They join the line of cars waiting to enter the drive-in, pay the admission fee at the booth, and cruise the lot, looking for McMullin. When they find where he’s parked, they pull into an empty slot two rows behind, between a couple of teenagers in a Volkswagen Beetle and a family sitting in lawn chairs in the bed of a pickup. Bob 2 takes the speaker off the post and hangs it from the window but turns the sound down. The film has already started. Clint Eastwood, fifty feet tall, squints and draws his gun.

Bob 1 watches McMullin’s car while Bob 2, imitating a play-by-play announcer, keeps up a running commentary on the action in the Volkswagen.

“Here we go, folks,” he says. “Johnny Fuckerfaster is making a move on Susie Rottencrotch. He’s got his hand up her blouse and is trying to sneak under her bra. Meanwhile, Susie’s petting his trouser snake. Young love, ladies and gentlemen, young love. You can’t beat that.”

McMullin gets out of the Dart and heads for the cinderblock snack bar. He’s a little guy with an unruly mop of curly red hair.

“There he goes,” Bob 1 says.

“I’ve got a plan,” Bob 2 says.

“Clue me in.”

“Come running when I signal.”

Bob 2 slides out of the Hornet and walks to the Dart. A gunfight erupts on the screen, and shots ping out of every speaker on the lot. The driver’s door of the Dodge is unlocked. Bob opens it and pops the lock on the rear door. Opening that, he climbs in and lies down behind the front seat. He made the garrote he takes from his pocket himself—a length of thin wire with wooden handles at both ends.

Crunching gravel telegraphs McMullin’s return. Bob grips the garrote tighter. The front door opens, and the overhead light goes on. The Dart rocks as McMullin slides in with his popcorn and soda. He closes the door, and the light goes out.

Bob sits up, slips the loop of wire over McMullin’s head, and yanks the handles. The wire digs into McMullin’s throat. He drops the popcorn and struggles silently, the garrote cutting off his voice as well as his air. He claws at the wire, trying to pry it from his windpipe. His legs spasm, and his feet kick the underside of the dash.

Bob uses all his weight to draw the wire even tighter, nearly pulling McMullin into the back seat. McMullin’s eyes bulge. His tongue protrudes from his mouth like a snail stretched to its limit. Bob takes both handles of the garrote in one hand and with the other draws a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. He leans forward and drives the knife into McMullin’s chest, angling it so the blade slides between two ribs and plunges into the man’s heart. McMullin’s arms drop, his eyes close, and he slumps in his seat.