He raises Lincoln’s shirt and grabs his finger. He locates the entrance hole and jabs Lincoln’s finger in the hole to stop the bleeding. He makes Vera hold his hand in place and stands. He hears something in the front room.

The door rattles and Simon lunges out and sees Jerry on his knees trying to turn the bolt. Simon grabs him by the hair and throws him on the floor. There is blood all over the front of his shirt and he is gurgling and shouting. Simon looks at the .357 on the floor. He picks it up but knows he cannot afford to shoot.

He pops the cylinder and sets it on an empty chamber and eases the hammer down. He switches it from left to right and grabs it by the barrel and kneels on Jerry’s chest. Jerry screams and tries to buck Simon off, but he is too weak. Simon raises the revolver and brings it down on Jerry’s head. Jerry stiffens and a welt appears on his forehead. Again. On the same spot.

He raises the gun and with his shoulder behind it he hammers on Jerry’s head. Jerry begins to shake and the skin on his forehead splits to the bone. Simon grunts with each stroke and never takes his eyes off the spot on Jerry’s head. Again. And again.

Jerry grabs for the carpet, for Simon’s arm, but gets nothing. Simon is rasping and he pauses. He hears a gasp and turns to see Vera standing on the other side of the counter.

“Go in the back.”

He doesn’t look after her, just adjusts his grip on the barrel and resumes as if pounding rivets, the motion practiced and smooth.

Simon grimaces as the butt slips off the mark and he hears Jerry’s nose crack, and then the cheekbone.

It takes longer than he thought it would. Longer than with Lester. One. Two. Three.

Finally it gives and a section of his forehead the size of an orange caves and the fluid that slips out is pink and shiny, like cake frosting. Jerry doesn’t move. Simon is winded, and staggers to the back room and runs his hand and the gun under the tap.

The jewelry store is quiet. Lincoln is groaning lightly but his eyes are open and he blinks. Vera is crouched in the corner. She tsks and shakes her head.

“Why’d you have to go and do that?” she asks, as if Simon had kicked a stray dog or yelled at a crying child.

Simon shoves the gun in the top of his pants. He takes Jerry’s windbreaker from the back of the door.

“Don’t you get it? Lincoln ain’t going to prison. Understand? He ain’t ever gonna go there.”

Simon walks over and kneels down next to her.