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Parker's way, the two of them stumbling around in the cramped space as Liss fell to the floor, then crawled quickly through the doorway into the other room.
    "It's Liss," Parker said, pushing Mackey away. "Wanting it all."
    "Son of a bitch."
    Parker went to one knee, felt under the sofa cushion, came out with just one of the shells. Getting to his feet, he broke the shotgun as he went through the doorway. The exit door stood open. Thumbing in the shell, slapping the shotgun shut, Parker crossed to see Liss out there, hesitating over the three duffel bags.
    They'd each crammed their third of the take into one of the bags, and Liss had moved all three outside before turning to rid himself of his partners: one barrel into Parker, then quickly one into Mackey, all of them together in the narrow room. If Parker hadn't quietly emptied the three shotguns earlier tonight, one time when he had gone to the john and the other two were watching television, he and Mackey would be dead.
    Liss had thought he might grab one or more of the bags anyway, on his way out, but when he saw Parker in the doorway he gave that up and just ran. Parker jumped down to the asphalt and watched Liss dash across the parking area, bent low and weaving as he went. Parker stood where he was, shotgun in both hands, not pointing anywhere in particular.
    Mackey leaped down beside him, empty hands closed into fists. "Shoot the cocksucker! What's the matter with you?"
    "No need," Parker said. "And a noise could draw a crowd."
    Furious, Mackey said, "Don't leave him alive, God damn it." He acted as though he wanted to pull the shotgun out of Parker's hands, and was restraining himself with difficulty.
    Liss was out of sight now. The police had finished clearing out of here a little after ten, and the three in the trailer had gone to sleep around midnight, three hours ago, Liss on the sofa in the office, with the money and the guns. He could have just taken the money and left, but he hadn't wanted Parker and Mackey behind him the rest of his life.
    Apparently, Mackey returned the feeling. "Parker," he said, "that was a mistake. We could have afforded a little noise, not to have him around any more."
    Parker never saw any point in arguing over past events. He said, "Can you call Brenda?"
    "Yeah, you're right," Mackey said. "We can't stay here any more." Peering away into the night where Liss had disappeared, he said, "He'll need time to get guns and friends, but I'll bet you, Parker, he still thinks this money is his."

8
    Parker sat on the weedy ground, the chain link fence against his back, the reloaded shotgun on his lap. Out ahead of him, in the darkness, beyond the narrow strip of scrubland, the empty asphalt parking area stretched across to the big round bulk of the arena. Off to the right, its metal side picking up the glints of distant streetlights, waited the construction trailer. The three sacks of money were back inside it, and the padlock was once more in place on the door.
    Parker had been seated here for twenty minutes, and so far nothing had happened. The only weapons they had were the shotguns, so Mackey had gone off unarmed to find a phone booth and call Brenda. She'd come to where he was, pick him up, and then drive on to the arena.
    This town wasn't George Liss's home base, so he shouldn't immediately be able to lay his hands on guns and colleagues. There was time enough.
    The car that nosed into the parking area entrance, way over by the arena building, wasn't a station wagon. It paused just inside the parking area, then switched off its headlights. In darkness, it drove slowly around on the asphalt, stopping two or three times, pausing, then driving on, moving in apparently random ways.
    Liss? With friends? Parker lay flat against the fence, shotgun tucked in against his side, and watched the car move around the parking area like a hunting dog that's lost the scent.
    Eventually the people in the car saw the construction trailer and drove over to it,