His foot flicked up and opened the bottom drawer where he kept his crutches. It slide open as smooth as cheesewire through a neck, but Snafus had no support today; he was out of whiskey and he was out of smokes.
A thin jangle of two lousy dimes in his pocket reminded him that the client seat hadn’t been troubled for a couple of months. The top drawer was where he kept his preserver and this one glided silently and keenly to reveal the trusty old two-pound toy. He toyed with it. “Well, Pulpy old boy, this is it I guess”, and the cold cylinder found itself kissing a warm temple.
It eased up like a bartender to a lush, the gentle decisive knock at the door. Dimly the sound meant something to him. That’s right; the it meant long nights pounding the streets, it meant sore knuckles and an even sorer chin, it meant the rustle of banknotes and the crack of a fresh bottle of Old Forester. Pulply Snafus had a client. The Colt and the temple parted company once more.