“Give me four boxes,” he said at last. He could not imagine needing so many shells, but the temptation to have them was not to be denied.

Fat Johnny put the boxes on the counter. Roland slid one of them open, still hardly able to believe it wasn’t a joke or a sham. But they were bullets, all right, clean, shining, unmarked, never fired, never reloaded. He held one up to the light for a moment, then put it back in the box.

“Now take out a pair of those wristbands.”

“Wristbands—?”

The gunslinger consulted the Mortcypedia. “Handcuffs.”

“Mister, I dunno what you want. The cash register’s—”

“Do what I say. Now.”

Christ, this ain’t never gonna end, Fat Johnny’s mind moaned. He opened another section of the counter and brought out a pair of cuffs.

“Key?” Roland asked.

Fat Johnny put the key to the cuffs on the counter. It made a small click. One of the unconscious cops made an abrupt snoring sound and Johnny uttered a wee screech.

“Turn around,” the gunslinger said.

“You ain’t gonna shoot me, are you? Say you ain’t!”

“Ain’t,” Roland said tonelessly. “As long as you turn around right now. If you don’t do that, I will.”

Fat Johnny turned around, beginning to blubber. Of course the guy said he wasn’t going to, but the smell of mob hit was getting too strong to ignore. He hadn’t even been skimming that much. His blubbers became choked wails.

“Please, mister, for my mother’s sake don’t shoot me. My mother’s old. She’s blind. She’s—”

“She’s cursed with a yellowgut son,” the gunslinger said dourly. “Wrists together.”

Mewling, wet pants sticking to his crotch, Fat Johnny put them together. In a trice the steel bracelets were locked in place. He had no idea how the spook had gotten over or around the counter so quickly. Nor did he want to know.

“Stand there and look at the wall until I tell you it’s all right to turn around. If you turn around before then, I’ll kill you.”

Hope lighted Fat Johnny’s mind. Maybe the guy didn’t mean to hit him after all. Maybe the guy wasn’t crazy, just insane.

“I won’t. Swear to God. Swear before all of His saints. Swear before all His angels. Swear before all His arch—”

“I swear if you don’t shut up I’ll put a slug through your neck,” the spook said.

Fat Johnny shut up. It seemed to him that he stood facing the wall for an eternity. In truth, it was about twenty seconds.

The gunslinger knelt, put the clerk’s gun on the floor, took a quick look to make sure the maggot was being good, then rolled the other two onto their backs. Both were good and out, but not dangerously hurt, Roland judged. They were both breathing regularly. A little blood trickled from the ear of the one called Delevan, but that was all.

He took another quick glance at the clerk, then unbuckled the gunslingers’ gunbelts and stripped them off. Then he took off Mort’s blue suitcoat and buckled the belts on himself. They were the wrong guns, but it still felt good to be packing iron again. Damned good. Better than he would have believed.