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The tricky thing about screwing with other people's karma is, from time-to-time, it screws you back. I took quick stock of my personal karma as I stared at the end of Gina Desalo's snub-nose revolver. I didn't consider myself to be a bad person, necessarily. A man in my line of work has to take a somewhat liberal view of morality, after all. But it wasn't my view of morality that mattered at the moment.
It was Gina's. After all, she was the one holding the gun.
"What did Jackie ever do to you?" she sputtered from across the table, her hands shaking from what I hoped was anger, and not drugs. Anger I could work with.
"Who's Jackie?" I whispered.
In hindsight, I could've come up with a dozen more intelligent, survival-motivated responses, but having a gun shoved in my face wasn't doing the logic center of my brain any favors.
Gina slammed a hand down on the worn Formica card table between us.
"You know God damn well who."
I really God damn didn't.
"Thing is, Gina, I don't even remember you. If we've done business—”