The kid had been light-haired to start with, and after all the sun he had been out in, his eyebrows and lashes were so light they could hardly be seen at all. There were lines on his face that shouldn’t be there at his age, but he was still a good-looking guy. Sanchez, for example, had complexion trouble. People had always kept telling him it would begin to clear as soon as he turned twenty-one, but it seemed to be getting worse. And look at the kid-the smooth cheeks and forehead of a goddamn baby. It didn’t seem right. He always had all the dolls he could use, rich dolls with cars and suites at the best hotels. Sanchez was wondering, not for the first time, how come he let himself in for the headaches of a major stickup when there were so many easier ways to keep himself in those forty-dollar soft Italian shoes.

And then the kid’s nostrils flared, and Sanchez suddenly had the explanation: he was on junk!

Sanchez turned to check on the big placid man in the back seat, Pond, who was smoking a cheap cigar, completely relaxed.

“Oh, my,” Pond said easily. “The things people do to make a living.”

A car door slammed. The sound carried well in the night. A motor coughed softly and took hold.

The kid looked at Sanchez.

“That’s it,” Sanchez said, and switched on the ignition. “A sweet engine, the Cadillac.”

His wheels were already turned, ready to roll out. The kid craned forward beside him, steaming up the inside of the windshield, watching the Bass driveway. When Sanchez saw a flicker of headlights through the stockade fence, he eased away from the curb. The Dodge had an automatic transmission, which he didn’t like, and a slow pickup in second. He was afraid cornering would be a problem at high speed. After stealing the car in northeast Miami, he had discovered these faults too late, crossing the causeway. But if everything went according to plan they would keep within the speed limit, observe stop signs, and attract no attention.