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right,” Pete said. “What do you say, John?”
      “Hold it awhile,” the driver said.
      “We're almost there,” Sam said. “How about it, John? Just to get him accustomed to it.”
      “Maybe you're right,” John said. “And then get him down on the floor and keep him there. I don't want him to see the layout until after we got him inside. So now, if you want to, you can go to work on him.”
      Pete twisted and threw a punch that hit Vanning on the side of the head, and an instant later Sam smashed him on the jaw, using brass knuckles. He lowered his head, testing the pain and the dizziness, feeling another blow and still another and yet another, and then he was going to the floor and they were kicking him. He wondered how long it would be until he lost consciousness. He looked up and saw the brass knuckles coming toward his face, and he threw himself to the side and the brass knuckles went past his head. Then the edge of a shoe caught him in the mouth and he realized there was only one way to stop this sort of thing. They weren't quite ready to kill him, and if he was going to get the slightest satisfaction out of this entire deal, now was the time to get it.
      He came up from the floor, feinted at Pete, then swerved and let go with both hands, sending his fists into Sam's face. There was an opportunity for a follow-up, but instead of using it, Vanning swerved again, turned his attention to Pete. He leaned away from Pete's outstretched arm, then got under the arm, got his elbow under Pete's chin and heaved with the elbow, sending Pete's head quite a distance back, and then he hit Pete in the mouth, pistoned the same hand into Pete's mouth, then used both hands on Pete's face. That was about all he could do with Pete, because now Sam was showing a revolver and Sam was cursing and a lot of blood was flowing from Sam's nose.
      “Bullets already?” Vanning said.
      “Put the gun away,” John said.
      “I feel like blasting him.” Sam was holding the gun a few inches away from Vanning's head.
      “I told you to put the gun away,” John said. “You're too fidgety with a gun, Sam. That's no good. I've told you that a lot of times. Give the gun to Pete.”
      “Sure,” Pete said, the sound staggering through blood. “Let me have that gun.”
      “Be careful with it,” John said. “We have a long night ahead of us. Just keep him covered and keep him on the floor.”
      Pete's foot thudded into Vanning's chest, forcing him against the floor and the front seat. “Stay there,” Pete said. “Just stay there and regret the whole thing.”
      “I thought it was fun,” Vanning said. “Didn't you?”
      “The real fun hasn't started yet,” Pete said.
      The car made an acute turn, its wheels squealing. Vanning closed his eyes and told himself it was time to accept the thing for what it was. And it was very clear. It was very simple. Tonight he was going to lose his life. It was inevitable that someday this thing should catch up with him, and although he had sensed that all along, he had tried to stretch it as far as possible. That was a wholly natural way to take it and he couldn't condemn himself for acting in a natural way. All in all, it was one of those extremely unfortunate circumstances, and it had started on a day when it simply hadn't been his turn to draw good cards. He could have died on that day or on the day following or the week following. He could have died on any of those several hundred days in the months between then and now, so what it actually amounted to was the fact that all this time he had been living on a rain check and it was only a question of how long it would take until payday arrived.
      The car was making turns, going long stretches without turns, making more turns, then sweeping around somewhere in a wide circle, slowing down.
      “Put