“You’re breakin’ my goddamn heart,” Chaplin said.

“Put the money on the counter,” Bill said.

The stand worker gave Bill a defiant look, reached under the counter and came up with a metal box and opened it and took out the money and put it on the counter. “Get your own sack,” he said.

“You give us a sack,” Bill said, “and put them candles and ’crackers in there too, and if you got any of them little teepee things that spew colors and blow up, put some of them in there, or I’m gonna shoot your dick off.”

At that moment, the elastic on Bill’s mask gave out. The mask sprang forward and floated down and landed on the counter in front of the stand worker. But the stand worker didn’t look at the mask. He looked at Bill’s face.

“Hell, I’ve seen you before,” said the stand worker, proud of himself. “You live across the road there? Yeah. You do. I know you.”

Bill looked at Chaplin. Chaplin and Bill looked at the stand owner, who suddenly grew pale.

“You fucked up,” said Chaplin.

“Don’t,” Bill said, but Chaplin shot the stand owner between the eyes. The stand owner did a short hop backwards, coiled down over his legs as if they were boneless, and lay behind the counter with his head on his knee, one hand reaching up and pulling down a box of firecrackers. Then he was still as the dirt beneath him.

“Oh my God,” Bill said. “You shot him.”

“He knew who you were.”

“I didn’t want nobody killed.”

“Pray over him a bit, maybe he’ll come around.”

Bumfuzzled, Bill stood still as a post.

“Climb over there and get the money,” Chaplin said.

Bill climbed over the counter, got a bag and shoved the money into it, got another bag and put the candles and the ’crackers in it, picked him out a few cherry bombs and the teepee things, put those in the sack. He looked through the dead man’s pockets and found a quarter. He climbed over the counter, tossed the firecracker bag to Chaplin, and they darted out to the car, got in the back seat.