Because Anshutes had excavated the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's bridgework with the b.u.t.t of his .357 Magnum, emptied the guy's wallet, and left him tied to a telephone pole on the outskirts of Bakersfield. By now, the ice cream man was either cooked like the ubiquitous Christmas goose or in a hospital somewhere sucking milkshakes through a straw.

c.o.ker's left hand rested on the side view mirror, desert air blasting over his knuckles. Best to forget about the ice cream man. His thoughts returned to the Lady.

Like always, those thoughts had a way of sliding over his tongue, no matter how dry it was. Like always, they had a way of parting his chapped lips and finding Anshutes's perennially sunburned ear.

"Know where I'm heading after Vegas?" c.o.ker asked.

"No," Anshutes said.

"But I'm sure you're gonna tell me."

c.o.ker smiled.

"There's this place called Lake Louise, see? It's up north, in Canada.

Fifty years ago it used to be a ski resort. Now the only skiing they do is on the water. They've got palm trees, papayas and mangoes, and girls with skin the color of cocoa b.u.t.ter.

Days it's usually about thirty-five Celsius, which is ninety-five degrees American. Some nights it gets as low as sixty."

Anshutes chuckled.

"Sounds like you'll have to buy a coat."

"Go ahead and laugh. I'm talking double-digit degrees, partner. Sixty.

Six-oh. And girls with skin like cocoa b.u.t.ter. If that's not a big slice of paradise, I don't know what is."

"Get real, amigo. A guy with your record isn't exactly a prime candidate for immigration. And our dollar isn't worth s.h.i.t up north, anyway."

"Drop some luck into that equation."

"Oh, no. Here we go again--" "Seriously. I can feel it in my bones.

Something big is just ahead, waiting for us. I'm gonna take my cut from the ice cream job and hit the tables. I'm not walking away until I have a million bucks in my pocket."

"Even G.o.d isn't that lucky." Anshutes snorted.

"And luck had nothing to do with this, anyway. Planning did. And hard work. And a little help from a357 Magnum."

"So what are you gonna do with your money?"

c.o.ker asked sarcastically.

"Bury it in the ground?"

"Depends on how much we get."

"The way I figure it, we're looking at something large. Forty grand, maybe fifty."

"Well, maybe thirty." Anshutes gnawed on it a minute, doing some quick calculations.

"I figure the Push Ups will go for about fifty a pop. We got five cases of those. The Fudgsicles'll be about sixty-five. Figure seventy-five for the Drumsticks. And the Eskimo Pies--" "A hundred each, easy," c.o.ker said.

"Maybe even a hundred and twenty-five. And don't forget--we've got ten cases."

"You sound pretty sure about the whole thing."

"That's because I believe in luck," c.o.ker said.

"Like the song says, she's a lady. And she's smiling on us. Right now. Tonight. And she's gonna keep on smiling for a long, long time."

c.o.ker smiled, too. Screw Anshutes if he wanted to be all sour.

"You know what we ought to do?" c.o.ker said.

"We ought to pull over and celebrate a little.

Have us a couple of Eskimo Pies. Toast Lady Luck, enjoy the moment.

Live a little--" "I've lived a lot," Anshutes said.

"And I plan to live a lot longer. I'm not going to play the fool with my money. I'm not going to blow it on some pipe dream. I'm going to play it smart."

"Hey, relax. All I'm saying is--" "No," Anshutes said, and then he really went verbal.

"You've said enough. We're in this to make some real money for a change. And we're not gonna make it by pulling over to the side of the road, and we're not gonna make it by toasting Lady Luck with an Eskimo Pie in the middle of the Mojave Desert, and we're not going to make it by blowing our swag in some casino...."

Anshutes went on like that.

c.o.ker swallowed hard.

He'd had just about enough.

"I'm pulling over," he said.

"I'm going to have an Eskimo Pie, and you're G.o.dd.a.m.n well going to have one with me if you know what's good for you."

"The h.e.l.l I am!" Ansutes yanked his pistol.

"You G.o.dd.a.m.n fool! You take your foot off the brake right now, or I'll--"

Suddenly, Anshutes' complaints caught in his throat like a chicken bone. Ahead on the road, c.o.ker saw the cause of his partner's distress. Beneath the ripe moon, knee-deep in heat waves that shimmered up from the asphalt, a big man wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat walked the yellow center line of the highway.

He only had one arm, and he was carrying a woman piggyback--her arms wrapped around his neck, her long slim legs scissored around his waist.

But the woman wasn't slowing the big guy down. His pace was brisk, and it was one hundred and twenty-five degrees and the rangy b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't even look like he'd broken a sweat-c.o.ker honked the horn, but the cowboy didn't seem to notice.

"Don't hit him!" Anshutes yelled.

"You'll wreck the truck!"

Anshutes closed his eyes as c.o.ker hit the brakes.

Tires screamed as the ice cream truck veered right and bounded along the shoulder of the road. Gravel rattled in the wheel wells and slapped against the undercarriage like gunfire, and c.o.ker downshifted from fourth gear to third, from third to second, ice cream visions dancing in his head, visions of Drumsticks and Push Ups bashing around in the refrigeration unit, visions of broken Fudgsicles and mashed Eskimo Pies.. ..

Visions of Lady Luck turning her back.. ..

The electric engine whined as he shifted from second to first and yanked the emergency brake. The truck seized up like a gutshot horse, and the only thing that prevented c.o.ker from doing a header through the windshield was his seat belt.

c.o.ker unbuckled his belt. Anshutes set his pistol on the seat and fumbled with his seat belt. c.o.ker grabbed the .357 and was out of the cab before his partner could complain.

The hot asphalt was like sponge cake beneath c.o.ker's boots as he hurried after the man in the ten-gallon hat. The cowboy didn't turn.

Neither did the woman who rode him. In fact, the woman didn't move at all, and as c.o.ker got closer, he noticed a rope around her back. She was tied to the cowboy. c.o.ker figured she was dead.

That was bad news. Two strangers. One alive, one dead. Snake eyes. A jinxed roll if ever he saw one.

Bad enough that the cowboy had nearly killed him.

But if he'd put the jinx on c.o.ker's luck-c.o.ker aimed at the ripe moon and busted a round.

"Turn around, cowboy," he yelled.

"Unless you want it in the back."

The cowboy turned double-quick, like some marching band marionette. The one-armed man's face was lost under the brim of his ten-gallon hat, but moonlight splashed across his torso and gleamed against his right hand.