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window behind the counter, but he notices it’s chained to the counter. Figures somebody musta done that once already.
    Raul’s afraid to go home. Johnnie Delgado or Mister Fuentes might be trying to reach him, and he doesn’t want to talk to them till he’s got the car. But there’s no fucking way he’s gonna sit in the fucking airport for eight hours. He decides to take a ride to Fast Eddie’s, see if he can’t find his little chiquita, break her fucking little neck for her.
    Russell Bradford can’t sleep. He lies sweating on the sofa in the living room. The room itself is cold, but Russell knows his sweats have nothing to do with the weather. Russell is getting sick again, which means it’s time to go out once more.
    Though it’s dark, Russell has no real idea what time it is. He guesses it’s around midnight, but it doesn’t really matter: Where he’s going, somebody’ll be working. It’s like that out there.
    He pulls the same T-shirt back over his head, slips into the same pair of Nikes. Pulls on a hoodie and his denim jacket. Silently, he moves about the apartment until he finds what he’s looking for: his grandmother’s purse. She’s taken to hiding it on the top shelf of the closet by the front door. But Russell suspects she’s not really hiding it at all. Suspects she notices each time there’s money missing from it. Has even heard her arguing with his mother, saying she’d rather the boy take a few dollars from her than be out stealing. Russell is “the boy.”
    From the light coming in the window, Russell can see Nana’s got three tens and some singles. He takes one of the tens, goes to replace the purse, thinks a minute. Takes another ten. Tiptoes out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.

Goodman gradually becomes aware of daylight slanting through the slats of the Venetian blinds. His first thought is about his daughter, Kelly. He tells himself that her headaches may be nothing more than a child’s way of asking for attention following her mother’s death. It’s been awhile now, but he’s read somewhere that kids can have delayed reactions to these things. And because they find it hard to talk about their feelings, they start having nightmares, wetting the bed, developing stomach cramps and headaches. Makes a lot of sense, when you think about it. He’s pretty sure that’s all this is. He says a little prayer that he’s right.
    He says little prayers like this from time to time, asking for things to happen or not happen, or giving thanks for things that have somehow managed to work out okay. He says them to nobody in particular. He hasn’t been inside a synagogue since he was married fifteen years ago, and doesn’t consider himself a religious man. But he continues to say his little prayers and thanksgivings anyway. And they seem to work for the most part, as long as he’s careful not to ask for too much, and remembers to give thanks when something works out.
    His second waking thought is about the car. He can’t remember hearing any noises outside the door during the night. But that doesn’t mean much: He knows he was tired and that he probably slept pretty soundly. And with the air-conditioning running, he figures he could have missed a plane taking off from the parking lot, let alone a car.
    His bet is that the car itself is gone. That certainly would be the easiest thing for the people to have done, to take the whole car, rather than to start messing around with breaking into the trunk and taking the chance of stealing the tire - something that would also be a lot harder to explain if they got caught at it.
    He gets up slowly, testing his back. It’s sore, but not as bad as it was yesterday. The night’s sleep on the hard bed has done him some good. He walks to the window, separates two of the Venetian blind slats with his fingers, and looks out.
    He sees the Camry, just as he left it.
    As he showers, Goodman convinces himself that they must’ve stolen