Big picked his way through the debris to the tellers' cages, where unfortunately there was no cash, since the bank had been closed when Morry arrived and all the money was in the vault for the night. The vault, when Big reached it, was undented but also unopened. It had a time lock, which Big had been hoping for, but with the electricity out, the vault thought it was still one-thirty in the morning, so forget that.

It was just too hard to see in here. Would the branch manager have a flashlight in his office? Why not?

The manager's office had also, at one time, been sheathed in frosted glass, which now went crunch-crunch beneath Big's feet. He opened desk drawers, pawed around, and in the bottom right found a small flashlight with a dying battery. By its dim light he saw there was nothing else of interest in the desk, but what was that underneath it?

The night deposit box. Morry's Infiniti had drop-kicked it across the bank, through the frosted glass, and into the manager's office, where it had come to rest partially under the desk.

And totally cracked open. In the flashlight's wan beam, Big saw the thick envelopes inside that metal box with the twisted-open door, and when he withdrew the envelopes every one of them was full of money. Only some of the money was cash, the rest being checks or travelers' checks or credit card slips (all of which Big left behind), but the cash was a nice amount, enough to make him look around the office for something to carry it all in.

And what have we here? A gray canvas bag, about a foot long and four inches deep, with a lockable zippered top. An actual money bag-what better for carrying money? Big filled it with the cash from the night deposit, then filled his pockets with the leftover, then decided to leave.

But. As he came out of the office, the flashlight weakly glimmering its last in his fist, he heard a sudden nasty whirring sound. It seemed to come from where he'd made entry, between the plywoods.

Yes. Apparently, the workmen were just about finished, and in making one last double-check of their work they'd noticed the same inefficient gap that had drawn Big's attention, which they were now correcting, with another complete sheet of plywood. The whirring sounds were their portable drills, and every whirr produced another screw spinning through sheets of plywood and into the bank, a full inch of leftover screw sticking through plywood every foot or so all around this area.

Never get through that. Big didn't like the concept of being able to get in without being able to get out, but this was looking very much like the concept he'd been dealt.

The whirring stopped. The workmen were gone. Outside, it was still a bright and sunny fall morning, while inside, in the dying of the light, Big paced the perimeter of his prison, looking for a way out.

When he reached the front of the bank, where the entrance door used to be, he looked up, and the ceiling looked funny. Damn this flashlight. But wasn't that a gap up there, between ceiling and wall?

What this required was to move a desk under that bit of ceiling, then put a second desk on top of it, then carry a chair- non-wheeled, non-swivel-up onto the top of the second desk, climb from desk to desk to chair, and there it was.

At this spot, directly above the original point of impact, the front wall had sagged down away from the ceiling, pulling a piece of ceiling after it. Big could reach that Sheetrock ceiling from here, and when he tugged, a big, irregular chunk of it fell away, missed him, hit both desks, and smacked onto the floor.

What was above? A two-by-six beam, also sagging down at this end, since the wall it had always been attached to wasn't in the right place any more. Big tugged tentatively at the beam, not wanting the whole place to come crashing down on him, and the beam moved in a spongy way, still firmly attached at other spots along its length but willing to angle down now if Big insisted.

He did. The floorboards above the beam popped free, not wanting to come down, but then, they would push up. And now Big needed more height.

The loan officer's four-drawer filing cabinet. He pulled out the drawers, dragged the cabinet to his desk-and-chair construction, lifted it up onto the second desk, then put the chair on top of the cabinet, climbed the open front of the cabinet, where the drawers used to be, climbed the chair, pushed some floorboards and some rug out of the way, then tossed the money bag up there. When it didn't come back, he used the dangling beam and the front wall of the building for leverage and worked his way up through ceiling/floor into a small, austere living room with not much more than a narrow sofa, a small TV and reproductions of race horse paintings on the walls.

A back way out. Big picked up the money bag, walked through the apartment to the bedroom, and there he saw a big, ugly dog seated in front of a closed closet door. The dog saw Big, curled his upper lip back over his teeth, turned and hurled himself at Big, who sidestepped, grabbed the hurtling dog by the throat, spun him around, opened the closet door, tossed the dog in, shut the door.

He was just turning toward the rear windows when pandemonium started in the closet: yelling, screaming, crashing around. Now what?

Big turned back to frown at the door, against which there was now a staccato rat-a-tat of frenzied knocking-wasn't there a handle on the inside? Apparently not, since muffled voices- more than one?-hoarsely begged from in there, "Lemme out!"

It was curiosity that made Big go back to reopen that door, and out tumbled three men and a dog. "Not you again," Big said, grabbed the dog in the same throat hold as before, and tossed him back onto the pile of clothing now messed up on the closet floor instead of lined up neatly on hangers. Slamming the door yet again, he turned to the three men on the floor, flopping around down there like caught fish in a bucket, and said, "And what the hell is all this?"

Rumsey blinked like an owl in the wrong barn. Around him, everybody was in confused, chaotic motion. On his right, "I can explain!" Algy yelled, while on his left, "Who are you people?" Stan demanded.

Rumsey gazed upward. "Big?" He withdrew Algy's elbow

from his right eye, Stan's knee from his solar plexus. "Big?" It was like a dream. A very strange dream.

The big man who'd rescued them, whether he wanted to or not, looked around at the three doing their Raggedy Andys on the floor. "I know you birds," he said.

"Of course you do," Stan said, having recovered his memory.

Rumsey, climbing up Algy to get to his feet, said, "I saw this thing in the News about Morry Calhoun-"

Stan, climbing up the bed to get to his feet, said, "-great shot of the car in the bank-"

Algy, scrambling around on the floor until Big grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and set him upright, said, "-so I thought I'd come see, is there any spillage."

"There was some," Big told him. "Not much." He gestured at the gray canvas money bag on the bed.

They all looked at it. Unfortunately, they understood, that bag belonged to Big now.

Rumsey spoke for them all-except Big-when he said, "All this, for nothing."

"I got mine, anyway," Big said comfortably. "I always get mine."

Algy said to the others, "And Big did come in handy with the dog, you got to admit."

"And I got wheels," Stan told them, "anybody wants a lift anywhere."

Rumsey was not consoled. He said, "What I come out here for wasn't wheels, or to get saved from some dog. What I come out here for was a score."

"Well, you know," Algy said, "I happen to be aware"-he looked at his watch-"twenty minutes ago, a bank three blocks from here was knocked over by a couple not very skillful guys. They didn't get much."