“There,” Ryan said. “You see the IGA?”

“It’s closed,” Pizarro said.

“Remember it.” Ryan watched as they covered another block. Now he could see the PIER BAR sign on the left, the white building and the boat docks beyond it. Maybe a couple of beers, he thought. And something to eat. He’d still be in Detroit by nine.

“Right here,” he said to Pizarro.

“What?”

“I’m leaving you,” Ryan said.

“Man,” Billy Ruiz said, “how can you go? We got things to do.”

They were approaching the Shore Road-Main Street intersection and Pizarro was slowing down now for the traffic signal. “You go around the block to the back of the IGA store,” Ryan told him. “You’ll see a lot of boxes and junk piled up. That’s where you dump the beer case. You got that? Nowhere else.”

“Listen,” Pizarro said, “I tole you, I got to make some more money.” He was stopping now behind a car at the intersection.

Billy Ruiz was frowning. “What do you go for? We can make this every week.”

“You and Frank do it,” Ryan said. As the panel truck came to a full stop he had the rear door open and was out, dragging his canvas bag after him.

Billy Ruiz was close behind him, crouched in the open doorway now. “Wait a minute. Man, we should go somewhere and talk.”

Ryan said, “Watch your fingers, Billy,” and slammed the door. Walking across the street to the Pier Bar, he heard Pizarro call something and heard a car blowing its horn and then another one, but he didn’t look back. No, sir, that was over.

Bob Jr. said, “What do you mean he took your keys?”

“I mean he took the keys,” the girl said. “So I can’t drive the Mustang.”

“Well, sure, because of last week.”