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only him and the boy and what had to be done. The bartender was on the phone talking to Malone. McLuster sat at a table against the wall, a wad of paper towels pressed to his crotch. The tunnel widened even more, and Teach heard him whisper, “Christ, I don’t believe this.”
    Teach tried to think of a comforting word for the man. It seemed right even though he had, by his lights anyway, already saved him from a cut throat. The black boy gave a long, low moan. Teach tightened his grip and glanced up at McLuster. It occurred to him that he needed the man. McLuster was his witness.
    A customer came in, an old guy in white Keds, khaki Bermuda shorts, and a Tampa Bay Bucs T-shirt. Bald head, hairless limbs, and tortoiseshell sunglasses with a white plastic nose cap. He took two steps into the bar, saw Teach and the black boy on the floor, pushed his sunglasses to his face, and tiptoed out.
    Teach watched the door, hoping that McLuster would not leave. And what would you do? Would you wait around like he is doing? Be a stand-up guy for the man on the floor with the bad kid, the guy who saved your ass? Or would you haul ass out of here, write this off as absurdity and rotten luck? Let the guy on the floor deal with the cops. Hell, it was an easy enough story to tell. A straightforward tale of armed robbery thwarted by the decisive action of a man who knew what to do and had the wherewithal to do it.
    The door opened again and two men in sport coats and ties came in. The first was black, about six feet tall, stocky, maybe in his early forties, carrying some ribs and corn bread around his middle but carrying them well. The man behind him was white, short, and rail-thin. They stood taking in the situation. Teach on the floor holding the boy, McLuster pressing the ball of towels to his crotch, the bartender on the phone giving Malone a play-by-play.
    The black cop walked over and put his hand on Teach’s shoulder. There was a world of authority in the hard way the man touched him. Teach remembered this touch. He got up, stepped back, and took a deep breath because it was all over now but the talking. He took another breath and felt in his gut the dizzy ebbing of the tide of adrenaline that had started when the boy had stepped through the men’s room door and said . . . What was it? Teach couldn’t remember now.
    The black cop knelt and slid the boy’s hand down to his belt and cuffed it, and Teach remembered that rasping sound. Then the cop said in a deep, resonant baritone, “Sir, would you step back, please.”
    The thin white cop in JCPenney slacks and scuffed black oxfords watched with cool interest. The smell of garlic and onions came from his clothes. He smiled, nodded as a man did when he was thinking, We’ve seen this a thousand times.
    The black cop turned the boy over and pulled him to a sitting position, neither roughly nor gently but with a surprising ease.
    The boy looked at the cop and his eyes rocked in their sockets. The cop said, “Hello, Tyrone.”
    And Teach thought, G ood. They know this kid. He has a sheet. A punk they’ve snagged before.
    But the white cop stepped away from Teach and looked into the boy’s eyes. “Jesus,” he whispered in a voice Teach recognized as grit.
    Teach felt the adrenaline flow again into the hungry, empty space in his belly. The place he would fill with the dinner he and Dean would have after her ballet recital. Steadying his voice, he asked, “Uh, officer, do you know this boy? Have you arrested him before?”
    The black cop led the boy to a chair, then squared himself to Teach, showing a holstered Glock and a detective’s shield on a belt clip. He gave a guarded, almost whimsical smile. “Do you have any ID, sir? A driver’s license?”
    Teach pulled out his wallet, the thing the boy had demanded he “give up.” He offered it, but the cop raised both hands and smiled. “Just the license, sir.”
    Teach took it out, handed it to the man who passed it to the white