Satisfied, Lonny took the gun from his pocket and leveled it at the man.
"I have a wife, a mother, and three small children," the man said, as he had said the last two times he was robbed.
"I ain't no widow maker," Lonny said. "Just put bills on the table, fast All the bills, under the tray too, and don't go pushing no buttons or buzzers or that shit, you understand?"
"Yes," the man said and began removing bills and laying them on the counter.
Gun in his left hand leveled at the frightened man, Lonny scooped bills and shoved them into his jacket pockets.
"You know who I am?"
"No," said the man.
"Good," said Lonny. "We keep it that way. You wait five minutes before you call the cops, you hear?"
"Yes," said the man.
"And you ever see me again you keep sayin' you don't know me, understand?"
Lonny was backing toward the door.
" 'Cause you ever ID me I'll get you or my friends will. You understand?"
"Yes," the man said again.
This is easy, and I'm good at it, Lonny thought. I get that car, head for Georgia, and do this again when I need cash. Me and Dalbert and lago should have done this a long time ago.
He reached behind him for the door, and turned his head to look into the lot to be sure no one was coming. Far away in the hospital lot a man was running through the rain for his car.
And then Mohammed Achman Izar shot Lonny Wayne and ended Lonny's dream.
Lonny turned and fired at the storekeeper, but all he hit was the glass front of a dairy cabinet. Mohammed was a much better shot. He'd had more practice.
Lonny went through the door running, hearing an alarm behind him, dropping bills and hoping they were singles, wondering if there was a bullet in his head. He ran, ducked between cars, shoved the gun back in his pocket. Ran.
The forest of familiar high-rises, garbage bins, and traffic was a few blocks away. He ran, wondering if he would suddenly fall dead. Lonny panted, breathing hard. He slipped and went down, keeping his hand in his pocket to hold the bulge of bills. And then he was up again, hand to his ear. It came down with blood.
Lonny touched his scalp and couldn't find a hole.
"Everyone has a fuckin' gun," he panted, racing for the high-rises, the alarm behind him prodding him to exhaustion, "lago, the doc, even the goddamn Indian."
He made it. The sound of the alarm behind him grew more faint. He made it. Between two dirt-gardened high-rises, behind an overflowing dumpster. Lonny leaned against a wall where he couldn't be seen, rain pelting, and in the eave of the dumpster he caught his breath and let his weary legs tremble as he counted the bills in his pocket. Two hundred and eighty-three dollars.
It would have to be enough for Skilly Parker.
Lonny touched his ear. It was bleeding, the part of it that was left. Lonny held his hand to his ear and looked around. He pressed his soaking sleeve to the wound and forced himself to move. He was alive. He still had a chance. But God, it had suddenly gotten awfully cold in Chicago.
They would follow him. Harvey Rozier was sure now that the police would follow him. But he would have to get away, have to go to Patniks's house, have to kill him-but more carefully, smarter than what he had done to Dana. He had made Dana's murder too complicated.
Lieberman was probably sitting outside waiting for him to come out and drive to work. Let him wait. Let him wonder. Harvey moved to the window, where he could see the driveway and street Yes, a car was parked across the street, its motor idling. Exhaust fumes mixing with cold rain and turning to steam. Lieberman.
Harvey had managed to convince Betty Franklin that she needed to go home and rest. He had assured her with kisses that he loved her and that he had nothing, nothing to do with Dana's death. She believed because she wanted to believe, because it was necessary for her to believe.
Harvey crossed the bedroom and turned on the television. Images of war and soap operas skittered by, a cartoon about a dog, an old movie. He turned the television set off.
If Betty didn't believe him, if Betty abandoned him, he would have killed Dana for nothing. Ken had told Harvey that he had no more than six months or a year at best, and Betty had confirmed that one night in a bedroom at the Palmer House. Harvey had wept, and Betty had comforted her lover over the prospect of losing his closest friend, his confidant.
Rain hit the windows, thudded on the roof. Thunder rattled in the distance.
Dana was no saint, and their marriage had, at least for the past five years, been for show only. But, he had to admit, Dana had played her part well and she had been rewarded for it. She had never fought with him, had seldom even talked to him, which had been fine with Rozier. They had never discussed divorce. Harvey never could have afforded to pay her what she would have asked even if she had agreed, and he doubted that she would have agreed.
If he could have told Lieberman, Harvey would have said that it was she, Dana, who had repeatedly and openly been unfaithful, Dana who had picked up his friends, employees, and had even said that she was considering old Ken just to see how he would take the invitation.
The phone rang.
Harvey had been reasonably constant in his marriage.
The phone was still ringing. The answering machine clicked on, but the person calling didn't leave a message.
It was that suggestion by Dana that had set him thinking about Betty Franklin and the millions she would inherit when Ken died, not to mention the family money she already had.
Harvey did not believe in eternal life or eternal damnation. Harvey believed that whatever heaven or hell existed, it was on earth and one molded it or was its victim. They would all die. Ken sooner. Betty, perhaps with some subtle help, a little later, and Harvey last of all. If the police didn't catch him, there would be no punishment, onJy reward and the distant prospect of meaningless death.
The phone rang again. Harvey picked it up.
"Yes," said Harvey.
"This is Mr. Edgar, Mr. Rozier. I heard about your grief. I'm very sorry to trouble you now, but I need to pick up all that paperwork I left at your house during my visit the other day. You remember, the file where I caught that big mistake of yours? There's nothing for you to worry about now, but I'm leaving town and need to clear things up before I go."
Harvey sat and sucked in air.
"I'm afraid you can't come now," he said, reasonably certain, as his caller obviously was, that the police had tapped the phone.
"And I'm afraid I have to insist on getting it back before I go. In fact, I can't leave without it," the man said. "I didn't want to just drop by unannounced, so I'm calling you from the phone booth at the Shell station across from the church. I hope you understand."
"I think so," said Harvey. "I'll do what I can to help you out."
"Good," the man said, and hung up the phone.
Harvey moved to the bedroom window again. Lieber-man, or whoever it was, was still out there. Betty would be back with Ken in an hour or two. Harvey had to hurry, had to hurry, and hoped he had understood the man's message.
Harvey moved to me closet, pulled out his sneakers, an old raincoat, and folded a pair of leather driving gloves into his pocket. Then he went downstairs, through the library, and into the garage. Harvey had removed the red toolbox from the safe and it now sat openly on a shelf next to an aluminum toolbox. Harvey moved around his Lexus, opened the red toolbox, removed the small crowbar, and placed it inside the deep pocket of his raincoat. Then he opened the back door, checking to be sure it wasn't being watched. There was no reason for it to be watched, no reason for the police to think he would be running off, certainly not on foot.
Harvey pulled his collar up against the rain and hurried across the lawn and through a slight break in the bushes, die same route he had used just two nights ago when he murdered his wife. Through the wild, dead-end growth of trees and bushes, he wound his way, coming out on the cul-de-sac of Camino Real Road.