Chapter 6: Stakeout

"Last month," I said.

"Last month."

"So it's not old stock somebody stole years ago."

"No."

"It's coming out of your uncle's shop right now."

Deacon got up off the floor too fast and had to grab the counter.

"My uncle taught me to shoot," he said. "He sat with me every night for a year after my mother died."

"I didn't say his name. You did."

"Outfitters has thirty people on the floor. Anybody can walk off with a box of shells."

"Then let's find out which anybody."

He looked at me.

He didn't have the strength for it.

The silver he'd taken off me was still in him, burning off in sweat.

It took him four hours.

It would've taken me three days.

I didn't know what to do with that, so I made a plan instead.

At the supper rush I stood behind the counter and said it loud, to the cook, over the grill.

"I'm moving my jar down here tonight. Into your safe. County sheriff's coming for it Monday."

The cook didn't blink.

"Fine by me," she said, just as loud.

Six people heard it.

By closing, sixty would.

Anything said at that counter was all over the hollow by dark, and somebody in this hollow was on Lovett money.

The jar itself stayed locked in Deacon's glovebox.

At closing, the cook turned the sign and went home.

Deacon parked the truck in the alley where he could see the back door.

He was still grey around the mouth.

"Front's yours," he told Bowie. "Anything moves, you yell."

"I always yell," Bowie said.

So it was me and Bowie in the back booth with the lights off.

The diner smelled like grease and bleach and coffee gone cold on the burner.

Street light came through the blinds in stripes.

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