The rain began with gentle percussion on magnolias and elephant ears, only to swell the gutters and sidewalks, floating drugstore vodka bottles and castaway racing forms in a silent migration. Their only witness was the police cruisers slowly passing through the night. Even the hacks were waiting it out, hunched along the boulevard in rows of smoke-filled cabins. Distant thunder rumbled like a shade-tree hot-rodder, never quite reaching a pitch it was satisfied with. And through it all, the telephone kept ringing; insistent, demanding, belligerent. It was the only voice in the apartment.
Down below, three blocks away, its owner was watching his blood fill the floorboard of the Ford coupe from the cut in his throat.
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