Dzinski emptied an ice tray into the middle of a tea towel, brought the ends together, lifted it off the counter and spun it. He handed the ice pack to the man sitting at the kitchen table.
“Put that on your knee,” he said.
He sat down, pulling the gun from his waist and setting it on the table.
“Thanks,” the other man said, wincing as he reached over. “You should get the landlord to fix those goddamned stairs, somebody could get hurt.”
Dzinski lit a cigarette, and leaned back.
“I’ll call him first thing in the morning,” he said.