'Then let me be on my way.'

'You ain't goin no goddamn where but back in that house.' Brock made a motion with the barrel of the gun. 'Now, get out the car.'

'You got no reason to take that tone.'

'Please… get out the motherfuckin car.'

She killed the engine and stepped out of the Toyota. She handed the keys to Brock, who tossed them to Gaskins, walking their way. Gaskins held a roll of duct tape in his free hand.

'My partner will drive it back,' said Brock. 'You come with me.'

'Look, if you gonna kill me, kill me now. I don't want no tape around my head.'

Brock smiled. 'I got the feelin we gonna get along.'

The woman's eyes appraised him. 'You look like a devil. Anyone ever tell you that?'

'Once or twice,' said Brock.

It was easy to get into the house. Chantel Richards phoned her boyfriend, Tommy Broadus, from outside, and he let her in by pushing a button from a remote in the living room, where he sat with his mule, a young man named Edward Reese. The storm door opened and behind it the main door cracked, and Chantel, Brock, and Gaskins went inside.

They walked into the living room, Brock and Gaskins with their guns drawn. Tommy Broadus sat in a large leather easy chair, a snifter of something amber in his hand. Edward Reese, in white Rocawear polo shirt over big jeans and Timberlands, sat in a chair just like it, on the other side of a kidney-shaped marble table. He was drinking the same shade of liquor. Neither of them moved. Gaskins frisked them quickly and found them to be clean.

Brock told Tommy Broadus that they were there to rob him.

'Clarence Carter can see that,' said Broadus, chains on his chest, rings on his fingers, his ass spilling over his chair. 'But I ain't got nothin of value, see?'

Brock raised his gun. Chantel Richards stepped behind him. He fired a round into an ornate, gold leaf-framed mirror that hung over a fireplace with fake crackling logs. The mirror exploded, and shards of glass flew about the room.

'Now you got less,' said Brock.

They all waited for their ears to stop ringing and for the gunsmoke to settle in the room. It was a nice room, lavishly appointed, with furniture bought on Wisconsin Avenue and statues of naked white women with vases resting on their shoulders. A plasma television set, the largest Panasonic made, was set on a stand of glass and iron and blocked out most of one wall. A bookcase with leather-bound volumes on its shelves took up another. In the middle of the bookcase was a cutout holding a large, lighted fish tank in which several tropical varieties swam. Above the fish tank was empty space.

'Tape 'em up,' said Brock.

Gaskins handed Brock his gun. Brock holstered it in his belt line, keeping the Colt trained on Broadus.

As Gaskins worked, duct-taping the hands and feet of Broadus and Reese, Brock went to a wet bar situated near the plasma set. Broadus had several high-shelf liquors on display, including bottles of Rémy XO and Martell Cordon Bleu. On a separate platform below were bottles of Courvoisier and Hennessey.

Brock found a glass and poured a couple inches of the Rémy.

'That's the XO,' said Broadus, looking perturbed for the first time.

'Why I'm fixin to have some,' said Brock.

'I'm sayin, you don't know the difference, ain't no reason for you to be drinking from a one-hundred-fifty-dollar bottle of yak.'

'You don't think I know the difference?'

'Bama,' said Edward Reese with a smile. Brock locked eyes with him, but Reese's smile did not fade.

'Tape that boy's mouth up, too,' said Brock.

Gaskins did it and stepped back. Brock took a sip of the cognac and rolled it in the snifter as he let it settle sweet on his tongue.

'That is nice,' said Brock. 'You want some, brah?'

'I'm good,' said Gaskins.

Brock drew the Glock and handed it to Gaskins.

'Awright, then,' said Brock. 'Where your stash at, fat man?'

'My stash?'

'Your money only. I don't want no dope.'

'Told you, I got nothin.'

'Look, you seen I got no problem using this gun. You don't talk real quick, I'm gonna have to use it again.'

'You can do whateva,' said Broadus. 'I ain't tellin' y'all shit.'

Brock had another sip of his drink. He put the snifter down and went to Chantel Richards. He touched a finger to her face and ran it slowly down her cheek. She grew warm at his touch and turned her head away.

Broadus's expression did not change.

'I'll give you a choice,' said Brock. 'Either you give up your shit or I'm gonna fuck Chantel right here in front of you, understand? What you think of that?'

'Go ahead,' said Broadus. 'Invite the whole goddamn neighborhood, you got a mind to. They can take a turn with it, too.'

Chantel's eyes flared. 'Motherfucker.'

'You don't love your woman?' said Brock.

'Shit,' said Broadus. 'Most of the time, I don't even like the bitch.'

Brock turned to Gaskins. 'Fix the lady a drink.'

'What you want, girl?' said Gaskins.

'Martell,' said Chantel Richards. 'Make it the Cordon Bleu.'

Brock and Chantel sat on a king-size bed in the master bedroom upstairs. Atop the dresser were several ornate boxes that Brock assumed held jewelry. He could see many suits, a neat row of shoes, and a set of designer luggage through the open door of the walk-in closet. Chantel drank some of the cognac, closed her eyes, and hit it again.

'This is good,' she said. 'One hundred ninety a bottle. I always wondered how it would be.'

'First time you had it, huh?'

'You think he'd ever let me have a taste?'

'Man doesn't care about his woman, 'specially one as fine as you? Makes you wonder.'

'Only thing Tommy cares about is this house and all the things he done bought to put inside it.'

'That your jewelry?' said Brock, nodding toward the dresser.

'His,' said Chantel. 'He ain't buy me nothin. That car you saw? It's mine. I pay on it every month. I work.'

'What else he got?'

'He got an egg.'

'An egg.'

'One of those Fabergé eggs, he says. Bought it off the street. I told him they don't have no Fabergé eggs on no hot sheet, but he claims it's real.'

'I don't want no fake eggs. I'm talkin about money.'

'He got it. But damn if I know where it is.'

'That boy down there with him, with the smart smile. He come to pick up some cash, right? He mulin some dope back from New York tonight, isn't he?'

'I expect.'

'But you don't know where that cash is.'

'Tommy wouldn't tell me that. Guess he don't love me enough.'

'He do love his stuff, though.'

'More than life.'

Brock pursed his lips. He did this when he was working on a plan.

'Wasn't much of a yard in the front,' said Brock.

'Huh?'

'Is there grass out back?'

'He got some.'

'So he got a lawn mower, too.'

'It's out there in a shed.'

'Wouldn't be electric, would it?' said Brock. "Cause that would really fuck with what I'm seein in my head.'

Gaskins held the glock loosely at his side. Broadus and Reese sat taped in their chairs, with Reese's mouth sealed. Chantel had poured another drink and was alternately sipping it and inspecting her long painted nails.

Brock came from the back of the house and entered the living room. He was carrying a two-gallon plastic container of gasoline.

'Wh-what you fixin to do with that?' said Broadus.

Brock unlatched the cover on the yellow nozzle and the pressure cap on the rear of the container, and began to shake gasoline out and around the room.

'Nah,' said Broadus. 'Nah, uh-uh.'

Brock poured gasoline over the white-woman statues, splashed some onto the leather-bound books on the shelves.