Remember he’s an old bloke, he can’t pay if he’s dead.”

“Is that him?” Finnegan pointed toward the shop.

Forty watts can cast a lot of shadows on a dark morning. Both men squinted, looking for movement. Hall checked his watch: 6:50 a.m., nearly opening time.

“Old bastard might just pay and save us the bother,” Hall said quietly.

“I hope not,” Finnegan replied. “I want to—” He broke off as the silhouette of the shopkeeper appeared at the glass door and turned the closed sign to open. “Here we go.”

Finnegan opened the car door.

Hall caught his arm.

“Don’t kill him, remember? We just want the money.”

Finnegan pulled his arm free and stepped out of the car. The studs in the heels of his shoes cut the quiet of the morning and made it sound colder. He adjusted his coat and pulled up his collar, acting like a gangster in one of the movies they used to show before the war.

From the other side of the car Hall emerged. He also worked his collar, dragging it up so high that he looked like a buzzard waiting for breakfast.

Both men set off across the road toward the shop, breath rising like steam. Finnegan was slightly ahead of his partner, flexing his shoulders and rolling his head on his bull neck as he picked up speed.

The door of the shop opened when Finnegan was five feet from it. He didn’t hesitate, his pace certain with the confidence of a man who seldom had to slow down.

In the doorway stood the shopkeeper, openmouthed, carrying a wicker basket of mop heads. The first item for the pavement display he’d put outside every morning, excluding Sundays, Easter, and Christmas, for the last forty-two years, clutched high up on his chest.

Finnegan used the basket to push the old man back into the shop and straight down the center aisle until they slammed into the counter.

Nobody spoke.

A brass bell cheerfully signaled that Hall and Finnegan were inside and the door had closed behind them. Hall paused to turn the sign around to show closed, then checked the street outside.

Finnegan stared, knuckles white on the basket rim as he pushed it into the old man’s chest. The wicker creaked, then the old man found the words that shock had scared out of him.

“I ain’t paying.” In the old man’s head, it had sounded more certain than it did on his lips. “I told your boss, and now I’m telling you, I ain’t paying.”

Over by the door, Hall rolled his eyes.

Finnegan smiled. It was time for the bit he liked second best.

The speech.

“Listen to me.” He stared so hard, the old man shut his eyes. Finnegan waited for them to open again before he continued.

“All my life people have told me what ain’t happening. Ever since I was a kid. People have told me ‘I ain’t doin’ this’ or ‘I ain’t doin’ that.’ Do you know what I always say back?”

The basket squeaked and creaked again. Finnegan waited a second. The old man just stared back, eyes scared, breathing quickly in sharp gasps.

“I asked: Do you know what I say?” he asked again.

The old man shook his head.

Finnegan smiled.

“I always say”—his voice dropped to almost a whisper, and the basket strained again as he leaned in even closer—“‘You will do what I say.’ And do you know what?” Finnegan leaned his head so far forward his lips almost brushed the old man’s nose. “They always do . . . in the end.”

Finnegan’s eyes were hooded, cloaked with the kind of scar tissue that came from being a bad boxer with a sharp skull. Under the scar tissue, black shadows got deeper. He leaned in a tiny bit further, turning up the pressure. The weight of his body distorted the shape of the basket so much, it took on the shape of a closed clamshell.

“I’m going to knock you about a bit now.” Finnegan sounded like he was whispering sweet nothings to a lover. “And then, when I’m ready, you’re going to tell me where the money is. When you do, I’m going to take it and leave. But that won’t be the end of it.” He smiled. “Because this time next week, I’m going to come back and repeat the exercise. I’m going to put bruises on your bruises, and then I’m going to take the money all over again. And then maybe, the week after that, if you’ve learned your lesson, you’re going to give me the money and not get a beating.” Finnegan paused as he lowered his forehead and rested it against the old man’s.