I had a lotta nerve … and a pistol.
“You’ve gotta lotta nerve, kid!” His name was Bull Nunzio. He’s a ‘was,’ not an ‘is.’ I stole two rolls of salami from the mob diner he ran. Bait and catch. Just wanted Nunzio under the night sky.
“You gotta lotta salami,” I said, dropping the meat. I was across the alley, vanishing over a wooden fence, by the time he lifted his Colt. The gangster didn’t move—stoic. Following a silent pirouette, I scoped out Nunzio through a hole in the fence. Bang. Made.
See, told you he’s a ‘was.’