“Now do what I’m telling you. Call Fat Gandhi. Tell him I got the money. I want the boys.”

His shoulders dropped. “You know how much that laptop cost me?”

“I don’t care. If you piss me off again, I’m going to throw you out that window. Now, call him.”

“No need to call.” He pointed toward the front windshield. “We’re here. Couldn’t you have just been patient?”

Myron looked out the window. That same arcade was up the block.

The Peugeot cruised to a stop. Myron got out without bothering to apologize. Two guys in camouflage pants opened the door. The skinny kid followed, pleading his case. “The bastard threw my bleeding laptop out the window!”

It felt as though someone had pulled the plug on the entire arcade, which, for all Myron knew, was exactly what had happened. No sounds, no lights, no movement. The entire arcade, so bursting with furious light and color a few hours ago, seemed shades of gray now. With all the machines off, their shadowy outlines felt odd, menacing, grotesque. There was an almost postapocalyptic feel to the whole place.

“Let’s go,” Pants One said to Myron.

“Where?”

“Back room.”

Myron didn’t like this. “The place is deserted. We can make the exchange out here.”

“That’s not how it works,” Pants Two said.

“Then I think I’ll leave.”

“Then I think”—Pants One crossed his arms and tried to flex his biceps—“the two of us will beat the hell out of you and take the money anyway.”

Myron’s grip on the bag tightened. He could take them both out, no problem—he was actually rehearsing his first strike in his head—but then what? For better or worse, he had to play it out. So he followed the same path he’d taken the last time he was here, when Dog Collar was with him, and stopped at the exit door.

There was the surveillance camera by the door again. Myron looked up, gave it a bright smile and cheery thumbs-up. Mr. Confident. Rule 14 of ransom drops: Never let the bad guys see you worried. The door opened. The Camouflage Pants Guys emptied Myron’s pockets. The wand found the listening device on his chest.

They were about to take the device off him when Fat Gandhi opened the door to the back room, stuck his head out, and said, “No weapons?”

“None.”

“It’s fine, then; let him keep the rest.”

Myron didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

He entered that same room with all the computers and flat-screens. The skinny black kid was already back at his station. “He broke my bleeding laptop!” he cried out, pointing at Myron. “Just threw out it out the window like it was last week’s rubbish.”

Fat Gandhi was resplendent in what looked to be a yellow zoot suit. “The cash is in that bag?”

“It isn’t in my underwear,” Myron said.

Fat Gandhi frowned at the joke, which was fair.

“There is someone listening on the other end of your phone,” Fat Gandhi said.