Tom shuffled around, feeling angry and impatient. He looked down at the decrepit theater, and wondered about the stench, the blood, all that crime welling up like stagnant water around a blocked drain.

"You're right," he said finally, letting out an aching, disenchanted breath. He closed his eyes. Right now, they were running on lies they told each other, "It will be okay"s and "Wait 'til Monday morning"s.

"Look...you work it out with Florence. I'll grab half a gallon of gas out of the car and meet you on the northwest corner of the block behind us in fifteen, okay?"

He looked up at Mike pleadingly. "We can't keep waiting."