Feeling in your coat, Wixom finds nothing but the summons. He pats you down, then unfolds the paper with his name on the front, reads it, frowning, with frequent glances to make sure you don't pull anything.

When he lowers the document, his eyes are two bleak holes in a white mask. "This is all you came to see me about?" Doubt shreds his voice. "You're here to give me a crummy summons?" He leans, peers into your face. "You mean Andy didn't send you out to shut me up?"

You manage small nods and head shakes in response to his questions, trying not to moan in agony.

"Christ." Wixom runs shaky fingers through his hair. "I shot a damn process server. Now I'm really in trouble."

His eyes wander away and his body follows. "They put me in the lockup for this," he says to the side of the house, "I'm in deep tapioca. Be a sitting duck for Andy's boys. They'll pop me for sure." He bangs the butt of the gun against the faded clapboards and paint chips fly.

You try to say, "Help me." It comes out a ragged whisper.

Wixom walks back, the gun hanging loose in his fist. "Sorry, pal." He pats your shoulder in sympathy. "You might not think so now, but I got worse troubles than you. Got to get gone or I'm dead meat. But I'll call for an ambulance before I go. Honest." He jams the gun in the waistband of his cutoffs, gives a twisted smile. "So long, guy. Good luck. Hope you pull through. I really mean it."

Wixom stuffs the crumpled summons in his jeans and runs back into the house. A few minutes later, he charges out the back door, cheap suitcase in one hand. "I called 911," he says breathlessly. "Said they'd be right out. Hang on."

He disappears around the corner of the house. A minute later, the car starts and screeches away.

Pull yourself into sitting position, press your hanky to the wound. The slug has passed clean through at a shallow angle, giving you two new navels. It's messy. Hurts like hell. Doesn't feel fatal.

Insurance will pick up the tab on the repair job.

Worker's Comp will pay for the time you're laid up.

And Stein & Fleisch will shell out for another suit to replace the one Wixom ruined.

You'll come out okay. But Wixom's slipped away again. Damn!

"Better run, jerk, fast and far," you call feebly, raising a red-stained middle finger towards taillights receding over a distant hill.

Whoever else is after him may give up after awhile. But you won't. And the lawyers? Never!

For something to do before the medics arrive, something to take your mind off the fire in your side, fill in the form attached to your copy of Wixom's summons--he took the paper, didn't he?

The crimson fingerprints are a nice touch.

Don't forget to add the make of Wixom's car and his license plate number, too, because those are worth a bonus.

When you hear the wail of a siren, coming closer, stick the paper away, put your thoughts on hold of turning this incident into a Movie of the Week script, and tote up the day's earnings in your mind.

Counting Wixom, over four hundred bucks. Plus mileage.

All things considered, not a bad day. Not a bad day at all.