Danny Pogue clapped his hands. "Jesus, you see that?"

"Yeah, hosing down her Targa. And here we are in the middle of a drought." Bud Schwartz braked softly to peer at the name on a cypress mailbox. "Danny, what's that house number? I can't see it from here."

"Four-oh-seven."

"Good. We're almost there."

"I was wondering," said Danny Pogue.

"Yeah, what else is new."

"Do I get twenty bucks if it's a brown Rottweiler?"

"They don't come in brown," said Bud Schwartz. "I thought you knew."

It wasn't a Doberman pinscher or a Rottweiler.

"Maybe some type of weasel," whispered Danny Pogue. "Except it's got a collar on it."

They were kneeling in the shadow of a sea-grape tree. "One of them beady-eyed dogs from Asia," said Bud Schwartz, "or maybe it's Africa." Dozing under the electric bug lamp, the animal showed no reaction to the sizzle and zap of dying moths.

Carefully Bud Schwartz inserted four Tylenol No. 3 tablets into a ten-ounce patty of prime ground sirloin. With his good hand he lobbed the meat over the fence. It landed with a wet slap on the patio near the pool. The weasel-dog lifted its head, barked once sharply and got up.

Danny Pogue said, "That's the ugliest goddamn thing I ever saw."

"Like you're Mel Gibson, right?"

"No, but just look."

The dog found the hamburger and gulped it in two bites. When its front legs began to wobble, Danny Pogue said, "Jesus, what'd you use?"

"About a hundred milligrams of codeine."

Soon the animal lay down, snuffling into a stupor. Bud Schwartz hopped the fence and helped his crutch-less partner across. The two burglars crab-walked along a low cherry hedge until they reached the house. Through a glass door they saw that all the kitchen lights were on; in fact, lamps glowed in every window. Bud Schwartz heard himself take a short breath; he was acting against every instinct, every fundamental rule of the trade. Never ever break into an occupied dwelling – especially an occupied dwelling protected by four thousand dollars' worth of electronic burglar alarm.

Bud Schwartz knew the screens would be wired, so busting the windows was out of the question. He knew he couldn't jimmy the sliding door because that would trip the contact, also setting off the alarm. The best hope was cutting the glass door in such a way that it wouldn't trigger the noise detectors; he could see one of the matchbook-sized boxes mounted on a roof beam in the kitchen. Its tiny blue eye winked insidiously at him.

"What's the plan?" asked Danny Pogue.

Bud Schwartz took the glass cutter out of his pocket and showed it to his partner, who hadn't the faintest idea what it was. Bud Schwartz got to his knees. "I'm going to cut a square," he said, "big enough to crawl through."

"Like hell." Danny Pogue was quite certain they would be arrested any moment.

Bud Schwartz dug the blades of the glass cutter into the door and pressed with the full strength of his good arm. The door began to slide on its rollers. "Damn," said Bud Schwartz. Cold air rushed from the house and put goose bumps on his arms.

Danny Pogue said: "Must not be locked."

The door coasted open. No bells or sirens went off. The only sound came from a television, probably upstairs.

They slipped into the house. Bud Schwartz's sneakers squeaked on the kitchen tile; hopping on one leg, Danny Pogue followed his partner through the living room, which was decorated hideously in black and red. The furniture was leather, the carpeting a deep stringy shag. On a phony brick wall over the fireplace hung a painting that was, by Bud Schwartz's astonished calculation, larger than life-sized. The subject of the painting was a nude blond with a Pepsodent smile and breasts the size of soccer balls. She wore a yellow visored cap, and held a flagstick over her shoulder. A small brass plate announced the title of the work: "My Nineteenth Hole."

It was unspeakably crude, even to two men who had spent most of their adult lives in redneck bars and minimum-security prisons. Bud Schwartz gazed at the painting and said: "I'll bet it's the wife."

"No way," said Danny Pogue. He couldn't imagine being married to somebody who would do such a thing.

As they moved cautiously through the house, Bud Schwartz couldn't help but notice there wasn't much worth stealing, even if they'd wanted to. Oh, the stuff was expensive enough, but tacky as hell. A Waterford armadillo – how could millionaires have such lousy taste?

The burglars followed the sound of the television down a hallway toward a bedroom. Bud Schwartz had never been so jittery. What if the asshole has a gun? This had been Danny Pogue's question, and for once Bud Schwartz couldn't answer. The asshole probably did have a gun; it was Miami, after all. Probably something in a semi-automatic, a Mini-14 or a MAC-11. Christ, there's a pleasant thought. Ten, fifteen rounds a second. Hardly time to piss in your pants.

Danny Pogue's whiny breathing seemed to fill the hallway. Bud Schwartz glared, held a finger to his lips. The door to the bedroom was wide open; somebody was switching the channels on the television. Momentously, Bud Schwartz smoothed his hair; Danny Pogue did the same. Bud Schwartz nodded and motioned with an index finger; Danny Pogue gave a constipated nod in return.

When they stepped into the room, they saw the blond woman from the golf painting. She was lying naked on the bed; two peach-colored pillows were tucked under her head, and the remote control was propped on her golden belly. At the sight of the burglars, the woman covered her chest. Excitedly she tried to speak – no sounds emerged, though her jaws moved vigorously, as if she were chewing a wad of bubble gum.

Inanely, Bud Schwartz said, "Don't be afraid."

The woman forced out a low guttural cry that lasted several seconds. She sounded like a wildcat in labor.

"Enough a that," said Danny Pogue tensely.

Suddenly a door opened and a porky man in powder-blue boxer shorts stepped out of the bathroom. He was short and jowly, with skin like yellow lard. Tattooed on his left forearm was a striking tableau: Minnie Mouse performing oral sex on Mickey Mouse. At least that's what it looked like to Danny Pogue and Bud Schwartz, who couldn't help but stare. Mickey was wearing his sorcerer's hat from Fantasia, and appeared to be whistling a happy tune.

Danny Pogue said, "That'd make a great T-shirt."

With fierce reddish eyes, the man in the boxer shorts studied the two intruders.

"Honey!" cried the woman on the bed.

The man scowled impatiently. "Well, shit, get it over with. Take, you know, whatever the hell."

Bud Schwartz said, "We didn't mean to scare you, Mr. Kingsbury."

"Don't fucking flatter yourself. And, Penny, watch it with that goddamn thing!"

Still recumbent, the naked Mrs. Kingsbury now was aiming a small chrome-plated pistol at Danny Pogue's midsection.

"I knew it," muttered Bud Schwartz. He hated the thought of getting shot twice in the same week, especially by women. This one must've had it under the damn pillows, or maybe in the sheets.

Danny Pogue's lips were quivering, as if he were about to cry. He held out his arms beseechingly.

Quickly Bud Schwartz said: "We're not here to rob you. We're here to talk business."

Kingsbury hooked his nubby thumbs into the elastic waistband of his underpants. "Make me laugh," he said. "Break into my house like a couple of putzes."

"We're pros," said Bud Schwartz.

Kingsbury cackled, snapping the elastic. "Two hands, babe," he reminded his wife.

Danny Pogue said, "Bud, make her drop it!"

"It's only a .25," said Kingsbury. "She's been out to the range – what? – a half-dozen times. Got the nerves for it, apparently."

Bud Schwartz tried to keep his voice level and calm. He said to Kingsbury: "Your office got hit yesterday, right?"