Bert shifted his weight and Nacho Vargas cuffed him again. “No squirming around, Grampa. Yeah, I think I heard that one, before. If you don’t succeed at first, make sure you kill the fucker dead the second time, then go out for a good meal. Come on, Whitebread, keep moving, then when I tell you to stop, let go the wheel and slowly put your hands up then get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head and eat dirt.”

I edged the chair another foot forward. Got stuck again. Freed the wheels.

Bill said, “Nacho was intelligent-o, selling but never using. I could’ve learned from you, Nacho.”

“You couldn’ta learned nothing. You were stupid.”

I closed the space between us and Vargas to ten yards.

“I don’t see any truck,” I said.

“There’s a fucking truck,” said Small.

Vargas shot a disgusted look intended for his partner, but kept his eyes on me. He began tapping his boot impatiently. Shiny, needle-toed black boots that had never known stirrups; the jeans looked fresh, too. Big shopping spree.

A one-day costume, because you could never really wash out the blood.

Bill said, “Nacho, my man, be smart: I got nothing to look forward to, put me out of my misery, but leave the old guy and Aimee and everyone else alone. Take me off in that truck of yours and do what you want with—”

“Like I need your fucking permission,” said Vargas.

Bill’s head rolled. “No you don’t, no one’s saying you do, it’s just why not be smart, like I said he’s got a heart condition—”

“Maybe I should have him run around in circles till he drops dead. Save on bullets.” Vargas laughed, kept his gun hand behind Bert, lifted the other arm and jacked Bert up effortlessly. The old man’s toes barely grazed the gravel. He’d gone deathly pale. A rag doll.

Vargas said, “Hey, this is like playing puppet.” His gun hand shifted upward, too. Just an inch or so.

“Nacho, man—”

“Yeah, sure, we’ll let everyone go. Maybe we’ll let you go, too. Hey, that’s a good idea—let’s all go out and have a beer.” He snorted. “She ain’t the only retard.” The boot tapped faster. “C’mon, c’mon, move it.”

I closed the gap to twenty feet, fifteen, exerted downward pressure that tipped the chair slightly, got stuck again.

“What the fu—you playing with me, Whitebread?”

“Sorry,” I said, in tremulous voice. “You told me to keep my hands—just a sec.”