Judging by their voices, as I stood on the top step with the .45 in one hand and the door knob in the other, that table would be right there when I burst in. Of course, the door might be locked, but that seemed unlikely. Why would anyone lock the basement door? Unless it was to keep someone out who broke in that way…

You know – like me.

But if Strutt was that cautious, those storm doors wouldn’t have been left unlocked. Right?

Right?

Still, if this door turned out to be locked, or just stuck because the wood had warped or whatever, I would have to shoulder my way in, putting some real muscle into it…else face a very well-armed welcoming committee…

I thought about what I would say.

“Hands high, fellas—you’re under arrest!” Corny but appropriate. I could always add, “The place is surrounded.” Another old favorite, if a lie.

The door wasn’t locked and I went in quick.

The table of thieves was only a few feet away, and their faces were on me like a lynch mob. I was about to get my prepared words out when Strutt, his frown squeezing in on itself so hard it hurt to look at it, yelled: “Hammer!”

I can’t tell you whether he had warned them about my involvement in the convoluted affair that had cost their driver Kraft his life. Or if this select group just knew me because we were, in a way, in the same business, and mine was a famous face in these kinds of circles. Or if they just read in that one outburst from Strutt a mélange of anger merged with fear underscored by surprise.

In any event, they went for their guns, three of them for the weapons on the table, and the big muscle guy for a rod in his shoulder holster under the Don Johnson jacket.

The quarters could have hardly been any closer, and my only advantage was having my gun already in hand.

It was enough.

I took them clockwise starting with the not-handsome guy, whose head came apart in chunks, like a target-range cantaloupe. The chinless guy in the denim jacket got his in the side of the head and I could see his eyes go blank as much of his brain sprayed out of his opposite temple and splattered a nearby refrigerator with bloody gray goop. Next, closest to me, came the brains of the outfit, who lost a good share of his when his neck swivelled to see me and a slug slammed through his forehead to splat its contents onto, then dripping down, a cupboard, like a great big bug that hit a windshield. The Miami Vice thug almost had his gun out when a .45 slug traveled through his throat and had him gurgling and thrashing, until my second shot, piercing his thick forehead this time, ended his suffering.