A car pulled in behind the Plymouth. In the darkness, I couldn’t discern the make or its occupants. Could it be Shoulders and his cops jumping the gun? Gun being the operative word—Steve was still armed, and the cabbie and I were between him and the new arrival. This night could easily go Fourth of July on us, exploding into deadly orange muzzle flashes and the sharp firecracker reports of pistols.

Steve, not surprisingly, panicked—somehow, still clutching the heavy suitcase to himself, he made it up those last few steps and got to the landing and through into the hall. Below, a car door opened and shut, but no one in the vehicle called out. Hagan looked startled and seemed about to panic himself when I said, very quietly, “We’re working with the cops, remember?”

An arguable benefit, but it calmed him.

We finished the last few steps of this latest trip up and rested the footlocker on the landing. We caught our breaths. Then I raised a settling palm and said, “I’ll check,” and went down. I did not withdraw my nine mil, although I unbuttoned my suit-coat and Burberry.

A man in a topcoat and hat stood next to a late-model Ford sedan. In the rider’s seat, looking abashed, was his pretty wife (or possibly “wife”).

“Sorry,” the man said, embarrassed. “We just need to get in our garage here. You’re blocking, I’m afraid.”

We exchanged a few additional friendly words and I moved the Plymouth enough to allow these occupants of a first-floor room to pull into their private garage.

Then I rejoined Hagan atop the exterior stairs on the landing, told him the score, and we carted the footlocker of ransom money back into the building. Hagan knocked with his elbow, said, “It’s us,” and Steve let us in.

He had the .38 revolver in hand, so my instincts were right—if that had been Shoulders down there, the night would have burst into gunfire with Hagan and me right in the middle.

“Just a couple motel guests downstairs,” I assured Steve, “wanting to get in their garage. Put that thing away.”

I meant the .38. He went over and stowed it in the night-stand drawer. We placed the footlocker in its familiar position along the wall by its black metal mate.

“I got the goddamn shakes,” Steve said. “That really fuckin’ spooked me! Man, I am jumpy as a damn cat. I really thought that was…you know, insurance investigators or something.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Hagan looked a bit disheveled despite his new wardrobe. He was still over by the door and Steve joined him. “I’m sorry, Johnny boy. That really threw me. Everything’s gonna be fine. Let’s have a couple of drinks.”

The cabbie shook his head. “No, I need to round that girl up for you. If she has a friend or two, maybe we can have a regular orgy. Nate, you up for that?”

“Sure,” I said. Who wouldn’t want to get naked with Steve and Johnny Boy?