I kicked his knife over toward the corner, and it bounced off the wall and ended up under the bed. “Okay,” I said. “Stand away.”

He released his hands from their behind-thehead clasp, turned around, and looked over toward his dead partner. We were in close, because the room was very small, sort of a closet with aspirations. I didn’t like the closeness, because this guy was obviously stronger than me, and his carrying a knife indicated he was less wary of physical struggle than I am. Also, anyone who carries a knife-that is, anyone who carries a knife expressly to kill people-has psychotic tendencies, if you ask me. At the very least, such a person reveals a disturbing willingness to make a mess.

So I tried to keep a few feet between us, which was a challenge in that tiny room.

“You mind if I take a look?” he asked, gesturing toward the bed.

“Go right ahead.”

He lifted the sheet back and looked at his partner. I looked at him. I figured he was hoping I’d look at his partner, but I’m afraid I disappointed him. He let the sheet drop, shook his head, said, “Just had the little bastard broke in.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I guess I should’ve taught him a little better. Shit. He must’ve come in like the fourth of fuckin’ July.”

“That’s right.”

“I told him this was a special case. Little bastard’s been getting cocky lately, and just wouldn’t listen. Guess this’ll teach him.”

“I guess.”

“You know, this here was very good, exchanging clothes with my boy Beatty here, you fooled me good.”

“Maybe you been getting cocky lately.”

“Yeah!” the guy laughed. “Maybe I have at that. Look, Quarry… you mind I call you Quarry?”

“Be my guest.”

“I’m Lynch. I’d offer you a hand to shake, but…”

“I understand.”

“Well, anyway. Looks like we got a situation here, don’t we?”

“Looks like it.”