He shook his glass once more, listening to the reassuring sound of the ice, then slid the tumbler along the tabletop just out of reach and bore in on the top diagram, envisioning the Wells Fargo security guard pushing a dolly carrying a duffel bag filled with cash. Everything goes right, and three men in ski masks jump out of the back of the blue van and surround him. A fourth man appears from across the street, comes up from behind, and disarms the second guard, who is standing beside the truck. Black would be directing the operation from the driver's seat of a getaway car, barking orders into a tiny microphone that the others could hear through their own earpieces. The idea was to keep the operation simple, let the men do their work, say nothing confusing. In a matter of three minutes, the men should be off the street and in the car, no shots, no worries. They'd leave the stolen van behind.

The knock on the door downstairs startled Black, even though he had been waiting for it. He looked at his watch and saw it was 4:25 P.m.

Right on time. He picked up a photograph resting on the windowsill and smiled wi/lly at the three people who were smiling back at him-a woman sitting on a sofa, holding the arms of a toddler who was courageously standing for the first time, and a man, a younger version of himself, kneeling nearby on the living room rug.

He pulled himself up from the metal chair, knocked his fist once against the top of the table, and ambled down the steep, crooked stairs to open the door. One hour to showtime.

one

Present Day Thursday, October 26

It's always odd, meeting someone famous. On television, they never look at you, unless they're giving a speech or staring at the camera in a commercial, and in those cases, they are perfectly made up, every hair in place, rouge spread across their cheeks by artists who make lucrative livings helping people appear better than they actually are.