Danny dropped his hand. Evan gunned the engine quick and hard. With a screech – tortured, but barely audible over the train – the metal latch gave. The gate ripped open, chain still attached, hinges straining from the pull of the car. For a second Danny thought Evan might tear it right off the wall. But brake lights washed red across him, then the white of reverse, and finally the engine fell to silence.

The chain felt warm as Danny detached it and crouched to check the revealed door. Twin Schlages. He slid the Crown Royal bag from his inside pocket. Some guys cut down hacksaw blades, some liked the professional kits. Personally, he’d always found the bristles of a street sweeper made the best lock picks, hard but flexible. He’d popped both deadbolts by the time Evan had stowed the chain.

The rattle of the El faded as they stepped into the cramped pawnshop office. Danny generally liked to take a moment inside to listen to the darkness, but Evan already had the flashlight out. As it glared to life, Danny caught a glint off the gun in Evan’s other hand. Showboating, chasing the thrill. He thought about saying something, decided against it.

“There.” A battered metal desk winked in the flashlight beam, below a calendar with a swimsuit model cozying up to a carburetor. He could make out a rumpled mattress on the floor beside it. “Terry said the bag would be in the manager’s desk.”

“Not in a safe?”

“Owner’s a gun nut, apparently. Figures no one will mess with him.”

Evan nodded, moving over to test the drawer. “Locked.”

Danny smiled, pulled out the Crown Royal bag again.

“I’m going to look around.” Evan had the door half open already.

“What?”

“It’ll take you a minute, I’m going to check the front room. See if there’s anything in the register.”

“The flashlight-”

“Relax, Danny-boy. I’ll be right back.” Not waiting for an answer, he slid into the pawnshop.