Andreno: “You want my story, or you just want the pictures, or you want the pictures first and the story later?”

“Let’s see the pictures.”

SHRAKE CALLED: “The Jeep guys are moving.”

The Jeep moved out into traffic, then turned into the restaurant parking lot and parked. A moment later, the Corolla rolled down the street, made a turn, and parked next to the Jeep.

ANDRENO WAS SAYING, “I’ve got color xeroxes. The actual pictures are… close. But I want to see some money.”

“The money’s close,” Warren said. “Let’s see the pictures.”

There was a moment of silence, then Warren said, “That’s not me. That’s just not me. Sorry about that, but it’s not me. That might be my head, but they Photoshopped it onto somebody else’s body.”

“Well, you know, it sorta looks like you, asshole,” Andreno said, putting a little New Jersey into his voice. “Quite a bit like you. And there’s at least one guy still alive who’ll tell the cops it is you. Anyway, if it ain’t you, fuck it, I’ll take my pictures and hit the road.”

“Where’s Knox? I want to talk to him,” Warren said.

“I don’t want to talk to him,” Andreno said. “We had a pretty serious disagreement.”

“About what?”

“About I was supposed to bodyguard him, but when I get up there, he’s in some fuckin’ cabin on this fuckin’ lake and he wants me out in the woods with the fuckin’ ticks and mosquitoes and these little fuckin’ flies… They were chewing my ass up, and I sez, I gotta get out of there, and he sez, we gotta have you up in the woods, Ricky, and we went around about it, and I went back out in the woods, but when they went out-they went out a couple times a day-I lifted the photographs and took off. All I want is my money.”

“Your deal is with him, not with me,” Warren said.

“Yeah, but you’re the guy I fuckin’ got,” Andreno said. “You can get the money back from him: believe me, you don’t want these things rolling around out there.”

“Five thousand,” Warren said. “That’s all they’re worth.”

“Bullshit. You killed those people in Vietnam and Carl said this other guy, this first guy you shot here, was feeling guilty and was going to the cops and that’s why you killed him, and then you had to kill everybody.”

“That’s wrong. Carl’s killing people, not me. Carl’s the one who killed those people in Vietnam.”

“Horseshit, I’ve got the pictures,” Andreno said.

“Five thousand…”

“Five thousand, kiss my ass, that won’t buy gas to Vegas.”

A third voice, the first time the other man had spoken: “Shouldna bought that piece-of-shit Crown Vic. What you get, a mile to the gallon?”

“FUCK HIM,” Jenkins said.

Shrake: “He’s right. Can’t shoot him for that.”

ANDRENO: “Twenty. I gotta have twenty.”

“Well, fuck you,” Warren said. “You’re lucky to get five, and I gotta get back to work. You want the five, or what?”

“You gotta come up from that or I’m walking,” Andreno said. “Five is the same as nothing.”

“ANDRENO IS good at this,” Jenkins said.

WARREN SAID, “Last offer. Ten. You can have it in one minute. You get it when I see the photographs.”

Long pause. Then Andreno said, “Gimme the ten.”

WARREN MUST’VE nodded at the third man. He said to Andreno, “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t be back. I’m providing ninety percent of the security at the convention, and if I tell somebody you’re a risk, you’re gonna go away. So I better not see your face again.”

“What the fuck convention? What convention?” Andreno whined.

“The Republican National Convention. What, you don’t know what convention is coming here?”

“What the fuck do I give a shit about a bunch of political shit.”

AS THEY WERE squabbling, the third man left the restaurant, unlocked the back of the Cadillac, leaned inside, did something…

“Getting some money,” Virgil said. “They had more than ten thousand.”

WHEN WARREN ’S security man had the money, he walked quickly to the red Jeep, said something through an apparently open window, then hurried back to the restaurant.

“Something happening?” Shrake asked. “Maybe they’re gonna try to lift him.”

Virgil started his truck and said, “Get ready to move.”

INSIDE THE RESTAURANT, the third man’s voice came up. “Ten. Count it if you want, but keep it under the table.”

Another pause. Andreno: “Okay. Lot of money for a picture that isn’t of you.”

“Fuck you,” Warren said. “Where are the pictures?”

“Here…”

The third man said, “He’s got the money, we’ve got the pictures.”

Virgil asked, “What’s that? What’d he say?”

Andreno said, “What’d you say?”

The third man said again, to somebody unseen, “He’s got the money, he’s got the money.”

IN THE PARKING LOT, two guys got out of the Jeep and a third from the Corolla, and Virgil called, “Something’s happening, we gotta move,” and Shrake called back, “Hey, that second guy, that second guy is Dave Nelson, he’s with Minneapolis, he’s a cop.”

“I know the third guy, he’s with Minneapolis, I know his face,” Jenkins said, “Hell, they’re cops! They’re gonna bust Andreno.”

Virgil said, “God… damnit. They were wired. Mother…”

HE PULLED INTO the parking lot and stopped at the door, but all three of the men were inside and he hurried to catch up. He turned one corner inside, blowing past the hostess, who was looking after the Minneapolis cops anyway, and when he turned the next corner the three were crowded around Andreno and he could see Warren’s face, sneer playing across it, and Andreno was saying, “Wait a minute, wait a minute…”

All the customers in the restaurant were looking, some half standing for a better view, and then Virgil turned the last corner and one of the cops was telling Andreno to get out of the booth and Andreno settled back and said, “Look that way.”

The cop turned his head and saw Virgil coming, and then Shrake and Jenkins, and Virgil dropped open his ID and said, “BCA. You just busted our show.”

The lead Minneapolis cop looked from Virgil to Jenkins to Shrake and said, “Ah, shit.”

THEY ALL BOILED into the parking lot, Warren screaming-angry, ripping a wire from under his shirt. He tossed it at a Minneapolis cop and then pointed a trembling finger at Virgil. “You motherfuckers. You’re all done. You’re all gonna be unemployed in two fuckin’ hours. You don’t know what getting fucked is like until I fuck you…” Spit was flying from his mouth, and his face was heart-attack red and the Minneapolis cops were shaking their heads.

Virgil got tired of it and said to Warren, “Shut up. I’m tired of hearing it. So get us fired. Go do it. In the meantime, I’ll take the photographs.”

“You’re not taking any photographs.”

Warren put his hands up, and Virgil said, “You touch me, I’ll put you on the ground, and after we pull your teeth out of your throat, we’ll charge you with assault. Now, give me the photographs: they’re state evidence.”

The lead Minneapolis cop, whose name was Randy, said, “Give him the photographs. You gotta give him the photographs.”

“The photographs,” Warren said. “The photographs…”

He kept backing away, Virgil a step away from him, and Randy tried to get between them, but then Warren had his back against Virgil’s truck and Randy said, “Mr. Warren. Give him the photographs. This is enough of a screwup without you going to jail. If you push the man, I can tell you, you’re going to jail.”

“The photographs…” Warren was so angry that his entire body shook, but he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the envelope of photographs and gave them to Virgil. Virgil stepped back, checked them, put them in his pocket. “If I see those fuckin’ things on TV…”