“Just as you say.” Skip stood up and began to undress. In his shorts he went into the bathroom, washed his teeth, scrubbed his face and hands and arms with soap. He looked at his face in the mirror above the basin. There was no doubt but that he and Uncle Willy bore a strong resemblance to each other. To Skip, however, Willy was hideous with the wasting of time, of frustration, poverty, and denial. It was the way Skip would look after years of small jobs and petty thefts and jail. Damned if I will, Skip told himself. There’s this one big chance and it’s got to be for me.

Tomorrow night Big Tom and his friends would move in on old lady Havermann. He and Eddie had to be there first. There was this one break; he didn’t have to account for himself to Tom; he was supposed to be in class. Tom had been a sap to trust him, but everybody makes mistakes. Tom must have made plenty or he wouldn’t have that old burned-out look of a con.

He went back into the other room. Uncle Willy was in bed, the covers pulled up around his skinny shoulders, facing the wall.

“Turn out the light. Good night, Skip.”

“Night.”

Skip clipped off the light and lay down. Just before dropping off to sleep he thought briefly of Karen as he had seen her last, standing in the faint glow from the little window high in the old woman’s house. She’d looked scared to death. Eager, too, eager to be sure that Skip wasn’t really mad at her, that lashing out at her had been the impulse of a moment. Skip thought drowsily, I can do anything I want to with her. I can beat her half to death and she’ll come crawling back, wearing that same sappy look, wanting to be sure I’m not really mad at her. Why are dames like that? Why don’t they, for Chrissakes, have any guts?

Skip smiled to himself in superior humor and then drifted off to sleep.

Big Tom was awakened by the clamor of the phone in the other room. It was still dark. The dry canyon wind blew in at the open window. A couple of cats on the bed near his feet lifted their heads as he stirred and reached for the rubber sandals.

He snapped on the little lamp and looked at the clock. A quarter of four. “What the hell . . .” The phone was ringing like a fire alarm in the quiet of the lonely house. Big Tom padded into the front room and lifted the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Benny Busick here.”

“Huh. You calling from Vegas?”

“That’s right. Look . . . uh, this transaction we were discussing. There’s something here I can’t put my finger on. Working at it. You didn’t need that information for a day or so, now, did you?”