"You think Fat Johnny got a look at your client's dough," Delevan said. He and O'Mearah got out of the blue-and-white.

"Is that what you call the man in that shop?"

"Oh, we call him worse than that on occasion," Delevan said. "What happened after you showed him your P.C., Mr. Mort?"

"He asked for a closer look. I gave him my wallet but he didn't look at the picture. He dropped it on the floor. I asked him what he did that for. He said that was a stupid question. Then I told him to give me back my wallet. I was mad."

"I bet you were." Although, looking at the man's dead face, Delevan thought you'd never guess this man could get mad.

"He laughed. I started to come around the counter and get it. That was when he pulled the gun."

They had been walking toward the shop. Now they stopped. They looked excited rather than fearful. "Gun?" "Gun?" O'Mearah asked, wanting to be sure he had heard right. O'Mearah asked, wanting to be sure he had heard right.

"It was under the counter, by the cash register," the man in the blue suit said. Roland remembered the moment when he had almost junked his original plan and gone for the man's weapon. Now he told these gunslingers why he hadn't. He wanted to use them, not get them killed. "I think it was in a docker's clutch."

"A what? what?" O'Mearah asked.

A longer pause this time. The man's forehead wrinkled. "I don't know exactly how to say it... a thing you put your gun into. No one can grab it but you unless they know how to push-"

"A spring-clip!" Delevan said. "Holy s.h.i.t!" Another exchange of glances between the partners. Neither wanted to be the first to tell this guy that Fat Johnny had probably harvested the cash from his wallet already, shucked his buns out the back door, and tossed it over the wall of the alley behind the building... but a gun in a spring-clip... that was different. Robbery was a possible, but all at once a concealed weapons charge looked like a sure thing. Maybe not as good, but a foot in the door.

"What then?" O'Mearah asked.

"Then he told me I didn't have a wallet. He said-" pause "-that I got my picket pocked-my pocket picked, I mean-on the street and I'd better remember it if I wanted to stay healthy. I remembered seeing a police car parked up the block and I thought you might still be there. So I left."

"Okay," Delevan said. "Me and my partner are going in first, and fast. Give us about a minute-a full full minute-just in case there's some trouble. Then come in, but stand by the door. Do you understand?" minute-just in case there's some trouble. Then come in, but stand by the door. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Let's bust this motherf.u.c.ker."

The two cops went in. Roland waited thirty seconds and then followed them.

9.

"Fat Johnny" Holden was doing more than protesting. He was bellowing.

"Guy's crazy! Guy comes in here, doesn't even know what he wants, then, when he sees it in the Shooter's Bible Shooter's Bible, he don't know how many comes in a box, how much they cost, and what he says about me wantin' a closer look at his P.C. is the biggest pile of s.h.i.t I ever heard, because he don't have have no Permit to-" Fat Johnny broke off. "There he is! There's the creep! Right there! I see you, buddy! I see your face! Next time you see mine you're gonna be f.u.c.kin sorry! I guarantee you that! I f.u.c.kin guarantee-" no Permit to-" Fat Johnny broke off. "There he is! There's the creep! Right there! I see you, buddy! I see your face! Next time you see mine you're gonna be f.u.c.kin sorry! I guarantee you that! I f.u.c.kin guarantee-"

"You don't have this man's wallet?" O'Mearah asked.

"You know know I don't have his wallet!" I don't have his wallet!"

"You mind if we take a look behind this display case?" Delevan countered. "Just to be sure?"

"Jesus-f.u.c.kin-jumped-up-Christ-on-a-pony! The case is gla.s.s! gla.s.s! You see any wallets there?" You see any wallets there?"

"No, not there there... I meant here, here," Delevan said, moving toward the register. His voice was a cat's purr. At this point a chrome-steel reinforcing strip almost two feet wide ran down the shelves of the case. Delevan looked back at the man in the blue suit, who nodded.

"I want you guys out of here right now," Fat Johnny said. He had lost some of his color. "You come back with a warrant, that's different. But for now, I want you the f.u.c.k out. Still a free f.u.c.kin country, you kn-hey! hey! HEY, QUIT THAT! hey! HEY, QUIT THAT!"

O'Mearah was peering over the counter.

"That's illegal!" Fat Johnny was howling. Fat Johnny was howling. "That's f.u.c.kin illegal, the Const.i.tution... my f.u.c.kin lawyer... you get back on your side right now or-" "That's f.u.c.kin illegal, the Const.i.tution... my f.u.c.kin lawyer... you get back on your side right now or-"

"I just wanted a closer look at the merchandise," O'Mearah said mildly, "on account of the gla.s.s in your display case is so f.u.c.king dirty. That's why I looked over. Isn't it, Carl?"

"True s.h.i.t, buddy," Delevan said solemnly.

"And look what I I found." found."

Roland heard a click, click, and suddenly the gunslinger in the blue uniform was holding an extremely large gun in his hand. and suddenly the gunslinger in the blue uniform was holding an extremely large gun in his hand.

Fat Johnny, who had finally realized he was the only person in the room who would tell a story that differed from the fairy tale just told by the cop who had taken his Mag, turned sullen.

"I got a permit," he said.

"To carry?" Delevan asked.

"Yeah."

"To carry concealed?"

"Yeah."

"This gun registered?" O'Mearah asked. "It is, isn't it?"

"Well... I mighta forgot."

"Might be it's hot, and you forgot that, too."

"f.u.c.k you. I'm calling my lawyer."

Fat Johnny started to turn away. Delevan grabbed him.

"Then there's the question of whether or not you got a permit to conceal a deadly weapon in a spring-clip device," he said in the same soft, purring voice. "That's an interesting question, because so far as I know, the City of New York doesn't issue issue a permit like that." a permit like that."

The cops were looking at Fat Johnny; Fat Johnny was glaring back at them. So none of them noticed Roland turn the sign hanging in the door from OPEN OPEN to to CLOSED CLOSED.

"Maybe we could start to resolve this matter if we could find the gentleman's wallet," O'Mearah said. Satan himself could not have lied with such genial persuasiveness. "Maybe he just dropped it, you know."

"I told you! I don't know nothing about the guy's wallet! Guy's out of his mind!"

Roland bent down. "There it is," he remarked. "I can just see it. He's got his foot on it."

This was a lie, but Delevan, whose hand was still on Fat Johnny's shoulder, shoved the man back so rapidly that it was impossible to tell if the man's foot had had been there or not. been there or not.

It had to be now. Roland glided silently toward the counter as the two gunslingers bent to peer under the counter. Because they were standing side by side, this brought their heads close together. O'Mearah still had the gun the clerk had kept under the counter in his right hand.

"G.o.ddam, it's there!" Delevan said excitedly. "I see see it!" it!"

Roland snapped a quick glance at the man they had called Fat Johnny, wanting to make sure he was not going to make a play. But he was only standing against the wall-pushing against it, actually, as if wishing he could push himself into it-with his hands hanging at his sides and his eyes great wounded O's. He looked like a man wondering how come his horoscope hadn't told him to beware this day. against it, actually, as if wishing he could push himself into it-with his hands hanging at his sides and his eyes great wounded O's. He looked like a man wondering how come his horoscope hadn't told him to beware this day.

No problem there.

"Yeah!" O'Mearah replied gleefully. The two men peered under the counter, hands on uniformed knees. Now O'Mearah left his knee and he reached out to snag the wallet. "I see it, t-" O'Mearah replied gleefully. The two men peered under the counter, hands on uniformed knees. Now O'Mearah left his knee and he reached out to snag the wallet. "I see it, t-"

Roland took one final step forward. He cupped Delevan's right cheek in one hand, O'Mearah's left cheek in the other, and all of a sudden a day Fat Johnny Holden believed had had to have hit rock bottom got a to have hit rock bottom got a lot lot worse. The spook in the blue suit brought the cops' heads together hard enough to make a sound like rocks wrapped in felt colliding with each other. worse. The spook in the blue suit brought the cops' heads together hard enough to make a sound like rocks wrapped in felt colliding with each other.

The cops fell in a heap. The man in the gold-rimmed specs stood. He was pointing the.357 Mag at Fat Johnny. The muzzle looked big enough to hold a moon rocket.

"We're not going to have any trouble, are we?" the spook asked in his dead voice.

"No sir," Fat Johnny said at once, "not a bit."

"Stand right there. If your a.s.s loses contact with that wall, you are going to lose contact with life as you have always known it. You understand?"

"Yes sir," Fat Johnny said, "I sure do."

"Good."

Roland pushed the two cops apart. They were both still alive. That was good. No matter how slow and un.o.bservant they might be, they were gunslingers, men who had tried to help a stranger in trouble. He had no urge to kill his own.

But he had done it before, hadn't he? Yes. Had not Alain himself, one of his sworn brothers, died under Roland's and Cuthbert's own smoking guns?

Without taking his eyes from the clerk, he felt under the counter with the toe of Jack Mort's Gucci loafer. He felt the wallet. He kicked it. It came spinning out from underneath the counter on the clerk's side. Fat Johnny jumped and shrieked like a goosey girl who spies a mouse. His a.s.s actually did did lose contact with the wall for a moment, but the gunslinger overlooked it. He had no intention of putting a bullet in this man. He would throw the gun at him and poleaxe him with it before firing a shot. A gun as absurdly big as this would probably bring half the neighborhood. lose contact with the wall for a moment, but the gunslinger overlooked it. He had no intention of putting a bullet in this man. He would throw the gun at him and poleaxe him with it before firing a shot. A gun as absurdly big as this would probably bring half the neighborhood.

"Pick it up," the gunslinger said. "Slowly."

Fat Johnny reached down, and as he grasped the wallet, he farted loudly and screamed. With faint amus.e.m.e.nt the gunslinger realized he had mistaken the sound of his own fart for a gunshot and his time of dying had come.

When Fat Johnny stood up, he was blushing furiously. There was a large wet patch on the front of his pants.

"Put the purse on the counter. Wallet, I mean."

Fat Johnny did it.

"Now the sh.e.l.ls. Winchester.45s. And I want to see your hands every second."

"I have to reach into my pocket. For my keys."

Roland nodded.

As Fat Johnny first unlocked and then slid open the case with the stacked cartons of bullets inside, Roland cogitated.

"Give me four boxes," he said at last. He could not imagine needing so many sh.e.l.ls, but the temptation to have have them was not to be denied. them was not to be denied.

Fat Johnny put the boxes on the counter. Roland slid one of them open, still hardly able to believe it wasn't a joke or a sham. But they were bullets, all right, clean, shining, unmarked, never fired, never re-loaded. He held one up to the light for a moment, then put it back in the box.

"Now take out a pair of those wristbands."

"Wristbands-?"

The gunslinger consulted the Mortcypedia. "Handcuffs."

"Mister, I dunno what you want. The cash register's-"

"Do what I say. Now."

Christ, this ain't never never gonna end, gonna end, Fat Johnny's mind moaned. He opened another section of the counter and brought out a pair of cuffs. Fat Johnny's mind moaned. He opened another section of the counter and brought out a pair of cuffs.

"Key?" Roland asked.

Fat Johnny put the key to the cuffs on the counter. It made a small click. One of the unconscious cops made an abrupt snoring sound and Johnny uttered a wee screech.

"Turn around," the gunslinger said.

"You ain't gonna shoot me, are you? Say you ain't!"

"Ain't," Roland said tonelessly. "As long as you turn around right now. If you don't do that, I will."

Fat Johnny turned around, beginning to blubber. Of course the guy said he wasn't going to, but the smell of mob hit was getting too strong to ignore. He hadn't even been skimming that much. His blubbers became choked wails.

"Please, mister, for my mother's sake don't shoot me. My mother's old. She's blind. She's-"

"She's cursed with a yellowgut son," the gunslinger said dourly. "Wrists together."

Mewling, wet pants sticking to his crotch, Fat Johnny put them together. In a trice the steel bracelets were locked in place. He had no idea how the spook had gotten over or around the counter so quickly. Nor did he want want to know. to know.

"Stand there and look at the wall until I tell you it's all right to turn around. If you turn around before then, I'll kill you."

Hope lighted Fat Johnny's mind. Maybe the guy didn't mean to hit him after all. Maybe the guy wasn't crazy, just insane.

"I won't. Swear to G.o.d. Swear before all of His saints. Swear before all His angels. Swear before all His arch- arch-"

"I swear if you don't shut up I'll put a slug through your neck," the spook said. swear if you don't shut up I'll put a slug through your neck," the spook said.

Fat Johnny shut up. It seemed to him that he stood facing the wall for an eternity. In truth, it was about twenty seconds.

The gunslinger knelt, put the clerk's gun on the floor, took a quick look to make sure the maggot was being good, then rolled the other two onto their backs. Both were good and out, but not dangerously hurt, Roland judged. They were both breathing regularly. A little blood trickled from the ear of the one called Delevan, but that was all.

He took another quick glance at the clerk, then unbuckled the gunslingers' gunbelts and stripped them off. Then he took off Mort's blue suitcoat and buckled the belts on himself. They were the wrong guns, but it still felt good to be packing iron again. d.a.m.ned d.a.m.ned good. Better than he would have believed. good. Better than he would have believed.