One of the workers employed on that project, a cheerful green-card, had stolen his Patek Philippe. The guy had been dumb enough to “admire” the watch prior to the theft. Blaine had him figured but realized there was little he could do. The police certainly wouldn’t care. Not about a mere property crime. Okay, the poor bastard needed the money, and Blaine left valuables around. The temptation must have been incredible. In the old days, Blaine would have hardly cared, but the Shoprite Food Value Emporium empire was falling to pieces. It was getting impossible to compete with the bigger stores, and Blaine was literally getting taxed out of business—getting reamed to keep people like the green-card afloat in various social programs of dubious worth. The thanks he got was grand theft—grand theft one day and armed robbery the next. Almost immediately after the green-card incident, Blaine had made hot tracks to his bedroom safe for his coin collection—close to fifty thousand in value—and had driven the wagon to a coin shop in downtown Sacramento and then, oh, man—a chain of events ensued that still had him reeling.

There were four black men inside the store when the proprietor buzzed him in through the security gate. Blaine’s pockets were laden with gold, and he could literally smell the trouble—on top of the alcohol there was a toxic smell of adrenaline coming from these thugs, and they were getting right into the proprietor’s face. “How much this one? How many Rolexes you got, man? You got some in the back? I don’t like these here.”

It was a tremendous relief to see them go, but suddenly they were back—one of them claiming to have left a pair of sunglasses behind. The Vietnamese coin dealer, Phat H’at, or the Fat Hat, as he was known, buzzed them back in. You would have thought the old man had developed an instinct for trouble, but he acted like a complete fool. Blaine had his coins out on the counter by then, and the bandits quickly brandished little snub-nosed .38s. Hat went for his nickel-plated .45, but one of the men was over the counter faster than a cat. “Motherfucker! One more move out of you and you dead.”

Blaine had been glad that the bandit had some agility. He didn’t want any shooting, although once the .45 was out of the way the robbers fired three shots into the security camera, Ka-Pow! Ka-Pow! Orange-and-blue flames burst out of the gun barrels. Ka-Pow! The harsh sound of the gunfire caused exquisite pain in his ears. One of the robbers scooped Blaine’s coins into a bag, then executed a deft pirouette and expertly snatched the Cartier off Blaine’s wrist and popped it into a pocket. Another man, wearing a ski mask, grabbed Blaine’s wallet and began to rifle through it.