Goldie stopped in the act of stepping out of the car. Hinch did not move.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because I’m giving you the word.”

“Bitch,” Hinch chortled.

Furia looked at him. Hinch gave him a rather embarrassed spread of the hand.

“I gave you the word, Goldie.”

Goldie shrugged and stepped back into the Chrysler banging the door. When Goldie shrugged her long gold hair shrugged with her. She had borrowed the effect from the TV commercials. She was all gold and scarlet, a girl of bottles and pastes. Her miniskirt came eight inches under her crotch. She was wearing gold fishnets and tall gilt boots.

Her eyes sat on purple cushions, not eye shadow.

“Looks okay,” Hinch said.

“Don’t kill the engine just in case.”

“Don’t worry, Fure.”

Furia stepped up to the plant door. He walked on the balls of his feet like an actor playing a thief. As he walked he felt for his shoulder holster the way other men feel for their zippers.

He knocked three times. One, two-three.

The pair in the car sat very still. Hinch was looking into the rearview mirror. Goldie was looking into Furia.

“He’s taking his sonofabitch time,” Furia said.

“He chickened out maybe,” Hinch said.

Goldie said nothing.

The lock turned over and Howland stood in the moonlight like a ghost in shirtsleeves.

“Took your sonofabitch time,” Furia said. “Where’s the gelt?”

“The what?”

“The moo. The payroll.”

“Oh.” Howland yawned suddenly. “On my desk. Make it snappy.” His teeth clicked like telegraph keys. He kept sneaking looks at the deserted lot.

Furia nodded at the Chrysler and Hinch got out in one move: he was behind the wheel, he was on the macadam. Goldie stirred but when Furia gave her the look she sat back.

“Has he got the rope?” Howland asked.

“Come on.” Furia jabbed at Howland’s groin playfully. The bookkeeper backed off and Hinch laughed. “What’s the stall? Let’s see that bread.”