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broken-toothed grin, but Belushi has taken all of our booty and, through some serious offshore hanky-panky, more than tripled it. That’s why this is our last gig. It’ll be little more than a formality, but we have to stick to the plan, because sticking to the plan is what brought us this far.
    Moriarty plugs in his vintage Ms. Pac-Man machine, and it comes to life with a barrage of beeps and whines. A sticky drop from his rapidly melting Popsicle falls onto the screen, and he wipes it away with his thumb.
    “So how’s your love life?” he asks Belushi. Here they go again.
    “None of your business.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with paying for it, you know. It’s a victimless crime.”
    “Not according to the women who end up with you.”
    “Is your mom bad-mouthing me again?”
    Belushi fakes a belly laugh and draws his long, thin arms and legs in to push himself up off the couch. The hottest day of the year, and he’s dressed all in black. “I’ll see you bastards Thursday,” he says.
    When the door closes behind him, Moriarty shakes his head.
    “My man’s a trip, ain’t he?” he says.
    “He’s something,” I reply.
    A sheet of paper with the current scores for our never-ending tournament is taped to the side of the Ms. Pac-Man machine. Moriarty checks it, then starts his game. I move back to the windowsill to drink my beer and try to catch a breeze. From there, I watch Belushi exit the building and approach the Armenian woman, who’s still crying, even though I can’t hear her over the music. I can’t hear what Belushi says to her either, but Whatever it is stops her frenzied rocking. He reaches into his pocket for some money and gives it to her. She takes his hand in both of hers and kisses it, and he pats her on the back before scuttling down the street.
    Yes, my man is definitely a trip.
    Belushi and Moriarty call me John Q because I’m the normal one, which means I’ve got the wife and kid, and I hit the floor running every morning, looking for some way to scrape together the cash it takes to keep my family afloat. When we reach our goal after this last job and finally, by mutual consent, get access to our money, Belushi is splitting for Amsterdam, where he’s going to register as an addict so he can receive free government-issue heroin, and Moriarty’s finally moving out on his own, to Idaho, the last free place in America, or something like that. Me, I just want a Subway franchise somewhere quiet with good schools. A three-bedroom Kaufman and Broad and a decent car. Bank robbery is a hell of a way to get a little boost up the ladder, I know, but aren’t they always saying to go where the money is? You can make anything mean anything if you try.
    W HEN I GET home Maria’s peeling potatoes in the kitchen for her famous french fries, to go with the burgers I’ll throw on the barbecue. I told her I was going out to bid on a painting job. She asks me how it went.
    “Looks good,” I say. “It’s a big place. Might keep me busy for a month or so.”
    “Hooray for our team, huh?”
    “We’ll see, we’ll see.”
    She picks up a knife and slices the potatoes into long, thin strips, which she places in a bowl of water.
    “Someone broke in next door and stole their television,” she says.
    “You’re kidding.”
    “They were asleep when it happened. Didn’t hear a thing.”
    “Man oh man.”
    “I know. Scary.”
    She’s not trying to make me feel bad, but I do. I should have pulled her and Sam out of this neighborhood years ago, when the graffiti first sprouted, the first time the car was broken into. I kept thinking things would turn around. I was like that back then, all silver linings and never say die. Now, though, I acknowledge the impossible. And after Thursday — the Hole in the Wall Gang’s last ride — we’re saying good-bye to bad luck.
    “Let’s start looking for another place,” I say, moving up behind Maria to wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair.