'How could they?' Pigeon said, peering inside the bag, unable to find a chip bigger than a dime.

'My name's Bubba,' Bubba said as he continued his sweep with the binoculars.

'I'm Pigeon.'

'Nice to meet you.'

Pigeon homed in on another kid who dropped his bubble gum on the sidewalk after three chews, when there was still plenty of flavor left. A woman in jogging clothes stepped on it.

'Thanks a lot!' she called out to the kid as he popped open a can of Orange Crush and walked off.

She lifted her foot and stared at strings of pink gum leading to a blob fixed to the tread of her right Saucony running shoe.

'I hate you!' she screamed at the kid as people walked around her, looking for a spot with a decent view. 'I hate all children! I hate people!'

'That would piss me off, too,' Pigeon said. 'Nobody cares anymore.'

Bubba focused on Smudge and his wife opening lawn chairs in a yard no more than fifty feet to Bubba's right.

'He probably doesn't even know those people,' Bubba mumbled with fresh fury. 'Just helps himself like he does with everything in life.'

'All the world's like that now,' Pigeon said.

'He knows I'm here, too,' Bubba said. 'The son of a bitch knows he owes me a thousand dollars. Says he has amnesia, doesn't remember the bet, so it doesn't count.'

'I don't know what happened to honesty,' Pigeon said.

Bubba watched Smudge open a checkered tablecloth and spread it out in the grass. He set down a blue ice chest, opened the lid and rummaged.

Pigeon searched in vain for a cigarette butt. He could tell the price had shot way up. People were smoking closer to the filter, leaving nothing for him.

He was shocked yesterday morning when he was picking his way along Main Street, downtown, and observed on the Dow Jones electronic message board outside Scott and Stringfellow brokers that the price per pack had increased another two dollars and eleven cents. If only Pigeon had bought more when he had the money from the pawn shop. He could have done some quick trading. He'd probably be rich.

Even as Pigeon was thinking that, Bubba reached into his shirt pocket for a pack. He shook out a cigarette without lowering the binoculars.

'Those Merit Ultimas any good?' Pigeon asked as Bubba lit up. 'That's one I haven't tried yet.'

'Oh yeah,' Bubba said. 'Anything Philip Morris makes is the best.'

'I've always thought so. How are those different from regular Merits?' Pigeon asked slyly.

'Want to try one?'

'That would be nice,' Pigeon said as Bubba passed him the pack. 'Why, thank you very much.'

Wailing police sirens and the thunder of cops on motorcycles sounded in the distance, signaling that the parade was starting. Weed was so excited his knees were shaking.

He was positioned to the right of Lou Jameson on the snare drum, who was wearing sunglasses like all the drummers did. He had never been very friendly to Weed and more than once had commented that anybody could play cymbals and he'd seen girls doing it in other bands.

Western Guilford High School in white and black was directly in front of Godwin. Lakeview Junior High in gold and green was to the rear. Bright, brave uniforms of all colors and designs must have stretched for a mile, Weed calculated. The parade was starting to move. The lead band out of New Jersey exploded into 'God Bless America,' which wasn't very original and the trumpets were a little off.

Weed stood tall and proud. He did a few toe lifts to loosen up.

'Left foot out and point flex and point flex and really stretch it,' he recited.

Jameson looked at him with disdain.

'Left heel two inches off ground while ball and toe remain touching the ground.' Weed practiced a low mark time with a quick, snappy motion. 'Ankle touches knee on end of each beat, toe pointed straight down the leg, feet flat.' He executed a perfect high mark. 'Push down on beat on left foot, then mark time.'

'Hey, cut it out,' Jameson said.

'No,' Weed retorted.

He used to be intimidated by Jameson. But after being arrested, getting locked up in detention, mouthing off to a defense attorney and striking a deal with a judge, Weed wasn't scared of anyone.

'Three, four, halt. To left, right, foot crosses over, mark time hut, and one, two, three, four, weight on toes.' His crab step was flawless.

'I told you to fucking cut it out,' Jameson whispered.

'Make me.'

'I'll beat your ass.'

'Hope you beat it better than you do that drum,' Weed said.

'TO THE READY!' the drum major shouted from the front.

Weed came to attention. One thing about his cymbals, they sure got heavy.

'BAND, TEN-HUT!'

He strained to see what the color guard was doing way ahead. When the woodwinds started forward marching, he knew he was next.

There was nothing random about Smoke's decision to steal the black nylon Stanley tool belt when he broke into Bubba's workshop. Its extra deep pockets were perfect and he had known it at the time, because Smoke had been planning for a while.

He was dressed in worn-out, soiled jeans, a filthy tee shirt and dirty scuffed Red Wing boots. A paint-spattered baseball cap was low over his eyes. He wore Oakleys and hadn't shaved in days. No one paid any attention to him as he walked across yards, trying to see the parade like everybody else.

Smoke had conducted a thorough surveillance in the George Wythe parking lot while the parade was lining up.

He knew where everyone was. He had spotted Weed. Smoke had walked right past the police chief and the two cops who had spoken in Godwin's auditorium. It was hilarious. Smoke's nerves were humming. He was pumping adrenaline and almost manic.

Concealed inside the pouches around his waist were the stolen Beretta and four ten-round clips and two fifteen-round clips and his Glock with three seventeen-round clips. That made a grand total of one hundred and twenty-one Winchester 115 grain Silvertip high-power cartridges.

He watched antique Jaguars and Chryslers cruise by, then the Corvette Club. People were waving and clapping, the weather great, everybody in a good mood. He spotted a sloping lawn that was a little higher above the street than those around it. Some jerk and a mousy woman were having a picnic on a red-checked tablecloth. Smoke had found the perfect spot. He walked right up to them, crossed his arms and looked out as the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the Red Cross rolled by.

Bubba recognized the Stanley tool belt immediately. Some construction guy was wearing it. The big black belt with its deep pouches was exactly like the one missing from Bubba's garage. Bubba focused the binoculars a little more, zooming in on the guy's face.

He looked about fifteen or sixteen, kind of puny and pale. The pouches were bulging and looked heavy. He had the padded yellow belt pulled as tight as it would go, the entire rig huge on him because it was an extra-large and the kid couldn't weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Bubba didn't see a single tool, no tape measure, no nails, nothing in the hammer holder, not so much as a handle protruding.

'That's my belt,' Bubba said as his heart picked up speed. 'I know it is!'

Pigeon looked where Bubba was looking, squinting as he smoked another Merit Ultima that Bubba had been pleased to give him.

'How do you know?' Pigeon inquired.

'I see a little white mark on the quick-release belt buckle. It might be my initials. I paint my initials in white on all my tools, on everything, to make sure when Smudge borrows something he can't turn around and say it's his!'

'Who's Smudge?' Pigeon asked, tapping an ash.

The last of some band in black and white was marching by, playing 'Take the "A" Train.' The drum major of the Godwin band was right behind it. Bubba stared through the binoculars, blood rushing to his head, his heart beating faster than a snare drum as he focused on the dark blue convertible carrying Hammer, West and Brazil. They were one band behind Godwin.