to move of their own accord as he hit the button to open the register. The girl stepped forward and pulled out the cash drawer. She was smiling at Stan. She looked back at the body on the ground.
“I used to fall down a lot myself,” she said. She poured the contents of the cash drawer into her shoulder bag, her eyes still on Stan, that scary smile still on her face. He felt as if his legs would give way any second.
“Roy,” the girl said over her shoulder. “Hand me the gun.” He handed the gun over. She placed the barrel almost gently under Stan’s chin. The barrel was hot, a circle of pain against his flesh. “Hey, Stan,” she whispered. “You want to be famous?”
Stan finally rediscovered words. “Wh … wh … what?”
“We’re gonna be famous,” Roy said. He was grinning. “Yeah,” Laurel said. “And you can come along. If you want.”
“Hey,” Roy said. “That’s not—”
“What about it, Stan?” Laurel interrupted him. “You wanna be famous? We can make it happen.” “Laurel,” Roy said, “we’ve gotta get moving.” “Come with us, Stan,” the girl said. “What have you got here? Some dipshit gas station out in the country? We’re gonna be on TV. In the papers. Books, movies … you name it. Or.” She looked a little sad. “I can put a bullet in you. Then Roy’ll put a bullet in you, ‘cause we agreed. Your choice. But you need to tell me now.”
Stan swallowed hard. He cut his eyes toward the figure of his stepfather on the ground. It began to dawn on him that he wasn’t going to have to get slapped around anymore. He looked back. The girl saw his eyes and her smile got wider. She lowered the gun. “Okay,” he said.
“You sure you want to do this?” Keller said. He pulled the big car up to the curb and put it in PARK.
“Si” said the brown-skinned man in the passenger seat. He sounded calm, but the way he nervously stroked his thin moustache betrayed him.
“Don’t worry, Oscar. This will be easy,” Keller said. “This guy Olivera’s got no record of violence, he just has a problem with showing up for his court dates. We find him, you explain the situation to him, we bring him back. No problems.”
Oscar Sanchez regarded Keller with no expression in his dark eyes. He spoke with the precise diction of someone who had learned his English in a classroom rather than on the street. “Of course. That is why you have brought a gun.”
“I always do that,” Keller said. “It doesn’t mean I think the guy’s going to get rowdy. It just helps to be prepared. I have an extra one in the trunk if you want it.” Sanchez smiled thinly. “Gracias, but no. I prefer to be just the interpreter.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
Sanchez nodded. “I am sure, Jack. I have rested long enough. It is time I made myself useful.”
“Okay, let’s go then,” Keller said as he opened the door. He stood up and tucked a stubby Glock 9MM pistol into the holster at the small of his back. He waited at the curb, looking away uncomfortably as the other man retrieved a dark-colored wooden cane from behind the seat and struggled to his feet. He was in his mid-forties, but the pronounced limp and the cane gave him the look of an older man. Keller slackened his pace to allow Sanchez to keep up. When they reached the door to the small duplex, Sanchez’s face was shiny with sweat and he was breathing hard, as if he had climbed a flight of stairs. Keller knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again.
After a moment, a teenaged girl opened the door. She was barefoot, dressed in a denim skirt and a brightly colored floral blouse. Her skin was the same shade as Sanchez’s, but her eyes were hooded and unfriendly.
“Que?” she said.
“Buenos dias,” Sanchez said. “Estamos buscando Manuel Olivera. Es el casero?”
“No se cualquier persona Manuel nombrado,” the girl said.
“She says she doesn’t know anyone by that name,” Sanchez told Keller.
“Uh-huh,” Keller said.
The girl made as if to close the door, but a boy of about seven or eight forced his way around one of her bare legs and blocked the door open. He stared at the two men in the doorway with grave interest. “Porque usted desea ver el Manuel?” he asked.
The girl made as if to yank him out of the doorway, but the boy evaded her grip with the ease of long practice and shot past her onto the small concrete stoop. “Who are you?” he demanded in English, looking at Keller.
“Ramon!” the girl hissed. “Consiga detras en la casa…”
“My name is Mr. Sanchez,” the man with the cane said to the boy. “You can call me Oscar. My friend here is Mr. Keller. Do you know Manuel Olivera?”
“Sure,” the boy said. “He’s been making out all morning with my ugly sister here.” He raised his voice. “HEY MANUEL!” he yelled. The girl shouted something unintelligible at her brother and tried to slam the door, but Keller stiff-armed it the rest of the way open. He shoved his way past the girl and into the apartment. “You can’t do that!” the girl yelled in English. “You got no warrant!” Keller ignored her. The front door opened into a tiny kitchen and an equally miniscule space that the landlord probably optimistically described as a breakfast nook. Keller moved past them and into the living room. The girl turned to Sanchez, her face dark with impotent fury. “He doesn’t have a warrant,” she said in Spanish.
Sanchez shrugged apologetically and replied in the same language. “He isn’t a policeman.”
Keller found himself in the living room. The only illumination was provided by a color television, which was playing a game show in Spanish. A sagging couch rested against one wall. Beside the couch, a darkened hallway led to the back rooms of the apartment. Keller pulled a pair of handcuffs from the back pocket of his jeans. He drew his gun from the small of his back with his other hand. “Manuel!” he called out. “Come on, man, let’s make this easy on everybody.” According to Keller’s information, Olivera spoke no English, so Keller tried to sound as calm as possible, hoping Olivera would respond to the tone of voice, even if the words meant nothing to him.
It didn’t work. Keller heard the slamming of a door at the far end of the hallway. He plunged into the darkness toward the sound.
What do you mean, he’s not a policeman?” the girl said in Spanish. “Why is he in my mother’s house, then?”
“He works for Manuel’s bail bondsman,” Sanchez said. He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb to take more weight off his knee. “Manuel missed his court date. If Senor Keller doesn’t bring him back, the bondsman loses the money.” Sanchez took a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow.
“Hey, Mister Oscar,” the boy asked. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
Sanchez hesitated. “Some bad men shot me in it,” he said finally.
The boy’s eyes widened in amazement. “Cool,” he said in English.
There was only one door closed, the one at the end of the hall. Keller stopped short of it. He raised his right knee nearly to his chest, then shot it out parallel to the floor, pivoting
