The well-groomed man lie on the floor, leaking life, eyelids flickering, lips quivering. He was going to die, and nothing in the world would prevent it. Jake couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He took the bullet for the lady in the black coat, the lady whose face remained a mystery. Some detective he was - didn't remember to get a good look at her face.
It got Jake thinking. A friend of his once told him the Jake was the only guy he knew who would take a bullet for someone. Jake had never had to test that theory, so he didn't know if it was true. In fact, he'd never even thought about it, but apparently his friend had, and it stuck with him and made him proud in a way. Over the years, he'd never had to take a bullet, but he'd had to take lots of other things, and it always made him proud. But, walking on the shady side of 40, he now realized the one problem for people who take bullets. Nobody takes bullets for them. When you're always taking what other folks have to dish out, you tend to attract the dishers, not the dishees. That little blonde waiting outside in the car was probably another dishee. It was just a matter of time.
As that thought echoed in his skull, he snapped to attention and got down to the business of searching the soon-to-be stiff.