They say it’s better to be lucky than smart, and I was lucky enough to discover that the storm cellar doors were unlocked. I opened one side and slipped in, shut it behind me and then lingered on the wooden steps. Sat on one briefly. I got my mini-Maglite out and had a look around the cellar. Not much of anything—it was a hard dirt floor and not great for storage, but there were a few boxes anyway. A beat-up washer and drier. A furnace dating to the Eisenhower administration.

Also stairs that seemed positioned to open onto or near the kitchen.

I abandoned the sopped hat to the dirt floor, the raincoat, too.

Soon I was heading up those stairs, my trusty gum soles on the old wooden stairs making very little noise—no more creaks and squeaks than the average mouse, and anyway it was probably rats down here.

And above.

With my Maglite switched off and tucked away, the .45 in my fist led the way. When I got to the top step, I was breathing a little hard—not fatigue, adrenalin—and I paused to get my bearings and listen.

I could hear them talking, clear as if they were on the other side of this door, which they were. No idea which voice belonged to who, but the gist of their conversation made itself clear immediately.

“The guard’s over sixty, easily.”

My guess was this was Moe, the leader, his voice resonant, dripping leadership.

Someone else said, “A retired cop, probably.”

The leader again: “Probably. That means nothing, really.”

As I listened, he would speak and another of the crew would respond and then he would speak again.

The resonant voice continued: “Stick a gun in his face, take his weapon, push him to the floor.”

“They close at two?”

“They close at two. We go in ten minutes before that, diddle around making out deposit slips and such, wait for any other customers to leave. Probably someone will politely tell us the bank is closing, and that’s our cue. You each know your jobs. No shooting unless necessary. Harry, did you scope things out?”

“Yeah. Yellow curb in front of the bank, but plenty of parking places on either side of it. I’ll park the car first thing, close as I can. Go back to my hotel room half a block away, and feed the meter all day. Then around one-thirty, I’ll get in the car and I’ll be there waiting for you, motor running, when you come out. And we will haul ass.”

“Perfect.”

“Hey, it’s my first job with you boys, but it ain’t my first time at the rodeo.”

“I bet it isn’t.”