It was as though for this length of time they indeed escaped the world and inhabited their private universe together.

A thought intruded. Judd found himself wondering whether this was what happened between men and women when they were in love. Was this the secret feeling of a honeymoon? Would he ever repeat some feeling of this kind with a girl? He could not imagine it with any girl he had met.

As they drove into the outskirts of Ann Arbour, Artie woke. The timing so far was perfect. It was exactly three o’clock, and the streets were still; only an occasional car passed silently on the snow. Judd parked in an alleyway close to the Alpha Beta house.

“Come on, tie it!” Artie turned his head for Judd to knot the black handkerchief. All alive now, alert. “If we get into trouble, give it to them!” The revolvers were against their hands, in their pockets.

They walked up the front stairs. Artie still had his key, but the door was open. Judd followed, across the living room and up to the second floor. They could hear snores. His eyes were adjusted now; he could make out the walls, the door spaces, Artie’s form, his beckoning arm.

Now Artie used his trick fountain-pen flashlight, the beam pointed to the floor. They entered Morty Kornhauser’s room first. The snitching sonofabitch was back from Denver. He and his room mate lay on their beds, dead to the world.

Judd’s fright was almost paralysing, but greater than his fright was a pride. He was mastering his fear.

Artie picked up Morty’s pants and went through the pockets. Judd went for the other fellow’s clothes, found the wallet, a watch. Artie seized them from his hands, indicating Judd was only to act as guard.

After his first shock of resentment, Judd put down the clothes. Just then, he saw the portable typewriter, in its case by Morty’s bed. Artie was already moving out of the room. Judd picked up the typewriter. Teach that snitch to write letters.

In the hall, Artie muttered, “For crissake. Loading us down with junk!” Judd set the typewriter near the stairs, to be picked up later.

They went through several rooms. In one, the guys were away. Home week-enders, Artie said. He prowled through their drawers at ease, finding a pair of gold cuff links, a fancy fountain-pen set, even stopping to read a love letter.

“C’mon!” Judd whispered urgently, but Artie lingered over the letter. Somewhere a door opened. Artie stepped quickly into a closet. They heard a guy shuffling to the bathroom, heard the plumbing, Judd all the while feeling murderously angry at Artie.

The guy was back in bed. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Judd said. At last they were in the corridor. What if the guy had seen the typewriter, even stumbled over it! “You frigging boob!” Artie snapped. But Judd picked up the machine.

As they got into the car, Artie let out a big laugh. They pounded each other. Success! Artie began to flip open the wallets. “Wait! Jesus, not here!” Judd pulled out and down the block. The plan had been to do another house, too, and for his turn Judd had picked the Delts.

It was nearly four o’clock – some furnace tender might begin to stir. But Artie was lit up, excited. Judd didn’t want to seem a coward. Besides, he owed it to the snotty Delts. Jews and dogs not allowed!

The door was unlocked there, too. Yet it seemed somehow more dangerous; robbing from gentiles was real.

Even while they were on the stairs, they heard a light switch snap on in one of the bedrooms. Judd turned and hurried back downstairs. He tangled with something, a lamp cord; he managed to catch the lamp before it fell, but it made a noise.

“I’ll kill you!” Artie snapped. They stood stock still in the hall. On the table lay some books, a camera. Artie picked up the camera. Things had become quiet upstairs. Artie started for the stairs again, but Judd held still. “You nuts?” he hissed. Towering over him black-masked in the dim hallway, his partner gave Judd a fleeting, shuddery, delicious thrill of suffocation, of death. “Somebody’s up,” Judd muttered. Artie growled, “You stink, you punk,” and pushed him out of the door. “Christ, that’s the last time I take you anywhere!”

“There was someone awake. We’d have been caught, sure,” Judd objected.

Artie grabbed the wheel, and the car leaped away. “Take it easy,” Judd begged. What a time for a smash-up, with all the stuff on them.

Suddenly Artie let out a wonderful laugh as he toyed with his pistol. “Morty! The way he was laying there, you could have stuck a rod up his ass, he’d never wake up!”

Judd had to laugh at the picture. He reached for his flask, opened it. Artie grabbed it from his hand, took the first swig, and in that moment Judd felt young, young, crazily happy; he felt the way a guy should feel!

Artie pulled into a side road to examine the haul. One of the wallets had a twenty-dollar bill in it. “The lying sonofabitch!” Artie complained. “He brags he always carries a fifty.” Altogether, there was nearly a hundred dollars. Saturday night. They should have figured the guys would have been out spending. As for the rest of the haul, several pretty hot-looking stickpins, cuff links, a couple of good watches, along with several cheap turnips. And the typewriter, Judd reminded Artie.

“That stupid piece of junk!” Artie burst out. “If you try to sell it, that’s just the kind of swag they can trace by the numbers on it.”

“Why should I sell it?” Judd said. He could use it.

Keep it? That made Artie decide he had a share in it, too. Judd flared. “You never even wanted to take it!” They screamed at each other. Artie drove a hard bargain. He’d keep the best of the gold watches.

“Keep them all!” Judd cried bitterly. “If that’s all it means to you.”

Artie called him a stinking punk amateur. If not for his backing out, they’d have cleaned the second place, too! Hell, Judd had no right to any of the swag; the Delt house was for him and he had screwed it up. Screeching, grabbing for the stuff, they scuffled, and then suddenly Artie started laughing and Judd too.

The atmosphere remained that way between them, swaying from playfulness to brawling. Artie was finishing the flask. Judd cried, “Save me some, you sonofabitch!”

Artie started the car, pulled onto the road. “You bastard,” he said, “if we’d have cleaned out the Delts, we’d be in clover.” Suddenly Judd had fallen into silence, moody. He hadn’t wanted Artie to start the car just then. And he hated to have Artie drive his car. Artie began a kind of act. “Listen, Mac, next time we go out, you do the way Charley says, or I get me another partner.”

Judd took it up. “For crissake, Charley, if not for me, you’d have got us both pinched. I saved you from getting caught.”

“Yeah? Mac, I pulled plenty of stuff and I never got caught. You’re just so goddam green you’re scared of your own shadow.”

Judd seized the flask. There was still some left.

“You didn’t even get a kick out of it!” – Artie was getting querulous again – “that’s why you wanted to stop.”

“Well, not the same kind of kick you get,” Judd said. “To me, it’s more of a stimulant than a gratification.”

Artie might not have heard. “I think I’ll get me a goddam date for New Year’s Eve,” he said. “You’re just a wet blanket.”

Judd drew in his breath. He must remain in full control of himself now; everything depended on it. Artie was teasing, that was all. Teasing. “New Year would be a hell of a night for a haul,” he observed.

Artie gave him a sidewise glance. Maybe he’d let Mac in on some more jobs; maybe they could pull some real stuff together instead of chickenshit. Only Mac had to know who was boss.

“Well,” Judd said quietly, “Mac, if I do what you want, you’ve got to do what I want. That’s equitable.”

Artie turned his face to him, this time, and there was the Dorian smile. “You want to make that a deal?”