I licked my lips and my tongue felt like a dry corncob. There wasn't even one gun pointed a Flick now. It was my scene; I'd had my cue, and five pairs of hostile eyes stared at me. And four guns pointed at me. Three .45 automatics scattered around, and one .38 revolver in Lonely's big right hand. it seemed like every time I turned around today I ran into a guy with a gun. Everybody had a gun--and they were all pointed at me.
1956.