He was fifty-six, lean and hard and red-brown from the rowing. His hair was silver, still fairly thick, combed straight across his head so that it glistened. He had a habit of smoothing it with his hand, as though he wanted it to retain the luster. But there was no luster in his eyes. His eyes were a very pale yellow-gray, dull and lifeless, more like lenses.

Lenses that could see through a wall, Corey was thinking. Or inside someone’s brain. If they thought he was really out to win, they wouldn’t be sitting at that table with him. The way it is, they know he’s only fooling around. It’s a cinch he ain’t interested in their singles and fives or even their sawbucks. If he actually felt like trying, he’d have them all flat busted inside a fast ninety minutes. You can’t help but admire him, I mean the machinery in his head. That’s what it is, machinery; and it’s strictly precision tooled. You can’t remember when it ever made a mistake. A typical front runner, no two ways about it. But do you envy him? Do you envy him with his hand-stitched suits and sixty-dollar shoes? With the limousine from Spain and the brand new Olds? And while we’re at it, we might as well include that other fancy job he rides, that slinky platinum blonde he sleeps with every night. So I’m askin’ you, do you envy him?

You’re goddam right you envy him. And—

At that moment Rafer was dealing. Grogan was sipping the buttermilk. It all happened very fast, the back door opening and two men coming in, showing guns.

The men wore horror masks that covered their entire heads. One was a werewolf and the other was a stomach-turning combination of hyena and horned Satan. The werewolf stood near the door and the hyena-devil moved slowly toward the table.

There was no sound in the room. A few of the poker players put their arms above their heads. Rafer still held the card he’d been about to deal, his hand suspended stiffly in midair.

Grogan was gazing calmly at the masked men. He seemed to appraise the masks, as though they were competing for first prize at a costume party and he was one of the judges. He continued studying them for a few moments, sipped some buttermilk, lowered the glass to the table and said, “All right, what do you want?”

“You,” the hyena-Satan said. His voice was muffled behind the mask. He had the pistol aimed at Grogan’s head. “Just you, Grogan.”

Grogan reached for his wallet.

“Don’t do that,” the hyena-Satan said.

“Then take what’s on the table,” Grogan told him. “Take it and get outta here.”

“We didn’t come for that.” The pistol gestured toward the money on the table. “I told you what we want. We want you.”