I slammed it into the wall again. It didn't feel any better than the first six or seven times I'd done it.
I took another pull from the bottle of Thompson's. Almost empty. It didn't matter: There were three more in the cabinet under the lamp.
I considered for a moment whether to hit the wall again or finish the bottle in my left hand. No, my right still hurt enough for now. I took the last swallow and threw the bottle across the room to smash. The shards tinkled to the floor, joining the remains of several similar bottles.
Fuzzily, I tried to remember whether this was the second or the third day of my bender. Judging from the pile of glass on the carpet, it was only the second.
The pain in my hand had settled to a steady throb. It wasn't taking as long to wear off anymore: Probably shock, or nerve damage, or the booze; maybe all three.
I stared at my right hand, still clenched in a fist, realizing that I could no longer make my fingers uncurl. There was a little blood flowing, but mostly my knuckles and fingers just looked like dog food. I slammed it into the wall again, and the pain flared, distracting me from the other pain, the pain I couldn't seem to shake no matter how much I drank, no matter how much I abused my body.
I got up, staggered a bit, went to get a full bottle.
I paused next to the remains of the stereo. I'd really done a job on it. At least it had finally stopped smoking and sparking. My mistake: I played just the wrong song. Well, I wouldn't have to finish paying off the five hundred bucks I still owed on it. When I was through, the insurance company wouldn't have any trouble believing the office had been vandalized.
I stopped next to the desk, picked up her picture for the hundredth time in the last forty-eight hours. For the hundredth time I started to smash it into the wall and stopped. I set it down again.
I made it to the cabinet, nearly passed out as I leaned over. It was worse than I'd thought: There was only one bottle left. Maybe it had been three days after all. I started back for the sofa, only made it to the desk chair. I collapsed into it and opened the bottle.
Soon I would have a decision to make: Whether to give it up, or go out for more liquor. But not just yet. I took another swig. I was too far away from the wall now, but the desk proved serviceable, the drawer handles provided a new dimension of pain.
I drew my gun, considered it for a moment. I aimed at the lamp and pulled the trigger. Click. The magazine was already empty.
I thumbed the release and the spent clip dropped into my lap. I dug the spare from the off side of my shoulder holster, slapped it into place, managed to work the slide with my damaged hand, and snapped off a shot. The lamp exploded into fragments and my ears rang.
I checked my watch: Eight seconds elapsed time. Not bad, with a buggered-up hand. (Of course being left-handed has been an advantage more than once. Oh, you thought I'd ruin my gun hand? I'm admittedly nuts, but not that nuts.)
Me? You could say I was a private eye, but you'd be wrong. You could even ask the state and they'd tell you the same thing: I don't have a license. It's not that I couldn't get one, but I never felt like I needed one, and I don't really care much about laws.
People have different names for me, but mostly they call me Ice. Thin Ice. My enemies don't call me anything: Their phones have all been disconnected. My friends... well, they don't call me anything either, because I don't have any.
I haven't always been a man without friends of course. I used to have one, and she called me Frankie. I'd never really liked her name for me, but I missed it now, and no matter how hard I sucked on a bottle or how many of my own fingers I broke, I was starting to realize that I always would.