1930s Chicago. Notorious gangster Tom "Tommy Gun" Holland has been storming his way through Cook County, robbing banks and breaking hearts. One day you find yourself in the wrong place, at the wrong time when he makes a hit on your bank. There's...
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"Wait! Wait!" Tommy held his hand up to stop you. He pulled the cork out of the whiskey bottle by his teeth and took another chug while he eyed the knife in your shaky hand. It bobbed in front of his face like it was treading water. He thought better of it, then took a third helping before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then with a deep breath, he nodded at you.
"Okay," he said, bracing himself.
Tommy sat there, shirtless on the commode in a motel bathroom, the first one you could find. He wanted you to drive for another hour to make sure there was enough distance between you and the coppers, but you refused. His blood had already started to pool on the leather seat and his color was akin to ash.
You stared at his wound. It was gaping red hot and the skin was like fire along the edges. They got him right below the ribs. You had no idea how deep. You had no idea how something so small could cause so much damage. You just knew that you had a pocket knife, gauze, a sewing needle and thread, and a bottle of whiskey - all courtesy of the general store in whatever town this was.
The knife continued to shake in your hand. Your whole body began to tremble with it. What the hell were you doing here? Were you really going to cut him open and try to get this slug out? What if you made it worse? What if you couldn't get to it at all?
What if he dies?
It was all too overwhelming. You started to cry.
Tommy flashed you a frustrated frown.
"Why are you crying now?" he asked, raising his voice. His temper was usually quick with you, but given his current state, his patience was particularly thin.
"Don't yell at me!" you blubbered back. You'll never understand why people think anger is the shortest way to get someone to stop crying. Your daddy used to do that to you. Always carrying on about fire and brimstone, as if that was gonna stop you from necking with the boy next door. He would spank you with the good book and yell at you to stop crying, but it never worked, ever. The next time you saw the boy, you went all the way with him, and made sure to get some spanking from him too.
You frantically wiped your eyes but the tears kept flowing like the Mississippi. Tommy sighed and muttered something about Jesus Christ.
"Di, listen," he said softer. He grabbed your trembling hand and carefully pulled you onto his lap. He winced at the weight of you as you shifted to face him.
"You've got to stop crying because it's making your hand shake and you're going to stick me like a bloody pig."
"I can't do this," you sobbed, staring down at the wound. It opened and closed like a mouth with every labored breath Tommy took.
He shook his head in disagreement.
"Yes, you can. You have to. Di, you're the only one that can do this," he lifted your chin with his finger as you grew more hysterical.
