A longer pause this time. The man’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know exactly how to say it . . . a thing you put your gun into. No one can grab it but you unless they know how to push—”

“A spring-clip!” Delevan said. “Holy shit!” Another exchange of glances between the partners. Neither wanted to be the first to tell this guy that Fat Johnny had probably harvested the cash from his wallet already, shucked his buns out the back door, and tossed it over the wall of the alley behind the building . . . but a gun in a spring-clip . . . that was different. Robbery was a possible, but all at once a concealed weapons charge looked like a sure thing. Maybe not as good, but a foot in the door.

“What then?” O’Mearah asked.

“Then he told me I didn’t have a wallet. He said—” pause “—that I got my picket pocked—my pocket picked, I mean—on the street and I’d better remember it if I wanted to stay healthy. I remembered seeing a police car parked up the block and I thought you might still be there. So I left.”

“Okay,” Delevan said. “Me and my partner are going in first, and fast. Give us about a minute—a full minute—just in case there’s some trouble. Then come in, but stand by the door. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let’s bust this motherfucker.”

The two cops went in. Roland waited thirty seconds and then followed them.

9

“Fat Johnny” Holden was doing more than protesting. He was bellowing.

“Guy’s crazy! Guy comes in here, doesn’t even know what he wants, then, when he sees it in the Shooter’s Bible, he don’t know how many comes in a box, how much they cost, and what he says about me wantin’ a closer look at his P.C. is the biggest pile of shit I ever heard, because he don’t have no Permit to—” Fat Johnny broke off. “There he is! There’s the creep! Right there! I see you, buddy! I see your face! Next time you see mine you’re gonna be fuckin sorry! I guarantee you that! I fuckin guarantee—”

“You don’t have this man’s wallet?” O’Mearah asked.

“You know I don’t have his wallet!”

“You mind if we take a look behind this display case?” Delevan countered. “Just to be sure?”

“Jesus-fuckin-jumped-up-Christ-on-a-pony! The case is glass! You see any wallets there?”

“No, not there . . . I meant here,” Delevan said, moving toward the register. His voice was a cat’s purr. At this point a chrome-steel reinforcing strip almost two feet wide ran down the shelves of the case. Delevan looked back at the man in the blue suit, who nodded.

“I want you guys out of here right now,” Fat Johnny said. He had lost some of his color. “You come back with a warrant, that’s different. But for now, I want you the fuck out. Still a free fuckin country, you kn—hey! hey! HEY, QUIT THAT!”