Score

It was three A.M. in the alleyway between Mastrosso's Deli and a tenement that had long ago degraded beyond slum into something else entirely. Leonard pressed his back against the wall and tried to let the coolness of the crumbling brick soothe the burn pervading his body. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the way his shrink had tried to teach him.

Leonard's eyes widened at the soft, rhythmic tap-tap, tap-tap of footsteps somewhere up the street; after waiting all night, this was it. He brushed a strand of lank, sweaty hair away from his face and peered around the corner, careful not to extend from the shadows.

"Yes! Finally..." he whispered, squinting slightly as he surveyed the figure slowly heading toward him.

Half the streetlights on this block were perpetually out of order due to vandalism or simple municipal neglect. It was a man, definitely, and the outline suggested an old- fashioned fedora and trench-coat. The way he shuffled along, turning his head this way and that, even occasionally looking up, as if unsure of his heading, suggested confusion and, to Leonard, feebleness.

Perfect, Leonard thought and reached into his jacket for the little Raven .25 caliber automatic he carried. It was a tiny weapon, pathetic really, but beggars can't be choosers and he hoped not to have to use it, anyway.

Sucking in another big, fortifying gulp of cool air, Leonard stepped out of the darkened alley into the other

man's path, keeping the little gun in his fist close to his waist and holding up his other hand, palm out, toward the figure before him.

"Wallet and watch. Phone, if you got it," he croaked, hoping he didn't sound as nervous to the target as he did to himself.

The other man slowly lifted his own hands up to shoulder height, taking enough time to set Leonard's nerves on edge, and held them out before him in a gesture that could have been surrender or forestallment. Leonard still couldn't see the man's face, obscured as it was by the night and the shadow cast by the out-of-style hat. He didn't like not knowing where another person was looking--it made him uncomfortable.

"Hold on here just a minute, young man." The voice was gravelly, raspy even, like the guy hadn't drank in days.

Leonard felt his pulse pounding in his right temple and his face began to burn again. "Screw this. I ain't in the mood," he said, trying to sound casual, like he did this all the time, and lifted his gun to draw down on the throaty shadow.

A pair of pops followed two surprisingly gentle trigger- strokes as a pair of red blossoms appeared on the shadow-man's white shirt. He crumpled to the street with a soft thump.

Leonard bent over the fallen figure, making a conscious effort not to look at the face of the man he'd just killed,

as he rifled through pant and coat pockets. Coming up with a thin wallet and a watch that looked like it was worth at least a dime-bag, he stuffed the prizes into his own jacket's pockets and hurried away up the street.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Leonard hoped no one felt like doing their civic duty by reporting the two shots. He jogged up the block, no longer caring who saw him as long as he could put distance between himself and that alley, as a single thought repeated itself over and over-- God, I hope Rico's still up.

Rounding the corner, he nearly collided with a figure standing in the middle of the sidewalk--one wearing a hat and trench-coat, bearing familiar red splotches on its otherwise pristine-white shirt. Leonard's jaw dropped, and his hands flew up defensively.

"Wh-what the hell?! I put two bullets in you!" His voice was weak with awe and confusion.

"Indeed, you did," was the reply and, in contrast to Leonard's voice, the shadow's had grown in strength; the gravelly tone was no longer a weakness, but a horror, as the figure threw back the coat and hat, revealing burning-red eyes set in an aquiline face and fangs that caught the light like nothing else Leonard had seen. "Too bad they weren't silver!"

Leonard shrieked as his victim leapt on him and tore at the soft flesh of his throat. Despite the pain and fear, he died as he lived--wishing for one last score.