He laughed and dropped back a little, staying behind Vincent and slightly to his left, keeping within grab distance of Lamar, too.

The lot was only half full, and they were almost at the Lincoln, coming up on it from behind. The Cuban was walking point now and got there first, went around to the front passenger door. Smart move: they couldn’t afford to have someone alone in the vehicle. But Lou was still just off his left shoulder, and as Vincent took the keys from his pocket and gauged the distances—the Cuban fifteen feet ahead by the Lincoln, Lou and the old man to his left, three and six feet respectively—he felt the relative geometry hit that green zone where maybe he could do something. Bouncing the keys on his palm, sorting them, he caught the Cuban’s eye and said, ‘Should’ve taken a cab.’

Whereupon all three of them glanced over at the taxi rank—couldn’t help it—and Vincent stuck his leg out to trip Lou as he came past on his left, and in the same motion put a hand on the back of the guy’s head and smashed his face into the rear edge of the trunk as he fell forward.

The impact was a solid thud-crunch, and as the guy hit the ground Vincent had the key in the lock, and the Cuban was turning to face him, but now Vincent had cover as the trunk lid rose, and Lamar was still safe on his left, shielded by the body of the vehicle, and Vincent moved the backpack aside, and there was the Colt, ready for him.

All he had to do was reach down and grab it.

The Cuban still hadn’t moved. He was just standing there, holding his Gelson’s bag. He said, ‘Huh. Nice.’

Vincent moved out from behind the trunk and stood by the taillight. Lou on the ground beside him, gasping and spitting. Vincent said, ‘All right. How about this: you keep yours in the bag, I’ll keep mine in the trunk.’

The Cuban seemed to be enjoying this development. Sweat on his brow and that slight yellow hue to his skin, but he was smiling. He said, ‘What’ve you got in there?’

Vincent said, ‘Three-fifty-seven Colt Python.’

The Cuban’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh really? Pretty convenient, huh?’

He looked across the lot and then back to Vincent, let one of the handles slip off his fingers. The bag hanging open now at his side, the weight in the bottom gently pendulous. He said, ‘I’m not really used to taking people at their word. You know what I mean?’

Vincent said, ‘Yeah. But here I am trusting you about a grocery bag. So it cuts both ways, doesn’t it?’

The Cuban didn’t answer. Lamar hadn’t moved—Vincent could sense him there off to his left.