Five men were seated at a round table in a cramped kitchen, including the host, who looked older than his mugshot—though his back was to me, he was talking to the guy next to him. Strutt had dark hair with a pony tail and a scruffy beard, and wore a black wife-beater t-shirt that showed off muscle-builder biceps.

Next to Harry was a medium-size, mustached, hair-gelled guy who thought he was handsome and was wrong, decked out in a green sweater vest, pointy-collared blue shirt and a floral thing that was a scarf suffering under the delusion that it was a tie.

Next door was a skinny, balding, droopily mustached guy, in a well-worn denim jacket and shiny yellow shirt. He had only the barest excuse for a chin. He was smoking a cigarette.

Beside him sat an older guy, tiny-eyed and sporting a Moe Howard haircut, a little heavy, in a suit and tie—probably the leader. Or maybe the Moe resemblance made me assume that. He was smoking, too—a cheroot.

Next, and to my far left as I’d peeked in, was a big burly guy who was obviously the muscle, a blunt-featured butch-haircut dope who was going Miami Vice with a pink jacket over a pastel blue t-shirt that said, you guessed it, Miami Vice.

Spread out before them like a not-quite-big-enough tablecloth was a large hand-drawn map in magic marker. I couldn’t be sure from the gander I got, but I would bet it was of the layout of a bank.

That was the heist crew, all right.

I risked popping up for another look and got more confirmation.

The not-handsome guy had a .38 in front of him near a bottle of Hamm’s, the denim jacket chinless guy had a nine mil near a can of Bud and an ashtray, the Moe haircut bozo a .22 Ruger by a coffee cup, and the Miami Vice dope, who was drinking a Diet Coke, had a leather strap running under prominent pecs that indicated a shoulder holster.

A lot of firepower.

But nobody knew I was here, and a .45 held eight rounds—of course, I only loaded in seven these days, since Velda insisted that resting the hammer on a live round is a really bad idea. With five men at that table, that still gave a spare two rounds…and an extra clip in my left-hand pocket.

Four steps led up to the back door, which opened right onto the kitchen. If it unlocked, I’d be in good shape. I could walk right in and say hello. But if it was locked, I just might wind up dead.

So I considered alternate ways in.