“Goddamn jig,” Dale Junior said.

Two of them, young black guys coming from the pickup now as Raylan got out and walked back toward them: the one on the driver’s side wearing a crocheted skullcap, the other one, his hair done in cornrows, holding something in his right hand Raylan took to be a pistol, holding it against his leg, away from a few cars going past just then, all the traffic Raylan could see coming for the next few blocks. They were by a vacant lot; stores across the street appeared closed except for a McDonald’s.

The pickup truck’s bumper, higher than the Cadillac’s, had plowed into the sheet metal, smashing the taillights on the left side and popping the trunk, the lid creased and raised a few inches.

Raylan recognized the revolver the guy held, a .357 Mag with a six-inch barrel; he had one at home just like it, Smith & Wesson. Raylan kept his mouth shut, not wanting to say something that might get these guys upset. This was a car-jacking, the guys were no doubt wired and that .357 could go off for no reason. Raylan looked at the damaged trunk again, studying it to be occupied.

The one with cornrows and the gun against his leg said, “You see what I got here?”

Raylan looked him in the eye for the first time and nodded.

The one in the crocheted skullcap walked up to the driver’s side of the Cadillac. The one with cornrows said to Raylan, “We gonna trade, let you have a pickup truck for this here. You see a problem with that?”

Raylan shook his head.

The one in the crocheted skullcap glanced back this way as he said, “Come here look at this.”