“Fuck you, asshole. We sold sixteen CDs last week, and I’m all done talking to your sorry ass.” He opened his leather jacket and showed me the butt of a pistol sticking out of his waistband. “Now get the hell out of here.”

My hand darted into his jacket as he was finishing his tough talk, and I grabbed the pistol, pulled it out. I twirled it in my hand as his eyes widened until I was holding it by the barrel. I lifted it high and brought the butt down on his knee with everything I had. The kneecap shifted with a fleshy thuck.

Shane fell forward, his hands going to the knee. His cry sounded like an animal. “Ohmyfuckinggod! Ow shit, oh, Christ whatthefuck.” He rocked back and forth, his eyes filling with tears. “Oh please, oh please, God.”

I stood, got a handful of his jacket in my fist, and pulled him to his feet. He hopped on one leg. “Kid, that’s just the beginning. You and me are going to have a long, painful talk.”

The Laundromat leapt into action around me. Shuffling. The unhappy click and whirl of thumbs on revolver hammers. Bullets sliding into chambers.

“Freeze, motherfucker! Police. Drop the gun right fucking now.” It was the guy in the Saints jersey. “Right now! Do it. Drop the gun.”

I froze, looked around, but didn’t drop the pistol. The little old lady with the knitting needle pointed a magnum at me the size of a howitzer. No less than four of the other Laundromat patrons stood with pistols in hand, ready to make me heavy with lead. I was real unhappy with this turn of events.

“I said drop the gun!”

“Don’t be stupid, buddy,” said another. “We got you covered on all sides.”

“I don’t know this asshole,” said Shane.

“Nobody’s talking to you, fuckwad.” To me: “Drop it now!”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. “Wait. Just hold on a second. There’s been a mistake.”

“You’re making it now,” said the old lady. “Drop the gun, or I’ll blow your motherfucking balls off!”

“This ain’t my stuff.” Shane shook the bag in the air. He was still hopping on one foot. “I’m a musician, you fucks.”

Stupid. I was a dumb son of a bitch. Standing there like a putz, holding the wrong end of a revolver.

“Just shoot them both,” someone shouted.

The Laundromat’s big front window filled with headlights. A V-8 engine roared beyond. Heads turned. An explosion of glass as the Suburban plowed through the front window. The vehicle’s big tires bulldozed the shin-high row of brickwork, filling the place with dust, knocking plaster loose from the ceiling. Lou was behind the wheel, grinning like a madman.

Screaming. Orders. One stray gunshot.

He crunched the front bumper into a row of washing machines. They tipped, and warm, foamy water flooded the floor ankle deep. Water lines split open, covered everything in a thick sudsy spray. The guy in the Saints’ jersey made a grab for us, slipped, fell face first into the soup.

I leapt over the fallen row of washers toward Lou. I still had a hold on Shane’s jacket, but he didn’t clear the washers. His ribs smacked into the side of one, and he grunted pain. I dragged him over. The old lady jerked her trigger three times, and the washer sprouted three holes where Shane had been, the slugs making metallic tunks as they punched through the side of the machine.

The back door of the Suburban swung open, and Lou shouted, “Move it!”

Gunfire. Shattered glass. The windshield of the Suburban looked like a Braille scream. Lou’s head popped back up. He held one of my automatics, aimed high, emptied a clip into a row of dryers. The shots sent the police to the floor. I pulled Shane into the Suburban. “Go, Go, Go!”

Lou backed the thing out fast, but I hadn’t closed the door. It snapped off against the wall. Shots chased after us.

“Does that look like an unmarked police car?” Lou motioned with his chin to a beige sedan parked behind us.

I turned. Looked. “Maybe.”

Lou threw it into reverse and stomped the gas. He smashed into the sedan hard, jammed it up against three other cars near it. I grabbed Shane, kept him from bouncing out.

“Let me out of here,” he said. “You’re fucking nuts.”

“Shut up.” I pushed him onto the floor. Told him to stay there. Lou put us into drive, jerked the wheel, and tore out of the parking lot. I had to grab a seat belt to keep from sliding out myself.

“We’ve got to get off the road,” I said.

Lou nodded. “Right.”

He turned off the street, zig-zagged us into a dark residential neighborhood. In the background: sirens.

“We’ve got to ditch this tank.” I scanned the street for someplace likely.

“I know. I know.”

“Wait. Back up.”

Lou stopped the car, then backed up, stopped in front of a house with a For Sale sign. I hopped out, ran up to one of the front windows, looked in. No furniture. Empty. I ran back to Lou.

“Pull in around back. There’s a chain link fence with a gate. Pull in up close to the back of the house.” I jumped back into the Suburban. Sirens much closer.

There was a padlock on the gate. Lou pushed through it with the Suburban. I got out again, tossed the broken lock into the bushes, pushed the gate closed. One hinge was loose, but it would look okay from the street.

Lou had parked, gotten out. He had Shane by the collar of his leather jacket. I elbowed a hole through a glass pane of the house’s back door, reached in, and unlocked it. We went inside. Everything was dark, hot, and stale. Nobody had been there for a long time.

“Keep him here,” I told Lou.

“I got him.”

Shane didn’t say anything. I guessed he’d wised up some. He still limped.

I went through to the empty living room and peeked through a crack in the heavy drapes. Blue lights flashed with red down the street, edged closer, passed the house. I waited five minutes, and they came back the other way. This time two patrol cars, one following the other fast. I waited fifteen more minutes but didn’t see any more signs they were still searching the area.

I had Shane’s gun stuck in my pants, so I pulled it out and looked at it in the sliver of light that slid in through the crack in the drapes. I don’t think it had ever been fired. The light sliced through the room and fell across Shane’s face. He looked young. Two big men had grabbed him away, spirited him into the darkness. He looked scared.

Shane opened his mouth to protest, but a quick, hard look from me shut him up. I told Lou to search him, and he found a cell phone in the kid’s jacket pocket. It was one of those little kind, and Lou flipped it open, saying, “Kirk to Enterprise.”

I took the cell phone and handed it to Shane. “Call Benny.”

“What?”

“Call your brother.”

“I don’t-”

I slapped him hard across the face. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Don’t give me that shit. You dial him up right now. I’ll tell you what to say.”

“Okay, okay.” He dialed.

I said, “Tell him this address. Tell him to come here, you understand? Something went wrong with your drug deal, and you need him to come here. Tell me you understand.”

“Sure. I understand.”

We waited.

“Hello, Benny?”

I cocked his pistol and put the barrel against Shane’s temple.

“Yeah, it’s me,” said Shane. “I need your help. I had some problems with the drop.”

Benny’s voice screeched on the other end, and Shane pulled the phone away from his ear some.

“Take it easy, Benny. No, I can’t go into it right now.” Shane glanced at me, and I nodded. He gave Benny the address. Shane said, “Hurry.”

Benny showed up twenty minutes later. I had Lou stand behind the door and open it. I stood out of sight on the other side. We made Shane stand in front of the door about ten feet inside the house where Benny could see him. Shane still favored the bad knee.