"Hey!" the kid cried. "You're smushing me!" It was a boy, maybe nine or ten, with bright red hair and freckles all over his neck. Francis X. Kingsbury now steered the kid as if he were a toboggan.

They hit the gelatin sac at full speed and disengaged. The boy came out of the goo bawling, followed by Kingsbury, who was studying the dial of the stopwatch and frowning. He seemed not to notice the solemn group waiting outside the exit: the earnest young ticket taker, plus three uniformed security men. All were breathing heavily, as if they had run the whole way.

The ticket taker pointed at Kingsbury and said, "That's him. Except he wasn't bald before."

The security men, all former crooked cops recruited by Pedro Luz, didn't move. They recognized Mr. X right away.

The ticket taker said, "Get him, why don't you!"

"Yeah," said the red-haired tourist kid. "He hurt me."

"Mildew," said Francis X. Kingsbury, still preoccupied. "Fucking mildew under my fingernails." He looked up and, to no one in particular, said: "Call Maintenance and have them Lysol the Willy, A-S-A-P."

The tourist kid raised the pitch of his whining so that it was impossible to ignore. "That's the man who tried to smush me. On my bottom!"

"Give the little turd a free pass to the Will Bill Hiccup," said Francis X. Kingsbury. "And him," pointing at the ticket taker, "throw his ass, I mean it, off the property."

The boy with the Petey Possum swimsuit ran off, sniffling melodramatically. As the security men surrounded the ticket taker, Kingsbury said, "What, like it takes three of you monkeys?"

The men hesitated. All were reluctant to speak.

"You," Kingsbury said, nodding at the smallest of the guards. "Go back up and slide this goddamn tube. Yeah, you heard me. See if you can beat twenty-seven-point-two."

The security man nodded doubtfully. "All right, sir."

"Yeah, and my hair," said Kingsbury, "it's up there somewhere. Grab it on the way down."

Bud Schwartz paused at the door and looked back. "It don't seem right," he said. "Maybe just the VCR."

"Forget it." Danny Pogue was rocking on his crutches down by the elevator. "Where we gonna hide anything? Come on, Bud, let's just go."

The elevator came and Danny Pogue clumped in.

With one crutch he held the elevator door and waited for his partner. Bud Schwartz was trying to tear himself away from Molly McNamara's fancy condo. "Look at all this shit we're leaving behind," he said longingly. "We could probably get five hundred easy for the Dolbys."

Danny Pogue leaned out of the elevator. "And how the fuck we supposed to carry 'em? Me with these toothpicks and you with one good arm. Would you get your ass moving, please, before the bitch comes back?"

As they rode to the first floor, Danny Pogue said, "Besides, we got no car."

Bud Schwartz grunted sourly, wondering what became of the blue pickup. "I feel like she owes us."

"She does owe us. She owes us nine grand, to be exact. But we agreed it wasn't worth waiting, right?"

"I mean, owes us for this." Bud Schwartz brandished a gauze-wrapped hand. "Shooting us, for no good reason."

"She's a nut case. She don't need a reason." They got off the elevator and for once Danny Pogue led the way, swinging on his crutches.

They could see the gatehouse at the main entrance, on the other side of the condominium complex. Rather than follow the sidewalks, they decided to shorten the trip by cutting across the grounds, which were sparsely landscaped and dimly lit. In the still of the evening, the high-rise community of Eagle Ridge was at rest, except for a noisy bridge tournament being held in the rec room. On the screened porches of ground-floor apartments, couples could be seen watering their plants or feeding their cats.

As the two outsiders made their way across the darkened, shuffle-board courts, Danny Pogue's left crutch gave out and he went down with a cry.

"Goddamn," he said, splayed on the concrete. "Look here, somebody left a puck on the court."

Bud Schwartz said, "It's not a puck. Pucks are for hockey."

Danny Pogue held the plastic disk like a Danish. "Then what do you call it?"

"I don't know what you call it," said Bud Schwartz, "but people are staring, so why don't you get up before some fucking Good Samaritan calls 911."

"I ought to sue the assholes for leaving this damn thing lying around."

"Good idea, Danny. We'll go see a lawyer first thing in the morning. We'll sue the bastards for a jillion trillion dollars. Then we'll retire down to Club Med." With great effort, Bud Schwartz helped Danny Pogue off the cement and steadied him on the crutches.

"So who's watching us?"

"There." Bud Schwartz raised his eyes toward a third-floor balcony, where three women stood and peered, arms on their hips, like cranky old cormorants drying their wings.

"Hey!" Danny Pogue yelled. "Get a life!"

The women retreated into the apartment, and Danny Pogue laughed. Bud Schwartz didn't think it was all that funny; he'd been in a rotten frame of mind ever since Molly McNamara had shot him in the hand.

As they approached the gatehouse, Danny Pogue said, "So where's the taxi?"

"First things first," said Bud Schwartz. Then, in a whisper: "Remember what we talked about. The girl's name is Annie. Annie Lefkowitz."

He had met her that afternoon by the swimming pool and gotten nowhere – but that's who they were visiting, if anybody asked. No way would they mention Molly McNamara; never heard of her.

A rent-a-cop came out of the gatehouse and nodded neutrally at the two men. He was a young muscular black with a freshly pressed uniform and shiny shoes. Over his left breast pocket was a patch that said, in navy-blue stitching: "Eagle Ridge Security." Danny Pogue and Bud Schwartz were surprised to see what appeared to be a real Smith&Wesson on his hip.

The rent-a-cop said: "Looks like you guys had a rough night."

"Barbecue blew up," said Bud Schwartz. "Ribs all over the place."

Danny Pogue extended his wounded foot, as if offering it for examination. "Burns is all," he said. "We'll be okay."

The rent-a-cop didn't seem in a hurry to move out of the way. He asked for their names, and Bud Schwartz made up a couple of beauts. Ron Smith and Dick Jones.

"Where are you staying?" the rent-a-cop said. "Which building?"

"With Amy Leibowitz," answered Danny Pogue.

"Lefkowitz," said Bud Schwartz, grinding his molars. "Annie Lefkowitz. Building K."

"Which unit?" asked the rent-a-cop.

"We're visiting from up North," said Bud Schwartz. "We're not related or anything. She's just a friend, if you know what I mean."

"But which unit?"

Bud Schwartz made a sheepish face. "You know, I don't even remember. But her last name's Lefkowitz, you can look it up."

The rent-a-cop said: "There are four different Lefkowitzes that live here. Hold tight, I'll be right back."

The guard went back inside, and Danny Pogue leaned closer to his partner. The gatehouse cast just enough light to reveal a change in Bud Schwartz's expression.

"So help me God," said Danny Pogue, "if you leave me here, I'll go to the cops."

"What're you talking about?"

"You're gonna run, goddamn you."

"No, I'm not," said Bud Schwartz, although that was precisely what he was considering. He had spotted the yellow taxi, parked near a mailbox across the street.

"Don't even think about it," said Danny Pogue. "You're still on probation."

"And you're on parole," Bud Schwartz snapped. Then he thought: Hell, what are we worried about? We're not even arrested. And this jerk-off's not even a real cop. This guy, he can't stop us from leaving," said Bud Schwartz. "He can stop us from trying to get in, but he can't stop us from getting out."