“Midnight Rambler” ended and the silence that replaced it for a moment filled the bar.

I could just barely hear a low, almost imperceptible chugging sound coming from the pool room. The sound of breathing. Patton was back in the dark somewhere, watching us.

Talk, Patrick. Talk or die.

“So, Ger,” I said and my throat felt dry, as if the words would strangle in my throat, “what’s new with you?”

“Not much,” he said, and I knew he’d given up on small talk. He watched Phil openly now.

“You mean outside of being interrogated by the FBI and all?” I grinned, tried to bring the forced lightness back to the room.

“Outside of that, yeah,” Gerry said, his eyes on Phil.

“The Long Black Veil” took “Midnight Rambler’s” place. Just one more song about death. Wonderful.

Phil stared at something around the corner of the bar, on the floor, out of my eyesight.

“Phil,” Gerry said. “Something interest you?”

Phil looked up sharply and then his eyes half-hooded over, as if he were completely nonplussed.

“No, Ger.” He smiled and held out his hands. “Just looking at that dog bowl on the floor, and, you know, the food in there’s wet, like Patton was just chewing it. You sure he’s upstairs?”

It was supposed to sound casual. I’m sure that’s how he intended it. But it came out sounding anything but.

The kindness in Gerry’s eyes disappeared into a vortex of pure black cold, and he glanced at me as if I were a bug under a microscope.

And I knew all pretense had ended.

I reached for my gun as tires screeched to a stop outside and Gerry reached under the bar.

Phil was still frozen when Gerry said, “lago!”

It wasn’t just the name of a Shakespeare character, it was an attack code.

I had my gun clear of my waistband when Patton burst out of the darkness and I saw the hard glint of the straight razor in Gerry’s hand.

Phil said, “Oh, no. No.” And ducked.

And Patton vaulted over his shoulder toward me.

Gerry’s arm shot out and I leaned back as the razor cleaved through the flesh by my cheekbone and Patton hit me like a wrecking ball and knocked me off my stool.

“No, Gerry! No!” Phil screamed, his hand stuck in his belt as he dug for his gun.

The dog’s teeth bounced off my forehead and its head reared back and its jaws opened and plunged toward my right eye.

Someone screamed.

I grasped Patton’s neck with my free hand and the noise he made was a savage combination of screaming and barking. I squeezed his throat but it constricted and my hand slid up his sweaty fur and his head plunged toward my face again.

I shoved the gun into his midsection as he kicked at my arm with his back feet and when I pulled the trigger—twice—Patton’s head snapped back as if he heard his name being called, and then he jerked and shuddered and a low hissing sound escaped his mouth. His flesh went soft in my hands as he tipped to his right and toppled into the row of bar stools.