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make a pass with her feet?”
    “You grab her, that’s what.”
    “How can I, with both hands holding the basket?”
    Pal was annoyed, but Bud said, “It’s a point, don’t smack it out. With both his hands full it could mean that second’s delay that could ruin us.”
    “OK, Chuck, take a one-hand grip on the basket.”
    “I can’t if it starts getting heavy.”
    They figured on that for a while, everyone quite annoyed, and then Bud said, “Can’t he kick her? Fetch her one in the shins? If she gets wandering feet?”
    Rick said: “OK, that ought to do it.”
    Pal asked him, “How do you feel?”
    “I feel good, Mr. Pal.”
    “He don’t look so good.”
    That was Bud, and Pal twisted around so he was facing Rick. Then: “Chuck, are you all right?”
    “I said I felt good. Yeah, I’m OK.”
    “You’re kind of pasty under the eyes.”
    “It’s something I have now and then when I’m nervous, like I want to throw up. It don’t mean anything.”
    I said, “Rick, how you do is swallow.”
    “Beautiful, you’re talking to Chuck.”
    “Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry.”
    “That’s all the name he has. Remember it.”
    For some time nothing was said, and I kept driving along. Then Pal asked Bud, “What do you think?”
    “I think we do or we don’t.”
    “OK, then. We do.”

6
    A T 8:25 EXACTLY, WITH RICK still doing his best and hanging on somehow, I stopped on the cross-street after driving past the bank and taking the right turn. Pal got out and walked back, and I commenced watching behind, for what I could see on Wilkens, through the rear window, though the bag standing up in between made it I had to stretch my neck. But there was nothing to see, and I told Bud, “There’s no traffic back there—on foot, of people walking, or out in the street, of cars.” He said, “Yeah, this time of day things are slack. We took note of that already. It’s another thing in our favor.” I said it over again to Rick, hoping it might relax him, so the nervousness might pass, and it seemed to help, just a little. Anyhow, he said, “Yeah, Mandy, that’s good.” Then Bud snapped at him that I was Beautiful, and Rick said, “Yeah, that’s right, I forgot.” In ten minutes, though it seemed a lot longer than that, Pal was back, telling me, “OK, Beautiful, drive on.” Bud said, “OK, spill it, what happened?” “Nothing, nothing at all. I walked up like I wanted to the booth, counting the silver in my hand, and the guy inside nodded, holding up one finger, meaning he’d only be a minute. I stepped aside, like I was not in any hurry, and a girl went on talking about what a chance one of the downtown tellers was taking, shacking up with her boss weekends at a motel. She paid no attention to me and none of them did. It’s just like we hoped it would be.”
    “How many of them were there?”
    “Ah, eight.”
    But he kind of hesitated and Bud caught it, turning into a wolf. “Goddam it, how many?” he screamed. You’d never have thought they were friends—if they were, which I’m not so sure of now.
    “I told you, didn’t I? Eight?”
    “You did but you don’t seem sure!”
    “I’m sure. There were eight.”
    “You counted them?”
    “Of course I did! What was I there for?”
    “I’d damn well like to know.”
    I asked, “Mr. Pal, where do I go?”
    “Frederick Road, then I’ll show you.”
    Where Pal showed me was to a Holiday Inn, but we no sooner were brought to a table than he took Rick downstairs, to run his finger down his throat, or at lease so I supposed, and what he did do I don’t know, but when he came back he looked better. Then we all had buns and coffee, except Rick didn’t eat anything, just sipped along on his coffee. But while they were gone Bud was growling. “You heard what he said, didn’t you, Beautiful? About the girl? Shacking up with her boss at a motel, like that was a hot bit for us? So if that’s what they’re rapping about, they don’t have their