Halfway down the block, he decked right, spun left, and plunged into the alley, where a chain-link fence and an unlocked basement door promised haven. He hit the fence at full stride, digging in with the toe of his sneaker and pulling up with his arms. Neal knew from his childhood days of ringalevio that he could take a fence faster than any kid in the neighborhood. He knew he was being chased, but he also knew that by the time this jerk got over that fence, he would be separating fives from tens in the cool of the basement. He was in the middle of this pleasant thought when something hard and heavy hit him about kidney height in the back and dropped him off the fence. He was sucking for air for just a moment before he blacked out.

Graham had seen as soon as he turned into the alley that this kid was a sprinter and that he wasn’t going to catch him. His clean shirt was soaked with sweat now and four beers were bouncing around in his belly and threatening worse. He knew that if this kid got over that fence, his wallet was history. So he grabbed his artificial right arm, a heavy hard-rubber affair, and jerked it out. Then, with his overdeveloped left arm, threw it at the thief.

When Neal came to, he saw a mean little leprechaun leering down at him-a one-armed leprechaun.

“Life stinks, doesn’t it?” observed the man. “You think you’ve picked yourself up a couple of bucks, you just about got it made, and some guy takes his arm off, for Chrissakes, and flattens you with it.”

He grabbed Neal by the shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“C’mon, let’s go see McKeegan. My beer’s getting warm.”

He frog-marched Neal back to Meg’s. Nobody on the street took any notice. Graham slammed Neal down on a bar stool. Neal watched with fascinated horror as Graham put his arm back on and roiled his sleeve down over it.

“Neal, you little fuck,” said McKeegan.