His lungs gasped for air that had been knocked out of them by the wall.
"And what's wrong with me? You're wanted for the murder of a lounge singer and you have the nerve to ask what's wrong with me?" I asked incredulously.
He fought for the air to spit out his words, "Not for murder. I'm wanted for questioning."
"Right," I said, nodding my head. "And you're hiding out here because you're innocent?"
"No," he said as he pulled a flat glass flask out of his pocket and drank from it. "I'm hiding because I'm being framed for murder."