Content area
Full text
Over the crib in the tiny apartment, there hung a bullet-holed paper target, the size and dark shape of a man-its heart zone, head zone, perforated where my aim had torn through: 36 little rips, no strays, centered on spots that would make a man die.
Beginner's luck, said the guys at the shooting range, at first. Little lady, they'd said, until the silhouette slid back and farther back. They'd cleared their throats, fallen silent.
A bad neighborhood. An infant child. A Ruger GP .357 with speed-loader.
It's not as morbid as it sounds, a target pinned above a crib: the...