Conspircaies

'If everything's okay with you, now I got my work to do.'

'Just one more thing,' Jack said. He turned to Santo and his wife. 'I want you two on either side of me, watching, okay?'

He centered himself on the makeshift table, then positioned Santo on his right and the wife on his left.

'All right,' he told the couple. 'Don't let that ball out of your sight.'

'Now are we ready?' the shaker said.

Jack nodded. 'Okay. Do it.'

Jack felt his muscles coil as the shaker started his yammer and went into the skedaddle. Finally he stopped, pushed the caps forward.

'The ball is hidden in its groove. Time for you to make your move.'

Jack took a deep, tension-easing breath, then squared himself in front of the table. He pointed at the caps with both index fingers, moving them in circles as if they were fleshy divining rods.

'I choose…I choose…'

He moved his hands closer to the caps.

'…I choose…'

Closer…quick glances at the positions of the sticks…

Then he struck.

'…the middle!'

With one lightning move he overturned the two end caps, shouted, 'I win!' when no ball showed, then snatched up the two piles of bills and the earring.

'What the fuck?' said Nocap.

Jack was already moving as he shoved the earring into Santo's hand.

'Bye.'

'Hey!' yelled the shaker.

'That's okay,' Jack said, backpedaling away down the path. 'I don't need to see the ball. I trust you.'

He turned and broke into a jog. Behind him he heard Santo laugh. He glanced back and saw his wife hugging him. He also saw Knitcap and one of the slides starting after him.

He quickened his pace. He knew he wasn't going to lose them. Fifth Avenue was less than a hundred yards away, but even if he got there ahead of them, that wouldn't stop them. They'd jump him on the sidewalk and take back the money. Or try to. Jack didn't want to deal with them in public; witnesses could describe him, a camera- toting tourist might even snap a photo. Or worst case—a cop might come to his rescue.

No, he'd have to deal with both of them here. He needed a spot where they'd think they had him all to themselves. And up ahead he saw just the place.

He hopped over a low fence onto the grass and half ran, half slid down a steep slope to a lower walkway that ran into a short tunnel beneath the path he'd been on. He stopped midway in the brick-lined underpass and ducked into one of the shallow arched recesses that lined the walls. He pulled his Semmerling LM-4 from its ankle holster and stuck it in the side pocket of his jeans for easier access.

He was hoping he wouldn't have to use it—that simply showing it would be enough. Trouble with the world's smallest .45 automatic was its size. People saw it and thought it was a toy. But it packed a wallop, especially loaded as it was the MagSafe Defenders.

The frangible loads gave Jack the option of inflicting a disabling wound—say, to the thigh—or an almost guaranteed kill with a shot anywhere into the chest. And he didn't have to worry about the bullet coming out the other side and hitting an innocent passerby—frangibles did devastating damage to their target, but stayed put.

He was making a show of counting his money when they found him.

'Awright, mothahfuckah,' Knitcap said. He held a six-inch blade point down by his right thigh.

Jack slid his hand toward the Semmerling pocket but stopped it halfway there. He'd been expecting knives; he hadn't expected the pearl-handled .38 revolver in the young slide's hand.

'Yeah,' said the slide, pointing the pistol at Jack's head. 'Yeah!'

For one frozen, heart-stopping, bladder-squeezing second as the barrel lined up with his face, Jack thought he was going to die. He saw murder in the slide's face. The kid was all of seventeen, but his cold dark eyes said he hadn't been a real kid for a long time.

But Jack calmed somewhat when he saw how the kid was holding it. Maybe he'd been watching too many gangsta videos, or bad shoot-'em-up flicks. Whatever the reason, the slide was holding his pistol sideways… beyond sideways—he'd rotated it a good 150 degrees so that the heel of the grip was higher than the barrel. And he had his ring and pinky fingers sticking up in the air like he was having afternoon tea.

When he was ready to pull the trigger he'd need to get a firmer grip or risk having the pistol jump out of his hand.

So Jack figured he was safe for the moment—the kid was stylin' now, showing off for the older stick—but as soon as those waving fingers wrapped themselves around the grip…

What now? Look scared, then attack? The one thing he could not afford to do was the expected.

'You lunched?' the kid said. 'That what wrong with you? That what make you think you get away with this shit?'

Jack's mind raced as his eyes fixed on the snub-nose revolver—looked like a custom job, nickel plated with curlicue engravings all over it. A pretty piece, despite the fact that its muzzle was pointed at Jack's face.

'Hey-hey-hey,' Jack said in a frantic voice that wasn't completely put on. He thrust his hands out in front of him, money and all, as if to hold them off. 'No need for violence!'

'Yeah?' said Knitcap through his teeth. He stepped closer and Jack raised his hands over his head. 'You think I like chasin' you 'bama ass around?'

'I won fair and square!'

'That ain't the way we play.' He stuck the point of his knife against Jack's throat. 'Maybe we just cut your thumbs off so this never be a problem again.'

'Or maybe I just one-eighty-seven you,' the slide said, pushing the pistol closer to Jack's face. 'Bust one in you face so you don't even think about trying this shit again!'

The revolver was so close now that Jack could see the tips of the bullets in its cylinder. His stomach gave a twist when he recognized the little posts in the center of the jacketed hollow points: Hydra-Shoks. He had a nightmare flash of what would happen if he took one of those in the face as threatened—he watched the rim of the hollow nose peel back from that central post into a wide-winged lead butterfly, saw it flutter though his brain, bouncing off the inner walls of his skull, pureeing the contents.

Think-think-think! Where's the hammer? Down. Good. If and when the kid fired, the trigger would need a double-action pull…just a teeny bit more pressure to get off the shot. Wasn't much, but every little bit helped.

A little closer…Jack had to bring that pistol just a little closer…

Very aware of the blade point just to the left of his voice box, he nodded carefully at the sideways pistol. 'Uh, I assume you know that's not the recommended way to hold a pistol.'

'What?' the slide said, his eyes widening. 'What?'

'I said—'

'I know what you said. And now I know you fuckin' lunched! I hold a gun in you face and you tell me I'm holding it wrong?' He glanced at Knitcap. 'Ay yo trip—he miss his medication today or somethin'?'

'No,' Jack said. 'It's just that it's not a secure grip.'

The slide stepped closer, rage lighting in his eyes as he yanked back the hammer. But he didn't change his grip—he wasn't going to let anyone tell him how to hold his gun. Stylin' to the end.

'Don't you be tellin' me—'

'Here!' Jack cried in a high, terrified voice, releasing the bills he held over his head and scattering them into the air. 'Take the money!'

In the instant their attention shifted to the money, Jack batted Knitcap's knife away with his left hand while whipping his right hand down at the slide's pistol. He caught the stubby barrel and the trigger guard, ramming the pistol back and down as he twisted. The weapon tore free and Jack switched it to his left hand.

And pointed it—right side up—at Knitcap just in time to abort a backhand slash at Jack's face with the