd you say murdered?" She looked at him hard enough to groove stone.

"'Cause that's what we do, yeah? Murder people?" He pulled back his coat and gestured at the shoulder holster.

"Not me," she said. "Sure, I kill, but I don't murder."

"How many, then?"

"Seven. Zero murders."

"In this business? How d'you figure?"

"See, I don't just kill someone, right?" She pulled out her gun and pointed it at him. "I do this. When they pull a piece or grab a knife or something and come at me, it's self defense."

"Bullshit. You started it."

"'Snot bullshit, dickhead. It's law. I'm guilty of assault, right, pointing the gun, but when they attack me, I'm doing self defense."

"Whatever."

"Not whatever. I'm right. Say I'm right."

"No, you're fucking wrong."

"You just call me a fucker?" She stood, still pointing the gun at him.

"I didn't call you anything, bitch, sit down."

"Oh, I'm a bitch now, huh? You better apologize. Now."

"No fucking way, you crazy—" Her gunshot took him by surprise. He stared down at the blood spreading across his shirt, then her second shot took his surprise away. She reached into his jacket and put his gun in his hand.

"Now it's eight and zero, dickhead."