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“You’re not in charge here,” Galen says. “Tell me what to do again and I’ll change your face. Pete, make Frank and his father stand together. Shoulders touching. And if either of them moves…”

Pete gestures with the revolver. Granpop shuffles next to his son. Frank is breathing through his nose in quick little snorts. Granpop wouldn’t be surprised if he passed out.

“You saw, didn’t you?” Pete asks Billy. “Fess up.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Billy says through his tears. Blubbing like a baby and can’t help it. Blue sneaker.

“Liar liar pants on fire,” Pete says. He laughs and ruffles the boy’s hair.

Galen comes back, folding more bills into his pocket. He’s let go of Mary. The girl is now clinging to her mother. Corinne looks dazed.

Granpop doesn’t waste time looking at his people. He’s watching Galen rejoin Pete, needing to see what passes between them, and he sees pretty much what he expected and no sense pretending otherwise. They can take the Buick and leave the Brown family, or they can take the Buick and kill the Brown family. If caught, these two will get life in the Shank no matter what kind of score they run up.

“There’s more,” Granpop says.

“What’s that?” Galen asks. He’s the talker. His fellow outlaw seems to be the fat silent type.

“More money. Quite a bit. I’ll give it to you if you let us be. Just take the wagon and let us be.”

“How much more?” Galen asks.

“Can’t say for sure, but I put it around thirty-three hundred. It’s in my go-bag.”

“Why would an old fuck like you be driving around the williwags with three thousand and change?”

“Because of my sister Nan. We were going up to Derry to see her before she passes away. Won’t be long, if it hasn’t happened already. She’s got the cancer. It’s all through her.”

Pete has put his not-a-bowling-bag down again. Now he rubs two of his fingers together and says, “This is the world’s smallest violin playing ‘My Heart Pumps Purple Piss For You.’?”

Granpop pays no attention. “I cashed out most of my Social Security to pay for the funeral. Nan hasn’t got squat, and they give you a discount if you pay cash.” He pats Billy’s shoulder. “This boy looked it all up for me on the Internet.”

Billy did no such thing, but except for another chest-hitching sob or two, he keeps quiet. He wishes he and Mary had never gone up to the Slide Inn, and when he looks at his father through blurry eyes, he feels a moment of bright hate. It’s your fault, Dad, he thinks. You ditched the car and these men stole our money and now they’re going to kill us. Granpop knows. I can see he does.

“Where’s your go-bag?” Galen asks.

“In back with the rest of the luggage.”

“Get it.”

Granpop goes to the Buick. He gives a grunt as he raises the trunk lid; that’s his back trying to cramp up. Back goes first, pecker goes last, everything else in between, his own father used to say.

The bag is just like Pete’s, with a zipper along the top, except it’s longer—more like a dufflebag than a bowling bag. He runs the zipper and spreads the bag open.

“No gun in there, Gramps, is there?” Galen asks.

“No, no, that’s for boys like you, but looka this.” Granpop brings out a battered old softball glove. “The sister I was telling you about? This was hers. I brought it for her to look at if she hasn’t passed on yet. Or in a coma. She wore it in the Women’s World Series, out in Okie City. Softball, you know. Played shortstop. Before the Second World War, if you can believe it. And lookit this!” He turns the glove over.

“Gramps,” Galen says, “all due respect but I don’t give a fuck.”

“Yeah, but here on the back,” Granpop persists. “See it? Signed by Dom DiMaggio. Joltin’ Joe’s brother, you know.”

He tosses the glove aside and burrows into the bag again. “Got about two hundred baseball cards, some signed and worth money—”

Pete grabs Billy’s arm and twists it. Billy screams.

“Don’t!” Corinne screams back. “Don’t hurt my boy!”

“It’s your boy’s fault you’re in this mess,” Pete says. “Snoopy little brat.” Then, to Granpop: “We don’t want no fuckin baseball cards!”