Ray finally tipped his beer. “What about Eddie?”

“What about him?”

“He’s still on the hook with Chicago for two-fifty and some change, based on what he said earlier.”

“Boo-hoo for Uncle Eddie,” Tony said. “Guy’s worth at least a couple million. He can eat a couple hundred thou.”

“That’s cold.”

“Cold?” Tony shook his head. “Nah, man, see, cold is when you give some mule a bigger TV than your own favorite nephew.”

Ray chuckled.

“I mean, shit. You know?”

“I guess he’s not going to wonder how come his favorite nephew is such a big spender all of a sudden?”

“You think I’m stupid,” Tony said. “Is that it?”

“Maybe Grocery Boy won’t be such a pushover.”

“Now you’re insulting both of us.”

Ray chuckled again, sipped his beer.

“Grocery Boy won’t have shit to say about shit,” Tony said. “Eddie’ll cover Chicago out of his pocket ’cause that’s what he’d do without us anyway. Everybody’s back to even, live and learn.” He spread his hands. “Briggs and Salcedo have a bountiful Thanksgiving.”

“Bountiful, huh?”

“Gobble gobble, brother.”

Sure. It would have been nice to find a bag full of Eddie’s cash under Grocery Boy’s bed, go home early, crack open a six-pack, and play some Madden 360. Quick, clean, done. Back to the soup aisle for Grocery Boy.

But even Tony didn’t figure they could ask for it that easy. Had to give credit where credit was due.

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So what do you think?”

Ray shook his head, smiling. “It’s your uncle, man.”

Tony still had half an urge to toss the place old school, make sure they hadn’t missed anything. But at this point, his gut said the loot wasn’t here.

Guy drew outlines around the tools hanging in the garage, just so they’d always go back in the right spot. Except for the boarded-up living room, the place was buttoned down and squared away. They hadn’t found so much as a porno stash.

Guy like that decided to hide something, he hid it good and deep. Eddie’s cash wouldn’t be here, Tony was sure of it. And tossing the place would only tip Grocery Boy off that somebody was looking.

No point in spooking him. Yet.

Ray finished his beer, then threw Tony a hard look. Did you hear that? At the sound of the back door rattling open, he hopped up from the table, pulling down his mask.

Tony hadn’t heard a car pull in. Hadn’t seen any headlights hit the windows. He was right behind Ray; they stepped out of the kitchen, into the darkened living room.

Grocery Boy was home.

16

“Hello?”

A male voice. Medium deep.

“Anybody home?”

It seemed to Tony like they were spending too much time lately getting caught in the act of breaking and entering. He looked across the doorway toward Ray.

Ray tapped the side of his head with one gloved finger, then pointed the same finger at Tony: Think fast. It’s your play.

“It’s John,” the voice called. “I’m letting myself in.”

Tony remembered four or five stair steps leading up to the kitchen from a small mud porch inside the back door. They heard the back door close, and the stairs began creaking. Slowly.

There came a rubbery squeak at the top of the steps, followed by a heavy, rhythmic pattern. The sound moved toward them across the kitchen floor.

Ray took a step back, retreating into the shadows.

Tony couldn’t put his finger on what he was hearing. Not like regular footsteps. It was almost a mechanical sound: slow, steady, punctuated by labored, pistonlike breathing.

Crutches. It was the sound of somebody walking with crutches.

On Ray’s signal, Tony edged forward and took a peek.

A guy in a flannel coat and sweatpants worked his way toward the phone on the near kitchen wall. White, late middle age. On his good foot, he wore a scruffy work boot. The other leg wore a padded splint and one hell of a steel brace, sweats cut away at the knee.

The guy leaned on his crutches as he dialed a number, still panting from exertion, not looking so hot. Every so often, he pressed another number. Punching through menu options, Tony deduced.

“Yeah, hello,” he finally said. “My name is John Pospisil. That’s right. P-O-S…”

He finished spelling the last name, gave his address. Gave somebody permission to access his account.

Tony mapped the address in his head. It had to be right across the street.

He noticed the dirty puddles of melt collecting beneath the rubber tips of the crutches and understood why they hadn’t heard a car pull up the driveway. Mr. Pospisil here had come over from across the street on foot. On one foot, literally.

“Yep,” he said. “Yes. Well, my power went out in the storm—yep, sure was. You can say that again. Anyway, I’ve been laid up at home for several weeks, and I can’t really drive anywhere, so I’ve been running the oven every couple hours for heat. Sorry? Yes, the kitchen stove.” He sighed. “I know. Yes, I…I understand that you wouldn’t recommend it, miss. I’m just explaining the situation.”

Tony tried to think. Had he and Ray left the back door unlocked after checking the garage? They weren’t that sloppy. The guy must have known where to find a spare key.

“Well, that’s the problem,” he said. “The whole place smelled like gas before I realized the pilot had gone out.” A pause. “Yep, I did that first thing. But I can still hear the gas line hissing.” Pause. “Yep. It’s an old stove, I figure there must be a bad…no, I’m calling from the neighbor’s. I was afraid if the power came back on all of a sudden I might wake up on the moon.”

More talk. The guy gave some billing information, then confirmed his address.

“Thank you, miss,” he finally said. “I’ll be watching for ’em. You, too, now. Thanks again.”

As Pospisil hung up the phone, Tony ducked back and downshifted, rethinking the situation.

He’d geared himself up, ready to take a run at Worth here and now. It hadn’t been the plan, but as long as they were here, now was as good a time as any.

But here was this guy. Cold as it was, and after the effort it had obviously taken him to get over here, you could bet Mr. Gas Leak from across the street wouldn’t be going anywhere until the utility truck pulled up at his place.

Tony motioned to Ray. Front door.

He heard something crunch beneath Ray’s foot in the darkness.

From the kitchen: “Hello?”

Long silence.

“Is somebody here?”

Tony heard a faint clink of glass and remembered their beer bottles on the kitchen table. One was empty, the other half full, both of them probably still frosty from the fridge.

“I said, is somebody here?”

Thud-step-thud.

Shit. Tony scratched his nose, stepping back into the corner.

It wasn’t until he’d scratched his nose that he realized he’d misinterpreted his partner’s earlier hand gesture. Ray had tapped his head and pointed. But he hadn’t been telling Tony to call the play.

He’d been saying: You forgot to put your mask back on, dumbass.

And now here came Mr. Gas Leak, hobbling through the doorway, gripping Tony’s ski mask against the handgrip of one crutch. He crossed out of the light from the kitchen, into the dark of the boarded-up living room.

“Who’s here?”

Jesus. What next?

No time to think about it. Tony followed his gut.

“Behind you,” he said.

As John Pospisil turned, Tony Briggs stepped forward and dropped him with a hard overhand right.

Not too hard. He’d worn a new pair of Subduer G5 winter tacticals: cut-resistant fingers, double-thick palms, eight ounces of powdered lead sewn into the knuckles.

Tony just wanted to neutralize the guy, not put him in a coma. So he pulled back twenty percent. Pospisil gave a low grunt and went down like a bag of sand.