Corey started walking, Lita again at his side and Kingsley close behind him.

They were crossing the intersection. Lita was saying to Corey, “What was all that about? That stubborn-mule routine?”

“Forget it,” Corey muttered, making it sound as though he was bitterly resentful of the clobbering he’d taken from the gun.

Kingsley said to Lita, “Don’t pay him no mind. He’s just sensitive, that’s all.”

“Only at times.” Corey accented his resentment. “Like when I’m gettin’ pushed around. It didn’t call for strong-arm and you know it.”

“What a crybaby,” Lita said.

“We’ll hafta buy him a balloon,” Kingsley said. “That’s what you do with a crybaby.”

“Screw that noise,” Corey faked cold anger. He turned his head to let Kingsley see the ice in his eyes. “It ain’t the black and blue marks that bother me. What bothers me, you clubbed me with the gun because you’re jittery. And that makes it sloppy. Christ’s sake, this ain’t no smalltime heist; it’s strictly major league. We gotta handle it smooth and I mean smooth all the way.”

“Listen to the man,” Kingsley said to Lita. “The man talks big.”

“And that’s how it should be,” Corey spoke firmly. “It needs big talk because the money is big. And I got every right to open my mouth—”

“With a gun at your back?”

“The hell with the gun,” Corey said. “There’s more important items on this schedule. We gotta make sure there ain’t no slip-ups when we get where we’re going. Because one mistake and we’re all loused.”

“He’s right,” Lita said. “He’s absolutely—”

“Shut up,” Kingsley barked at her. And then quietly, to Corey, “What gives here, exactly? Whatcha tryin’ to prove?”

“Not a goddam thing. It’s just that I wanna see gold instead of grief. I’m looking to get that percentage, that thirty-three-and-a-third.”

Kingsley smiled. “You’ll get it, partner. You’ll get all you’re entitled to, don’t worry.”

They were approaching the Oldsmobile. It was parked across the street. They crossed and Lita climbed in first, getting behind the wheel. Kingsley told Corey to get in the back seat, then followed and sat down beside him. Lita started the engine and said, “Where we going?”

“The house,” Corey said. “Grogan’s house.”

The car moved off. Corey leaned back, his head resting against his folded hands. He didn’t look at Kingsley or at the gun in Kingsley’s hand. Kingsley sat half-facing him, the gun held low, somewhat loosely, not really aimed at Corey. But it’s loaded, he reminded himself. It’s a wall of fire and there’s no hotter fire than a .38 slug.