Scotty said, “Yes, there is.”

“Man, he’s not that stupid. He’s got a spot at his house or a stash hole someplace.”

Scotty shook his head. “He’s complacent. He launders out of here. He’s got to have records he can tap into. He’s got a vault somewhere.”

Marsh ran back to Thornton. He was Mr. Clean and the Laundryman. Now he’s all shit, blood and piss.

Marsh slipped on sap gloves. Twelve ounces per-lead palm and finger strips.

Marsh said, “You tell me now.” Marsh flexed his hands. Marsh punched Mr. Clean in the back.

Thornton sobbed and curled up tight. Scotty ran over and eased Marsh back.

“No. Don’t. Be calm now, brother. We hit the walls first.”

Marsh went limp. Yes, brother-okay-yes, yes.

Scotty let him go. Marsh crashed into the wall unit. Scotty ran to the storage closet and grabbed a crowbar. Marsh goofy-grinned.

They banged the walls.

They ripped and gouged the walls.

They took turns swinging.

They threw sweat. They got drenched. They took turns to catch their breath and kept swinging.

They hit Thornton’s office walls and the break-room walls and the teller’s cage walls. They hit the bank proper walls and kept swinging. They ripped out baseboard and timber. They ate plaster dust and chips. They heard Thornton moaning and coughing. They swung and ripped and traded shots and weaved on their feet.

They hit the rear hallway. Scotty leaned back, dead limp. Marsh took the first swing. A wall chunk fell out. A cloth ledger dropped in his hands.

It was plastic-wrapped and tape-sealed. It was twelve-by-eight and paper-packed. Scotty tore the cover off. Marsh scanned the first page. It was all bisecting columns and numbers. Dates on the far left. The first one: 4/64.

They wiped their eyes. They turned the pages. They saw dates, figures and number-coded designations. They saw the day-by-day/held-at-bank sums. Final figure: seven mil plus.

Marsh said, “The heist cash was seed money. He launders it and lends it. They started with two, and it stands at seven now. That’s what they’ve got here. It’s an on-the-premises tally.”

Scotty said, “There’s a vault.”

The ledger was leather-lined. Marsh knife-slashed the edges and reached in and around. A piece of paper slid out.

Schematic drawing. A black box. Numbers noting size and placement. A tuck-away. Maybe here, maybe not. A secret vault. Not the main vault.

They walked back to Thornton. He was sitting up. His blood was sticky-thick and crusting. He made a little tooth pile. Plaster dust covered him. His sweat made it mud.

Scotty said, “Where’s the vault?”

Thornton shook his head.

Marsh held up the drawing. “The vault. The combination.”

Thornton said, “No.”

Scotty kicked him in the leg. Thornton flipped him the bird. Marsh bent the finger back and broke it. Thornton mouth-muzzled a scream.

Marsh grabbed the crowbar and ran to the hallway. Scotty checked his watch-three hours inside. Thornton spit a tooth in his lap. Scotty winked at him.

“I’m always amazed when bright guys like you go the hard way. We should all be celebrating now.”

Thornton said, “Fuck your mother. White-trash, peckerwood scum.”

Wall knocks started up. Marsh swung hard and fast. More dust and mortar shards blew. More mulch fallout settled.

Marsh kept it up. Thornton spat dust-thick blood. Scotty sat down and shut his eyes. He was all-over ache.

The banging stopped. Marsh went, “Wooooooooo!” He ran over. Scotty kept his eyes shut. The lids weighed ten thousand pounds apiece.

“It’s a clip file, brother. It goes back to spring ‘64. You’ve got the clips on the beneficiaries and a list of their names and addresses. It’s History, man. There’s the families of some guys who got lynched in Mississippi, the church girls from Birmingham, this woman who lost her son in the Watts riot.”

Scotty opened his eyes. Marsh was cradling paper scrolls and news clips. Thornton gritted his mouth. His teeth were gone. It was a gum-to-gum grit.

Marsh dropped the paper load. It fell short of a blood spill. The chilled air fluttered it.

“Hundreds, partner. Police-shooting victims, sick people, protesters shot down south. You’ve got Mary Beth Hazzard and her dead husband all the way up to ‘Ex-Champ Liston on Skids.’ ”

Scotty love-tapped the Laundryman. “Tell me the combination.”

Thornton shook his head.

Scotty said, “Are the emeralds on the premises?”

Thornton said, “Fuck you.” Marsh grabbed his right thumb and broke it.

THAT’S a scream-ten seconds long.

Scotty said, “Tell me how well you know Reginald Hazzard.” Thornton said, “Fuck you.” Marsh grabbed his right pinkie and broke it.

THAT’S a shriek-twelve seconds long.

Scotty said, “Are the emeralds on the premises? Do you send them out? Are they sent to you to send? Is Reginald overseas somewhere? Who else is involved in all of this?”

Thornton said, “Fuck you.”

Marsh grabbed his left thumb and broke it.

Screams and shrieks. Earsplitting shit-a full minute.

Scotty pulled out his confession flask. Marsh grabbed Thornton’s hair and jerked. Thornton opened up wide. Thornton sucked like he wanted it. His eyes said Refill.

Sure, Boss. It’s on the house.

Thornton retched and kept it down. Scotty checked his watch. One minute to let it seeeeeep.

Thornton flushed and flexed his hands. Thornton kneaded fucked-up body kinks. Liftoff at forty-three seconds.

“I don’t know where Reggie is. I get mail drops from overseas. They’re sent under mail cover from different locations. I forward the emeralds, but they come to me through a cutout.”

“Cutout”-woooo-mother dog!

Scotty said, “Name the ‘cutout.’ ”

Thornton coughed. “I don’t know her name.”

Scotty said, “Her?”

Marsh said, “Describe her.”

Thornton dry-coughed. “White, in her forties, glasses. Dark hair with gray patches.”

Marsh did a double take. Scotty read it. Brother, I knows you.

Thornton wet-coughed. Blood dripped down his chin.

“Where’s the vault?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Give me the combination?”

“I’m not going to.”

“Put this thing together for us. We’ve got time to listen.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Explain the business code in the ledger.”

“I’m not going to.”

Marsh flexed his sap gloves. Scotty jerked his arms back.

“Go in his office and get his address book. It’s in the top right-hand drawer.”

Thornton leaned back and trembled. Marsh ran off, scanning his pen-light. Scotty checked Thornton’s handcuffs. His wrists were ratchet-gouged deep.

Marsh ran back. Scotty skimmed the book name by name. They read by penlight. Marsh hovered over him. “A” to “K”-two women. Janice Altschuler, April Kostritch. A tweaker at “L”-SAC John Leahy/FBI #48770.

Two more women: Helen Rugert and Sharon Zielinski. Cutouts? Basic vibe: no.

Scotty tossed the book. Marsh said, “Altschuler, Kostritch, Rugert, Zielinski.”

Thornton hack-coughed. “Those women are city council staffers and lawyers. I told you, I don’t know the cutout’s name.”

Scotty cracked his knuckles. “Where do you call her?”

“I don’t. She calls me.”

Marsh picked the book up and thumbed through it. Scotty cracked his knuckles loud, upside Thornton’s face.

“Why is Jack Leahy’s name in your book?”

“We’re friends. We play golf.”

“Are you an FBI informant? Is 48770 your confidential Bureau number?”

“No, we play golf!”

Scotty slapped him. Thornton thrashed his head. Scotty wiped blood and snot on his pant leg.

“Are you a confidential Bureau informant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever know or work with the late Dr. Fred Hiltz?”

“The fucking ‘Hate King’? Why would I?”