Free Errata by Michael Allen Zell Page A

blasts. 
    The first was the one that sprung me out of the car to jump the stoop steps and fling myself inside the unlocked house on Dauphine Street.  When The Pelican initially went to the door with winking intent and was met by Hannah, she sunk noticeably but recovered and invited him in with a tender rub to the left of his jaw.  After ten minutes or so came the single shot of gunfire.  I followed his voice through the sparse careless parlor, down the short hallway, into the kitchen, and found her lying on the floor and bleeding from her right arm, a paring knife at her side, while he was crouched with his back to me, edgy and pleading repeatedly, Why’d you make me do it?  She spoke through her teeth, clamping down on the pain, explaining desperately that she was leaving New Orleans, going to Havana, and her boyfriend was going with her.  Taking this in, I was anything but emboldened by impunity.  Shoot a shooter, me?  It’s not my way.  What would I shoot or attack him with?  Instead I began to shake, and then, as if magnified by mirrors, my shake shook.  C, t, b, d, r.
    Unsurprisingly, The Pelican sensed my presence and spun, training his gun on me and glowering, Get the fuck outta here.  Back in the fucking car.  Now!  Hannah surprised both of us when she pointed at me and said, He’s my boyfriend.  We’re moving to Havana.  The Pelican’s face of aggression and mine of fright merged to a single bewildered countenance.  I was speechless, having become an instant beard for Hannah while he held me in his direct line of fire.  He smirked and lowered his gun, stared at her woodenly, then down at the gun.  She teared up, telling him she loved him, didn’t know what she’d been thinking, and the two of them should go to Cuba.  This broke his trance and the seething returned.  He snatched the knife with his left hand and roughly slashed her right cheek, hissing, You two-faced tramp.  You’re not gonna ruin any more men.  Go to your car and bring me the fucking registration, okay, boyfriend. 
    His request was perplexing, but I followed directions and then became further confused when he carefully folded my auto registration down to thumbnail size, bound it in tin foil, swallowed it, and washed it down with water, grinning after the last gulp.  As her crying heaved and I remained in hands-up paralysis, he (a man who seemed most dangerous when he was deliberate) returned to his former position, leaned over and firmly grabbed her right hand, squeezed it around the gun’s trigger and held it in place, with the barrel facing her.  She called out when he yanked her arm up and spun the gun to jam it firmly against his forehead.  With a demeanor as light and calm as I had witnessed from him, his last words were, Now look who’s fucked.  You’ve got nothing but crocodile tears, crocodile lies.  You’re gonna rub me out.  I’m gonna make you do it.  The gun connects you.  The registration connects him.  Three can’t keep a secret when only one’s dead.  Especially when the dead man still talks.  It’s time for me to sleep, get my rest.  Call the burial, dirt rest.
    After a few frozen moments, I stumbled over and pulled his limp body off of her as she burst with horrified staccato gasping, crying, and screaming, the shot and her immediate accompanying start continuing to replay in my mind along with C, t, b, d, r. When she finally sat up, composed herself and spoke, she struck as being miles beyond my still-dazed speechless shaky state.  You’ve got to get rid of the body.  Not the river.  Bury him.  In the swamps.  I’ll take care of the gun.  Then we’ll be together.  She looked at me through faded green eyes, hoping I’d comply, would do anything to be close to her and not contend that her words should be taken at other than face value.  When the firmness of realization came to her, as of course it did, I sat beside her compliantly, guilelessly moved my head to her beckoning