“Then I recommend you don’t give the gun to another criminal.”

“We’re not criminals. And just... just put it in the bottom of the bag, all right? I swear to God.”

Even though I am, on a conscious level, aware of the ludicrous histrionic nature of the gesture, I find myself wringing my hands. In a sour flash of irony, it occurs to me that a gun would fit snugly inside such a gesture.

A long angry minute of silence passes.

“Do you want the dollar back that you gave me?” Herk says apologetically, nudging me in the ribs with the folded bill.

I sigh. I can’t stay mad at Herk. He’s an idiot, but he’s also my only friend.

“Nah,” I say. “Put it to the Night Train fund.”

There is a lot of foot traffic, and for a while there’s nothing to do but sit. “Herk,” I say, “who do you think the Rat Burlgar is?”

“Aren’t you sick of that question?”

“I just want to know your opinion.”

“I don’t know, man. Could be ex-military, I suppose. Not just anybody could have taken down those four French police unarmed.”

“You could, probably.”

He shrugs.

“Who else?”

“Who knows?” Herk says. “None of the names you hear make much sense. Not Dallas Spicer.”

“Not Gurcop.”

“Not Bolivar,” Herk says, “not Oyama, not Keeler.”

“Those guys all have brown eyes.”

“So?”

“On the K’plua job I saw that the Rat Burglar has blue eyes.”

“Oh. How about Doghouse Reilly?”

“Green eyes.”

“Webster?”

“Brown.”

“That Danish guy with the magnets has blue—”

“Dutch,” I say.

“What?”

“The magnet guy is Dutch.”

“Same thing.”

“Herk, Danish is Denmark. Dutch is the Netherlands. The magnet guy is from Amsterdam.”

“No, he isn’t. And Amsterdam is in Holland, fool.”

“Holland is a province of the Netherlands.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Honestly. The magnet guy is from Amsterdam, which is in northern Holland, which is a part of the Netherlands. Where they speak Dutch. And some Flemish.”

“You’re such a clownus. They don’t speak Flemish in Netherfuckingland.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Then where is it spoken?”

“Flemland, dumbass.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Look, forget it, Carmen Sandiego. It’s not the magnet guy anyway.”

“Well,” I say, “who else you got?”

“Pituitary Jones and Frito Kriskstein have blue eyes.”

I snort. “Those guys cut the green wire.”

“You kidding me?”

“No. They cut the green wire. It’s like they never went to thief school.”

Herk laughs out loud. It sounds like a Mack truck running over rumble strips.

“Dummkopfs.”

“Seriously.”

“Well shit,” Herk says suddenly. “You know who’s got blue eyes?”

“Who’s that?”

“Nunes.”

“Who?”

“Cheryl Nunes.”

“Don’t be dumb.”

“Hey,” he says, “she has the expertise, right? She knows art, she knows law enforcement. And arresting you would close the case on it, wouldn’t it?”

“You think she could have taken out those French cops?

“Hell, maybe. Who knows.”

“I don’t think so, Herk.”

“Well, who cares what people think. We’ll know the truth soon enough.”