Mr. One didn’t even have time to turn away from the window. His head made a dreadful mess on the glass.

Ed was still gaping, shuddering, when Mr. Five holstered his gun and stepped across the bodies to take his hand and shake it firmly.

“My name is Fathi el Haddiz, Mr. Julian,” he said. He was still smiling. His eyes were warm and amused. “Terribly sorry about the carpet, but then I don’t suppose you were planning on paying for the cleaning, were you?”

His life was teetering on a tiny, tiny edge. Ed thought about his Sales Power Seminars, all his Self-Affirmation classes, and took a deep breath and said, “I’m looking forward to doing business with you, sir.”

Chapter Ten

Robby

Sol counted bills with a slow math-impaired style that made Robby want to bounce him off a wall. She exchanged a long burning-hot look with Jim and went to the kitchen, looking for something, anything, to kill time. Maybe she’d make Mark’s oatmeal cookies—but then again, unless it came pre-mixed in a roll, she was sure to screw it up. She opened the refrigerator and found a bottle of Sprite, poured herself a glass, and searched Jim’s cabinets for something to chew on so she wouldn’t say anything stupid. Graham crackers. She poured a pile on a plate and carried them back.

Sol had worked his torturous way through six stacks of cash. There was one left. She sat down next to Jim on the couch and shared the crackers. Since this wasn’t a work day, he was dressed in a hunter green shirt and faded blue jeans, clean and comfortable. His hair was combed into a gray brown shag around his rough face. She felt a perilous urge to relax against his warmth, knew he’d put his arm around her.

She didn’t relax. There was no sense giving Sol more leverage than he already had.

Kelly sat curled up in the armchair, reading a romance novel with a pastel-and-glitter cover. She shot Robby jealous glances from time to time—she’d probably heard about Sol’s intimate little dinner and taken exactly the wrong interpretation. Robby remembered to smile.

“You’re short,” Sol finally said. His head jerked up, and the cold eyes behind the bifocals were hot now, angry. “Jim, Jim, my friend. What, you think I’m too stupid to count?”

Jim, Robby knew, thought exactly that, and he was right. Sol was an idiot, and Jim might be a thief, but he was a goddamn professional thief, not a top-skimming amateur. She kept her mouth shut, her eyes down. Nibbled a graham cracker. It tasted like dust and chemicals.

“How much is it short?” Jim asked neutrally. Sol glanced down at the cash as if he’d written the total on top.

“Two-eighty-eight.”