Then, sorry to say, he pretty much did the same to the old man.

On the bed Janet sat, jouncing her heels up and down in a fluttering motion that bespoke the drug-induced trauma that her nerves were under. There was something sad in the sight of her like that on a stranger’s bed. Seeing her, Jimmy felt a great welling sensation come up from his chest and enter his shoulders and head. The next thing to do would be to loot the house, to turn it over, as they said, to make use of the situation the best they could and then go someplace—maybe the fish hatchery—to count the booty and to drink; that was the sensible thing to do, he said out loud. We’ve got to get some sense into this setup, he said, moving around the room, opening the sock drawer and finding a box of cuff links, a little packet of business cards—pulling the card out and reading:

MALCOLM HAYWOOD INDUSTRIES

Malcolm Haywood, President

Fine Masonry

888 Hill Street

NO JOB TOO LARGE OR SMALL

At the back of the drawer, rolled tight in the end of a sock, he found what he was looking for, a big stash of what seemed to be ancient coins. Booty. Old gold pieces, too, enough to conclude the robbery, enough to take with them to give a sense of completion to the mission, he told himself, and anyway the jitters that were tearing through Janet were getting profoundly violent. She seemed unable to control the movement of her arms, which were making great birdlike flaps. She was flying down the stairs, muttering about the incorrect nature of hurting an old man who couldn’t talk. She felt the buzzing at the base of her ears and inside her skull. I’m afraid, she said. I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid, she said again in the kitchen, opening the fridge, finding it empty except for a single pint of slaw and a large container of buttermilk. I’m afraid what we did was the incorrect thing. I mean, we shouldn’t have, it’s gonna haunt us, like, like maybe it’s going to like haunt us, I mean, like, because the guy couldn’t talk, man, couldn’t talk. He didn’t have his say.

But out in the woods she felt better, leaving that house behind, all the lights blazing. I feel better, she said. The car was still there, old and beat-up but looking perfectly fine in the starlight. It had moved slightly, a few yards to the west, in their absence, she was sure. The car moved, she said. The fucking car moved. The car moved. It did indeed, Jimmy said, just to assure her, as he opened the door and reached into the back where the bottles of Paw Paw wine lay nestled against each other. Here, he didn’t bother with the corkscrew. Instead he went out into the cold night, broke the neck of the bottle on a rock, and lifted the broken end to his lips, taking a long draw, leaning against his car for support. In the shadows on the other side, mercifully out of sight, Janet started to make her flapping motions, as if readying herself for some long migration out of this world into the next, lifting her arms slowly, not so jauntily, making long, graceful sweeps in the air. Jimmy’s wine was smooth and glassy and landed in his gut like radiator coolant, and he felt good with the heavy sock tucked into his belt, hanging, flapping down against his thigh. We’ll go over to the fish hatchery and hang out for a while, he said, and then see what we can see because at this time of night it’s nice there. Words were just coming up and out of him. There will be stars against the long flat slabs of dark water; there will be the gurgle of the sluice gates and all of those stupid fucking hungry fish rising up in their humiliating eagerness at the food.