"I've seen 'em, but they never made any sense to me. I mean, well, it always looks to me like they got just enough to pay their bills with. They ain't got any more at the end of the year than they had in the beginning."

Rudy chuckled. "I'm with you, Jackie. But they mean plenty to Doc. He can read them things like they was funny books."

"Plenty foxy, huh? A real brain." The kid shook his head admiringly, not noticing Rudy's sudden scowl. "But how come we're goin' so far out of our way to skim out, Rudy? Why go all the way up and across the country when we're only a few hundred miles from the border here?"

"You don't like it?" said Rudy. "You stupid sap, they'd be expecting us to travel in a beeline."

"Sure, sure," Jackson mumbled hastily. "What about that place we're holing up in? They really can't extradite us from there? Not no way?"

"You got nothing to worry about," Rudy told him. And again, for the moment, he was pitying. "There's this one old geezer, El Rey-that means The King, y'know, in Mex-well, him and his family, his sons and grandsons and nephews and so on, they run the place. The state or province or what the hell ever it's called. They really run it, know what I mean? They're the cops and the judges and the prosecutors and everything else. So long as you pay off and don't make no trouble with the locals, you're sittin' pretty."

The kid whistled appreciatively. "But, look. What's to keep 'em from grabbing a guy's loot, and knocking him off? I mean-uh-well, I guess that wouldn't be so smart, would it? The word would get around, and they wouldn't get no more customers."

"Just about one like you, and they wouldn't want any more," Rudy grunted. "You'd spread them idiot germs around, an' the whole population would turn stupid."

"I'm sorry-I didn't mean nothin'."

"And you don't. A big fat zero, that's you," Rudy said. And that was the end of his pity.

They had shaved late the night before, and they managed a wash by tipping the water jug over one another's hands. They combed their hair, brushed their clothes thoroughly with a whisk broom, and then, completely dressed, checked each other's appearance.

They wore dark suits, white shirts, and hats of a semi-Homburg type. Except for their shoulderholstered guns and their briefcases, they took nothing with them when they went out the back door to their car. The briefcases were large-much larger than they looked-and bore a bold-letter OFFICE OF STATE above an equally bold-stamped BANK EXAMINER. The car, with its immensely souped-up motor, appeared to be just another black, low-priced sedan.

Jackson climbed in with the briefcases, swung open the door on the driver's side and started the motor. Rudy peered around the corner of the abandoned house. A truck had just passed on the way into Beacon City. There was nothing else in sight. Rudy leaped into the car, gunned the motor and sent it rocketing down the weed-bordered lane to the highway.

He whipped it onto the highway, wheels skidding. He relaxed, slowing its speed, taking a long, deep breath. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered if someone had seen them coming out of the lane. They could have turned into it accidentally, or maybe to fix a tire on the buggy. Still, that was maybe, and maybes were bad stuff. A very small one, one that hadn't seemed big enough to kick out of the way, had tumbled Rudy the Piehead into Alcatraz for a ten-year fall.

He kept one eye on his wristwatch as he drove. They entered town on schedule to the minute, and Rudy spoke to the kid in a tight, quiet voice. "Now, this is going to be all right," he said. "Doc knows his job, I know mine. You're green, but it don't make any difference. All you got to do is just what you're told- just follow my lead-and we'll roll through it like smoke through a chimney."

"I–I'm not afraid, Rudy."

"Be afraid. What the hell? Just keep a cork on it."

At the corner two blocks above the bank, Rudy slowed the car to a crawl, swinging a little wide so that he could see down the main street. They were on schedule, but Mack Wingate, the bank guard wasn't. Automatically, Rudy killed the motor, then began to fumble futilely with the starter. The kid turned to him, white-faced.

"R-Rudy-w-what's the…"

"Easy. Easy, Jackie boy," Rudy said, the words quiet, his nerves screaming murder. "Guard's a little late, see, but it don't mean a thing. If he doesn't show fast, we'll circle again and…"

The guard came out of the hotel then, started briskly across the street. Rudy stalled a few seconds longer, and then smoothly started the motor and rounded the corner. In little more than a minute after the guard had entered the bank, Rudy was parking in front of it.

He and Jackson got out of the car on opposite sides, the boy lingering a step or so behind him. Crossing the walk, their briefcases turned to display the official stamp on them,Rudy gave a curtly pleasant nod to the storekeeper and received a vacant stare in return. Leaning on his broom, the man continued to stare as Rudy rapped on the bank door.

The kid was panting heavily, crowding on Rudy's heels. The gangster called, "Hey, Wingate! Hurry it up," and then turned a flat, steady gaze on the storekeeper. "Yes?" he said. "Something wrong, mister?"

"Just about to ask you the same," the man said pertly. "Bank ain't in no trouble, is she?"

Very slowly, his eyes hardening, Rudy looked him over from head to foot. "The bank's not in any trouble," he said. "You trying to make some for it?"

"Me?" The man's head waggled in anxious protest. "I was just makin' talk, you know. Just joking."

"There's a law against that kind of joke," Rudy told him. "Maybe you'd better get a new one, huh?:'

The storekeeper nodded feebly. He turned and tottered into his establishment, and Rudy and the kid entered the bank.

Rudy snatched the key from the floor, and relocked the door. The kid let out a croak of amazement, one finger pointing shakily to the guard's sprawled body. "Lookit! It I-looks like he'd had a p-pencil pushed through his head."

"What are you, the coroner?" Rudy blazed. "Get his cap on! Peel out of your jacket, and put on his!"

"That fellow outside, Rudy. D-do you suppose he'll…"

Torrento gave him a stinging backhanded slap. Then, as the kid reeled, he caught his lapels and yanked him up to within an inch of his face. "There's just two people you got to worry about, know what I mean? Just you and me. And you keep on playin' the jerk, there'll only be one of us." Rudy gave him a hard bearing-down shake. "You got that? Think you can remember it?"

The glaze drained out of Jackson's eyes. He nodded; spoke quite calmly. "I'm all right now, Rudy. You'll see."

He put on the guard's jacket and cap, pulling the bill low over his forehead. Then, since Rudy was afraid that the dead man might panic the other employees into hysteria, they pitched his body into the railed-off desk area and pulled a rug over it.

Back in the lobby proper again, Rudy put the kid through the final rehearsal. He wasn't supposed to peek out the door, of course. Make like he was, by rattling the shade a little, but not really do it. And when he opened the door, he wasn't to show nothing of himself but his jacket sleeve and maybe the bill of his cap.

"You don't need to sell 'em, see? They don't know anything's wrong, or if they do there's nothing we can do about it. Now-" Rudy tapped on the glass top of one of the high, marble-pedestaled customer's desks. "Now, here's the code again. Here's how you'll know it's one of the wage slaves and not some Johnnyahead-of-time wanting change for a quarter. There'll be a knock-knock-knock, like that, see? Then a knock and another knock. Three and two."

"I get it," Jackson nodded. "I remember, Rudy."

"Some code, huh? Must have took Doc two or three minutes to figure out with a pair of binoculars. But just the three employees will use the code; they'll show between now and eight-thirty. The big cheese gets here about a quarter of, and he don't knock. Just rattles the door latch and says, 'Wingate, Wingate!'"