He awoke from the enforced sleep, his head throbbing from where the blackjack had raised a knot the size of a softball.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke, like the red haze that hung over Gary and was the reason he didn't go there anymore. If ya want rust, he thought, breath a car.

He couldn't feel his gat. He usually carried it in a crotch holster, and it wasn't there now. He hoped he could get it back; Colt wasn't making .38s for the Home Front these days.

"He's awake, Boss," said a guttural voice from above his head. "Should I put him back ta sleep?"