“Then go to it,” Curly said. He walked up front and looked around. Shades were drawn over the windows and door, so he didn’t have to worry about being seen from the street. He took a taped flashlight from his pocket and had a look around with the narrowed beam. There was a tempting case of guns, but he was already heeled; everything else was musical instruments, stereo equipment, binoculars, and knickknacks. He took the .38 snub-nosed Smith & Wesson from its bag, scooped up the cartridges, and loaded them, then crumpled the bag and put it back in his pocket; he was leaving no trace.

He found a stool, had a seat, and waited.

When they had been inside nearly an hour, Irv sang out, “Got it!”

Curly got up and walked back to the safe and played his flashlight beam around the contents. Quite a lot of jewelry, but he wasn’t taking anything that could tie him to the job. What interested him more was the steel box Irv was working on with a hammer and chisel. “Faster this way,” he said. He hit the lock a couple of heavy blows, and it popped open, revealing stacks of cash, each secured by a rubber band. Irv stuffed the cash into a black bag he had apparently brought with him. “We’ll count it at my place,” he said, “but I reckon there’s at least thirty grand here.” He handed Curly the bag. “Let me lock up before we go.”

Curly pulled the .38 from his pocket. “I’ll pay you for the .38 now.” He took a couple of steps back and fired at the back of Irv’s head. The man sprayed blood and bone, then collapsed like a punctured balloon and lay still.

Curly tripped the front door lock and closed it firmly behind him. At the corner he turned down the avenue and glanced at his watch. Half an hour to get there; he would walk it.

—

BUTCH DRESSED IN THE DARK; he pulled on a black sweater, got into his plastic raincoat, and brought along a knitted cap. Finally, he went to a kitchen drawer and put on a pair of light gloves, then retrieved Theresa’s little .25 automatic, which had been wiped clean of prints, inside and out. He put that into his raincoat pocket.

He closed his apartment door behind him, then took off his loafers and padded down the stairs to the lobby, encountering no one at this hour of the night. Once on the street, he walked rapidly the few blocks to the Fifth Avenue and Seventy-second Street entrance to Central Park and turned toward the band shell, three minutes’ walk away. As he approached, he checked the time: 12:46 AM. He took a seat in the front row of the benches and waited.