The 1911 Colt .45 is a single-action pistol—you cock the hammer before each shot—and the trigger has a short reset. The four bank robbers had died in that many seconds. Strutt might have been a problem, but the indoor thunder of the .45 and the carnage and flying gore had spooked him, and his startled rabbit expression accompanied a hand that hovered over a .38 Police Special but didn’t touch it.

The cordite-filled air was making my eyes burn. I pointed the .45 at him and he raised his hands and was crying. Maybe the cordite. Maybe not.

“This is unpleasant in here,” I said. “I think a couple of these guys shit themselves. Let’s go in the living room where it’s quiet and maybe light a scented candle or something. We need to talk.”

I gestured with the .45 and he swallowed, wiping his tears away with a forearm, and headed glumly into the nearby living room. I could see now that his wife-beater t-shirt had four aces and a pair of dice on it; his jeans were worn and so were his tennies.

With the snout of the weapon I indicated a black overstuffed fake-leather sofa and he sat. I settled into an adjacent matching armchair. On a low-slung coffee table were some scattered girlie magazines—Caper, Escapade, Dude, Swank. Maybe he had mommy issues.

“Jesus, man,” he said. He looked sick. “You killed everybody.”

“Not yet,” I reminded him.

He swallowed. Absently, he scratched a bearded cheek. “What do you want from me?”

“The truth.”

“About what the fuck?”

“About you and Vincent Colby.”

“What truth is that, man?”

“You trained him for that stunt, Harry. Maybe you didn’t know what your buddy Kraft and his client had in mind—faking that hit-and-run ‘accident.’ Maybe you thought it was for a movie or something. Or some elaborate prank. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, man.”

“You need to think this through. The kind of trouble you’re in.”

His lip curled back taking some mustache with it. “You’re the one in trouble. Break in here and fuckin’ shoot everybody! You’re out of your freaking mind, Hammer!”

I raised my free hand. “First of all, your friends all had guns and were about to use them on me. Second, I’m a licensed private investigator in New York State and heard you fellas planning a robbery. I have nothing to fear from this. But you do.”

He tried not to look alarmed. “What do I have to fear?”

“I’m going to guess your Wall Street pal Vincent has greased your palm but good. You may be figuring that rich-guy money’s gonna just keep flowing. But think about it.”

“You think about it.”