Then he saw it again. A slight motion. Someone getting closer to the wall, deeper in the shadow. His pulse banged in his throat.

Beat cops didn’t sneak around that way. They just rolled up with their lights spinning. Unless the police hoped to catch them actually robbing the place. Danny pictured Terry, that weasel mustache, the moist stink of a habitual farter. He’d told them about the job – had he sold them out?

Out of the darkness stumbled a stooped man with greasy hair. He ran one hand along the wall to steady his cautious shuffle. A pint bottle nosed out of a frayed pocket. Reaching the trash bin, he glanced in either direction and unzipped his fly. Took a piss with one hand in his pocket like he was in the men’s room of his country club.

Danny breathed again, then chuckled at his nerves. When the bum finished, he crossed to the other side of the alley and leaned against the wall. He slid down to a squat and closed his eyes. Danny said, “He’s camping.”

Evan nodded, rubbed one hand across his chin, the stubble making a grating sound. “Now what?”

“Guess we could give him a minute.”

“He looks pretty tucked in.” Evan paused, then looked over. “Should I shoot him?”

Danny shrugged. “Sure.”

Evan drew the gun, sighted through the windshield. He closed one eye. “Bang.” He spun the gun to his lips and blew imaginary smoke.

Danny laughed, then turned back to the problem at hand. The drunk sat directly across from the pawnshop door. With his head resting on his knees, he looked almost peaceful.

“Chase him off?”

“No. He might yell,” Danny said. “Might run into a cop, who knows.”

“So I’ll knock him down.” Evan smiled. “You know they don’t get up after I knock ’em down.”