Jimmy stuck his head out the van window. “Get him into the shrubs.”

I dragged Mr. Dead into the bushes by his heels. I checked his pockets for extra shotgun shells but didn’t find any. I picked up the shotgun and climbed back into the passenger seat. “Drive.”

I checked the shotgun’s load. It held six double-ought shells. The pillow was about out of stuffing, so it was past its prime as a silencer. I tossed it out the window and returned the automatic to its shoulder holster. I pulled a pair of latex gloves out of my pants pocket and put them on.

Jimmy parked the van in front of the warehouse, and when nobody came out to squirt lead at us, I told him to keep his revolver loose and wait.

“Anybody comes at you, cut loose on them with your.38,” I said to Jimmy. “Don’t follow me in there, or I’ll shoot you by mistake. Got it?”

Jimmy nodded. He looked pale.

“Just stay here and protect yourself.” I tried to sound reassuring. “I’ll be doing the rough work.”

“Right.”

I kept the shotgun low and strolled up to the loading dock door nice and casual, like Avon calling. I tried the knob. It was unlocked, so I went in. A short hall. One end opened into the warehouse, a maze of crates and boxes. The other end of the hall ended at an office. I started toward it, and a young man emerged in denim and flannel. He was just out of his teens, fair-haired, thin. He had a half-eaten sandwich in his fist and chewed earnestly. He spotted me and the 12-gauge and froze.

I brought the shotgun up slowly, pointed it at his chest. “Nice and easy.” I tried to keep the tension out of my voice and was surprised to succeed. “Back into the office.” He nodded, and I followed him in.

A square, wooden table dominated the center of the little office, and three men in work clothes sat around it. Denim, more flannel, work boots, feed caps. They started pushing away from the table at the sight of me, but sat still again when I kicked the door closed and pumped a shell into the shotgun’s chamber.

The table was covered with empty potato chip bags and playing cards. “On break, huh boys?”

They didn’t say anything.

“Anyone carrying a gun?”

They shook their heads.

I lifted my chin at the fair-haired kid with the sandwich. “What’re you all doing here?”

He licked his lips and darted his eyes at his buddies. No help there. He looked back at me and said, “We’re waiting to close the place up. Everyone else went home.”

I looked at their faces. One scared, one angry, two blank. One of those office phones with buttons for an intercom hung on the wall. I ripped it down and tossed it in the corner.

“Where’s your boss?” I asked the kid.

His eyes darted to his buddies again.

“I didn’t ask them, kid. I asked you.” I didn’t quite point the shotgun at him, but I held it up and reminded him it was there.

“Upstairs,” he said. “There’s a spiral staircase across the warehouse, and he’s got the big office up there.”

“What’s his name?”

“Norman,” said the kid.

I knew that name. The other guy from the parking garage.

“Who’s with him?”

“Frank and Emery.”

I didn’t know them; it didn’t matter.

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“What about an old man?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Guns?”

The kid’s mouth hung open, and he shrugged. He looked anxious at not being able to answer.

One of his pals jumped in to help out. He was older, a salt-and-pepper beard and a green John Deere cap. “I’d guess so, partner. I sure never seen ’em lift anything when the trucks come in.”

“What trucks?”

“We’ve been loading trucks all day, cardboard boxes. Couldn’t tell you what’s in ’em. But that’s all we do. Just lift and move.”

I nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch, letting them sweat a little. Finally, I said, “Count to sixty, then get out of here. Don’t come back. Don’t even look back. There’s a world of shit coming down. You understand?”

They nodded.

I backed out of the room and closed the door. I threaded my way through the warehouse and found the spiral staircase at the rear. Halfway up the stairs I heard the distant pop pop pop of a pistol outside. Jimmy. I grit my teeth. He’d have to be on his own.

I double-timed it up the stairs, and just as I hit the landing, one of Norman’s goons erupted from the office with a pistol in his hand. They must’ve heard the shots, because he came out looking for trouble and leveled his piece at me.

The shotgun bucked in my hands, and the double-ought pellets tore across his chest, a grease splatter of ruby geysers on his white shirt and striped tie. He stumbled back two halting steps, teetered for balance, then fell forward. I rushed the office door hoping to catch Norman and his other man before they could get their ducks in a row.

Once inside, events slowed. I no longer had surprise on my side, so I had to choose my targets carefully. I didn’t see faces, only arms and legs and hands holding guns as I took in the situation instantly. And somewhere, in the distant reaches of the lump of rock I laughingly called a brain, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. If I’d had one of my automatics in each hand like usual, I’d have been able to take them both. But I could only point the shotgun at one.

Norman stood behind the desk. He went for something in the top drawer. The man on my left was too close. He stuck a revolver in my face, and I saw the chamber turn in slow motion as he squeezed the trigger. I didn’t have time to do anything but slap my left hand over the end of the barrel, my fingers closing over the gun, pushing it away.

The bullet tore through my palm and exited the back of my hand as I fought down a wave of nausea. I pointed the shotgun in his general direction the best I could with one hand and blasted him in the knee. He collapsed, screaming from the bottom of his throat.

I dropped the shotgun and turned on Norman as I drew the.38 from my belly holster.

He was faster.

He fired twice and one bullet whizzed past my ear, the second taking off a chunk of my right earlobe. I ducked, unloading all six bullets at him. Four slugs tore through a stack of file folders on his desk, sending papers leaping into the air. The fifth caught him low in the belly, the last in the center of his chest. Norman fell stiffly across his desk, rolled off it and landed hard on a large cardboard box. The man with the destroyed kneecap was still screaming.

I shuffled over to him, turned the pistol around in my hand. Three swift strikes with the butt of the pistol at the base of his skull finished him. The room smelled like copper and gunpowder. I was about to throw up but kept it in. I was a bloody mess. My own blood on the left hand, his in my right from the pistol whipping. The fingers of my left glove filled with blood. I found the restroom and grabbed a wad of paper towels to slow the bleeding from my palm.

My head was light, my throat dry.

Back in the office, I searched the desk, didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d come for answers and found bodies. I kicked the guy off the cardboard box and looked inside. Plastic bags wrapped in tight bundles. I grabbed a letter opener from the desk, ripped into one of the packages. A bundle of cash, old bills.

Stan wasn’t here, and I hadn’t found out dick.

Outside, I found Jimmy by the moving van, two of the warehouse workers dead at his feet. One was the fair-haired kid.

Jimmy got an eyeful of me. “Christ, Charlie. You okay?”

I ignored the question, still looking at the dead men. “What happened here?”

“They tried to make a run for it,” said Jimmy. “Two others got away, but I nailed these two.”

He sounded proud of himself, and I didn’t bother to set him straight. Dumb son of a bitch.

“I’ll call about a doctor,” said Jimmy. “I think I know somebody safe.”