FRANK PIZARRO TURNED LEFT on the Shore Road toward Geneva Beach four miles away and was doing forty as he shifted into third gear. Ryan, behind him in the panel compartment, sitting on his canvas suit-pack and opening the beer case, touched Pizarro’s shoulder.

“Hey, come on.”

Pizarro glanced at the outside rearview mirror, then at the two-lane road ahead and now he had to slow down because of the Sunday-afternoon traffic. Ryan watched through the windshield. No hurry. Never hurry. He straightened to look out the back window. Nothing. A few cars trailing, creeping along. Billy Ruiz moved in closer on his knees as Ryan emptied the beer case, dumping the wallets and billfolds on the floor, and Billy Ruiz spread them out with his hands, playing with them, enjoying the feel of them.

“How many do you think?” Ruiz said.

“I don’t know. Thirty-five.”

“We missed some.”

“Some. Some guys didn’t change. Or they changed in another room.”

Billy Ruiz grinned. “I’d like to see that guy’s face, the one in the bathroom, uh?”

They cleaned out the wallets one by one, going into the card pockets and the cellophane sections to be sure, but taking only the bills and putting the empty wallets back in the beer case. Billy Ruiz handed Ryan what he had found. Ryan separated the bills by denominations, stacked them again, and began counting.

“A good day,” Ryan said.

Over his shoulder Pizarro said, “How much?”