There were two other men in the sedan, and Sanchez no longer felt so vulnerable. If anything went wrong now, it would be somebody else’s fault.

He made a circle with thumb and forefinger. “Let’s hope the damn thing works.”

The big man in back said cheerfully, “If it don’t work, get up close to him, Pete, and I’ll shoot out a tire.”

“That’s a Caddy, man,” Sanchez replied. “If he sees us coming he’ll walk right away from us.”

The kid in front beside Sanchez lit a cigarette. He was calling the shots, he had organized everything and put up the capital, and to hear him talk, he was no stranger to the big time. It had a calming effect on Sanchez to see that his lighter flame was trembling.

“It’ll work,” the kid said, breathing out smoke. “It’s the same stuff they put in fire grenades in the Army. And don’t start shooting out tires, for God’s sake. Any other cars in the driveway?”

“No, just the Cad.”

They heard distant traffic noises, but this was a quiet part of town. They were parked on a short street, beginning at the Normandy Shores golf course and ending at the edge of the bay. After the kid finished his cigarette, sucking the smoke in hungrily, he started combing his hair. He jittered up and down and around, stretching his legs to ease the pull of his tight slacks, fingering his nose, checking the time, keeping the comb in motion. The more he twitched, the easier Sanchez felt. It stood to reason that the kid would be wondering how much he’d clear, and he was probably running over the list of the hundred and one things that could go wrong.

Sanchez hadn’t seen him for a couple of years. During that time he had picked up a nice tan and some terrific clothes. He was wearing a forty-dollar pair of shoes. If there was one thing Sanchez was a good judge of, it was shoes.