CHAPTER
TEN

I

Neither of them wanted to be there.

Not Dom Bugatti — he knew the FBI had been trying to keep tabs on him, and this was a risk he didn’t want to take. And certainly not Reese McKelvie. If one whiff of this got out, he’d not only lose his chance at the Senate appointment, but he’d be forced to resign from the bench in disgrace, his long and illustrious career in tatters. Besides, they loathed each other. No, neither of them wanted this rendezvous.

Yet there they were, Bugatti coiled on an unopened crate of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 while McKelvie, looking distracted and preoccupied, was pacing slowly back and forth, nervously picking at his manicured fingernails.

Not long after dark, McKelvie had driven to the Loyola University Medical Center in West suburban Maywood, just south of the Eisenhower Expressway, where he made a brief visit to see a former colleague who had just undergone surgery.

His alibi for being in the area established, McKelvie left his car in the parking lot and caught a cab going east on Roosevelt Road into the adjoining town of Forest Park, dropping him off near Des Plaines Avenue. He strolled down the block and ducked into Saturday Night Liquors, slipping through an unmarked door and down a flight of wooden stairs into the basement storage room.

Bugatti’s own journey that night was even more circuitous: two car changes, a couple of cabs, and two blocks of darting in and out of the shadows.

The storage room, dimly lit by a couple of bare light bulbs in the ceiling, smelled of stale wine and soured hops, empty kegs lining the back wall. Upon entering, the judge struggled to suppress his contempt, eyeing Bugatti carefully. A cheap thug, he mused. That’s all he is.

Despite their antipathy toward each other, McKelvie and Bugatti had transacted a fair amount of business through the years, with Bugatti representing his much more powerful — and far more urbane — older brother.

If given the choice, McKelvie preferred to deal directly with Tony, the sotto capo himself. At least he knew how to wear a bespoke suit, engage in a conversation, and respect McKelvie’s stature. At least he didn’t look like he had just come from beating up a bookie in an alley. But Tony was far too careful to meet concerning details — Dom was good enough to get the job done.

Usually McKelvie and the younger Bugatti conducted their affairs through a go–between — someone who owed a favor and wouldn’t attract attention. Someone the cops weren’t watching. Someone too afraid to say no.

Someone like Tom O’Sullivan — the subject of this clandestine summit.

“No doubt about it, he’s the weak link,” fretted McKelvie, shaking his head. “And I don’t like weak links.”

Bugatti fired up a stogie, took a few deep and satisfying pulls, and watched the acrid smoke waft toward the ceiling. “I’ll tell you what I don’t like,” he said, jabbing his Havana–made maduro in McKelvie’s general direction.

McKelvie ignored him and continued to inspect the labels on a variety of dark wine bottles. “Hey — siddown!” Bugatti barked, shoving a dented folding chair toward the judge. McKelvie ignored the invitation, leaning instead against the cement wall and pulling his tan trench coat tight around himself. The pungent scent of tobacco competed with the smell of stale alcohol.

“Two things I don’t like,” Bugatti continued between puffs. “One, O’Sullivan hasn’t been at our Friday night game since the two of you met. I called him on it; no answer. And, two, guess where he’s been going?”

“You had him tailed?”

“Of course I’ve had him tailed! He’s been driving out to Diamond Point and going to that big plastic church over on Hightower Road. He’s there for two, three hours on Friday night. Every Friday night. Far as I know, there’s no game running in the church basement — ‘less it’s old ladies playin’ bingo.”

“Whoa, whoa! Are you talking about Diamond Point Fellowship?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s unbelievable! That’s Eric Snow’s church — my only opponent for the Senate seat. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

Bugatti grunted. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The judge removed the cheap Cubs cap that he had been using to conceal his luminous white hair. He ran his fingers through the snowy mane and tossed the hat onto the chair. “Well, I don’t either.”

“How well do you know O’Sullivan?”

“He’s appeared before me in court a few times, but so have most defense attorneys in the city. I knew Tommy Junior really well — figured his son must not have fallen far from the tree when he showed up with a message from you. His father was a player — now those were the days.”

Bugatti chortled. “Yeah,” he said, tilting his head to blow a smoke ring, which slowly undulated upward until it lost its shape and dissipated. “Only them days are over. You had him frisked?”

“Frisked? Of course.” McKelvie leaned over, picked up his cap, and sat down in the chair. “As I said, I assumed I could trust him because you sent him.”

Bugatti hacked up some phlegm and spit onto the concrete floor. “He’d been coming to our game for a long time. He was into me for a load. Now, I gotta say, based on his dad I thought he’d handle things smoother than he did. He seems … nervous.”

“Skittish.”

“Nervous,” Bugatti repeated. “Like a cat.”

“Uncertain where his loyalty lies.”

“Yeah. That’s why I don’t like him dropping outta sight like this.”

The judge coughed and fanned a plump hand through the fog of cigar smoke. “The church connection bothers me. Any other unusual destinations?”

Bugatti flicked some ashes on the floor. “Naw. But we can’t watch him all the time. We gotta be careful; if he thinks he’s being tailed, he might freak.”

“We can’t have that. Look, here’s the thing: he knows I’m up for the Senate, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So why attend this particular church all of a sudden?”

“Maybe his conscience is bothering him.”

“Perhaps. And why’s he been avoiding you?”

“He’s afraid I might have other errands for him.”

“Could be. He might feel guilty. He might regret repeating the sins of the father. Or, he could be conspiring with Eric Snow to cheat me out of what I rightfully deserve. Either way, I don’t like it. Not at all.”

Bugatti continued to process what he’d been hearing. He stood and tossed the glowing cigar butt on the floor, crushing it with his boot.

“I’ll tell you what, Senator,” he said, grinning to reveal dingy teeth. “We’ve both got a lot riding on this clown. You need to go to Washington, right? We both want that. And the Moretti case has got to go away, right?”

“Right. I assume you’re square with Sepulveda.”

“Yeah — he lined up, no problem.”

“No problem? Think again. As soon as Sepulveda makes his rulings and it becomes clear that Moretti’s going to walk, then everything’s going to hit the fan. The prosecutors are going to scream, the press will start digging around, and the feds will have their antenna up. Remember the heat when Judge Wilson tossed out the case against Aleman? Remember how the press howled?”

That was an understatement. Despite compelling eyewitness testimony, Criminal Courts Judge Harry Wilson acquitted Chicago’s most brutally prolific hit man, Harry “The Hook” Aleman, for the shotgun slaying of a Teamsters Union steward in 1972.

The media wailed and prosecutors ratcheted up their scrutiny of the mob. Ultimately, an attorney turned informant, revealing that Wilson had been slipped a $10,000 bribe to throw out the case. In the end, Wilson committed suicide as investigators were closing in on him; Aleman was subsequently convicted the second time around. Many years later, he died of cancer in prison.

“Ancient history, old man.” Bugatti clenched his jaw. “Still, we don’t need nobody caving under the pressure.”

McKelvie rose to his feet, cinched the belt of his trench coat, and returned his baseball cap tight on his head. “Why don’t you talk to O’Sullivan? Make an appointment at his office. Feel him out. See where he’s at, how he reacts. Once we know what he’s up to, then we can decide what to do.”

Bugatti grumbled and spit again on the floor. He turned toward the narrow stairs, but McKelvie grabbed his elbow. “I’m serious — just meet with him. Remind him who he’s dealing with.”

“I’ll handle it,” he said firmly. “But we gotta do what we gotta do. I don’t want Nick Moretti to end up like Harry Aleman.”

Then he stabbed a finger into McKelvie’s sternum, drawing his face close enough for the judge to get a whiff of sour breath.

“And you don’t want to end up like Harry Wilson.”

II

“Just who is Caroline Michelle Turner?”

Debra Wyatt’s accusatory tone sounded more like a lover scorned than a chief political advisor. She had barged into Eric Snow’s office, yellow legal pad in one hand, her other hand planted firmly on her hip.

Startled, Eric looked up from the paper he had been reading. “Excuse me?”

Wyatt often came into his office unannounced, at least ever since she had claimed one of the rooms down the corridor in his downtown Diamond Point suite. With the clock ticking down to the governor’s announcement, she had taken vacation time from her law firm to work full–time as Snow’s policy and political advisor. She figured it was good practice for when she would be his chief–of–staff in Washington.

Now, though, she was trembling with indignation. She rattled the legal pad in Snow’s face. “Caroline Turner? Ring any bells?”

Snow raised his hands as if defending against a blow. “Hold on, take it easy,” he said as he came from around his desk, took her by the elbow, and led her to a sitting area, where she claimed a chair while he sat down on the edge of the couch. “Is she someone I’m supposed to know? Debra, I’m sorry — I’m at a loss.”

Wyatt glanced down at the notes she had scrawled. “I just got a call from an attorney named Brent Vandervoort. He says he represents Caroline Turner, age twenty–six, from Schaumburg, who’s getting ready to sue you for sexual assault during a counseling session in your office a few weeks ago.”

Snow let out a spontaneous laugh. “What? Are you kidding me? I’ve never even heard of her! This is obviously some kind of ploy.”

Again, she referred to her notes. “He says she met you a few months ago after the sermon you did on how to deal with anger. She says she told you about her marital problems and you offered to counsel her.”

“Counsel her?” Snow’s face scrunched. “You know I never do that.”

“According to her, you told her to come by your office the next afternoon. She said she did and that you were there alone.”

Snow snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute — now I remember! I was alone. That was Diane’s day off. There was a woman who knocked on the outer door. I answered it and she told me she wanted to discuss some personal issues with me.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her to make an appointment with the church counseling center. She said it was urgent, but I told her it was my secretary’s day off and that I couldn’t meet with her. You know how careful I am — no way I’m about to let some strange woman into my office without Diane being around to make sure there were no false accusations.”

“That was it?”

“Absolutely. And she’s going to file a lawsuit? Claiming what — that I seduced her on my couch? This is absurd!”

Debra tossed her legal pad onto the glass coffee table and relaxed back in her chair. “I’m sorry I overreacted. I should have known. It’s just that this Vandervoort character came on with a lot of horsepower. He’s clearly fishing around for a settlement of some sort.”

As soon as she said that, the picture crystallized for Snow: this sleazy lawyer was threatening to file an embarrassing lawsuit on the eve of the governor’s announcement. Of course, the publicity over the suit would be enough to poison Snow’s candidacy; it would be years before the case got resolved — and by then it would be too late.

After all, the governor would be hard–pressed to appoint Snow to the Senate just days after a highly publicized suit accused him of cheating on his wife and violating the trust of a congregant. Yet if Snow were willing to cough up a chunk of his Internet fortune to settle the case before it was filed, well, then this potential obstacle to the Senate could quietly go away.

“What should we do?” Snow asked. “I’m really vulnerable right now; just a mere accusation would be devastating. Should we just pay her off? How much was he asking for?”

Wyatt stood, now in full–lawyer mode, and started to wander the office, thinking aloud. “No, if it ever came out that you paid her, you’d look guilty. It would look like hush money. Besides, it’s wrong. We need to go on the offensive — somehow.”

“How?”

She offered an idea, but with little enthusiasm. “We could go the David Letterman route — call the state’s attorney’s office and tell them you’re being extorted. They could bring criminal charges against her.”

Before Snow could even comment, though, Wyatt’s mind flooded with obstacles. The line between extortion and soliciting a settlement can be pretty thin. Besides, investigators would want to arrange further meetings between Wyatt, Vandervoort, and Turner — and probably Snow — in order to surreptitiously record incriminating statements. Matters could get complicated real fast. And there was no guarantee that the state’s attorney — a Democrat, after all — would file any charges in the end.

Wyatt continued to ponder the situation — and that’s when her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands. “Hold on, I’ve got it! Vandervoort said he and his client had already told her story to Garry Strider at the Examiner.”

Snow threw up his hands. “Oh, great!”

But Wyatt was smiling. “Yes, actually that might be great. Follow me on this: I know Strider. He won’t publish anything on this until the lawsuit is filed.”

“Why not? He’s been nosing around here for weeks, looking for a scandal. This woman’s suit drops a smoking gun right in his lap.”

“Legitimate newspapers are reluctant to print these kind of ‘she said/he said’ accusations until the lawsuit is actually filed with the court clerk. That’s because reporters are protected from getting sued as long as they’re quoting from a suit. And in a matter this sensitive, they’re going to want to make sure they’re fully protected. Besides, I can whisper in Strider’s ear that this is bogus; he’ll listen and slow things down.”

Snow was following her so far, but he didn’t understand the full implications yet. “How does this help us? She still files the suit, the charges are reported on the front page, and — poof! — there goes my appointment.”

“What if we beat her to the courthouse? What if we establish in the public’s eye that she’s the villain and you’re the victim? In other words, what if we sue her before she sues us?”

“We sue her? On what grounds?”

“Vandervoort admitted that she told Strider you assaulted her. We both know she’s lying. Therefore, she’s clearly slandered you.”

“I don’t understand. Doesn’t slander have to involve something that’s spread publicly? Broadcast on TV or in print or something?”

“That’s a misconception. Under the law, a person commits slander if he falsely defames another person in a conversation with just one other individual.”

Snow cocked his head in thought. “So we beat her to the punch.”

“Exactly. We seize the high ground. To the public, you’re so concerned about protecting your good name that you’ve taken this unprecedented step. Maybe you could take a lie detector test and we’ll put the results in the suit. Who cares if it’s not admissible in court; we’re appealing to the court of public opinion. And I’ll get a private detective to dig up dirt on her and we’ll throw that in as well. By the time we’re done, she’ll have zero credibility. She’ll be branded a liar and an extortionist.”

Snow was hesitant. “This sounds pretty aggressive,” he said. “Isn’t there some other way to handle this?”

“Not if you want to become a U.S. Senator.”

III

Tom O’Sullivan didn’t know much about the arts, or architecture, or fashion — but when it comes to Chicago–style hot dogs, he was as snobbish as the curator of an art museum and as exacting as the finest chef of haute cuisine.

And in a city where every self–respecting neighborhood boasted several competing hot dog stands, springing up faster than weeds through a sidewalk crack, he was not alone.

For Tom, the recipe must be precise. Start with an all–beef wiener, one–eighth of a pound in weight and always in its natural casing to ensure that snap when it’s bitten, either steamed or boiled, never sliced lengthwise and grilled like those heretics practiced in the Northeast. The fresh poppy–seed bun had to be carefully steamed until tantalizingly soft, never doughy or soggy.

The dog must then be topped with the right ingredients of exceptional quality in the right order: yellow mustard (not brown or Dijon, please!), always zigzagged across the hot dog (c’mon — not on the bun!); minced green pickle relish (often called nuclear relish because of its unnatural green hue); raw chopped white onions, preferably Vidalias; two wedges — not slices — of ripe tomato; a kosher dill pickle spear artfully nestled between the bottom of the dog and the bun; two or three sport peppers; and a flourish of celery salt.

Adding a slice or two of cucumber was perfectly acceptable — in fact, Tom’s personal preference. “But the use of ketchup,” as he was quick to tell anyone who happened to be in line next to him, “should be a misdemeanor, if not a class–three felony.”

The concoction — snugly rolled with salty french fries in butcher paper — married the best of heaven and earth, at once hot and cold, soft and crispy, spicy and sweet, biting and smooth, a hefty handful of meat and salad impossible to consume with even a modicum of grace.

And the best place in the Chicago area to get one — at least in Tom’s considered opinion — was Nikki’s, a stand that graduated into a permanent shop, conveniently located half a mile down the highway from Diamond Point Fellowship.

Cholesterol–conscious, he’d only permit himself this culinary indulgence once a week. He would stop in at Nikki’s on the way to his Friday night gambling recovery group, strip off his suit coat, flip his tie over his shoulder, settle into a plastic chair at a plastic table, and heartily consume two or three of the perfect gems. He would offset the damage by limiting the number of accompanying french fries and by sipping a diet soda.

Tom was especially looking forward to his indulgent ritual this particular Friday as he drove out of the city toward one of the suburban Cook County courthouses, this one located in Rolling Meadows, almost thirty miles Northwest of the Loop. One of his long–time clients, discovered loitering after midnight in a pricey neighborhood, had gotten arrested on a charge of possessing burglary tools, and with his extensive rap sheet prosecutors were playing hardball, refusing to offer a reasonable plea bargain. The client wanted a jury trial — and he was paying in cash.

Tom had purposely scheduled the arguments on pretrial motions for 2:00 p.m., leaving enough time for a stopover at Nikki’s prior to his group meeting at the church. With the temperature teasing eighty degrees on one of the few balmy days in what had otherwise been a soggy and gray spring, Tom slipped down the top of his five–year–old convertible. It was refreshing to have the wind play with his hair while the sun soothed his face. Finally, spring — almost a religious experience in Chicago.

Exiting Route 53, he turned east down Euclid Avenue and was soon passing the landmark Arlington Park Race Track on his left. The track was dark during the off–season, but he caught a peek of the majestic grandstands through the thick roadside foliage and felt the itch stir inside him. After all, this was the place where he first felt the rush of picking a winner, even if robbed of the payoff by the Wee Tyree debacle.

Tom turned right and pulled into the underground parking garage of the courthouse. He combed his windblown hair with his fingers and grabbed his attaché case from the passenger seat. Funny, the way a place like Arlington can pull at you, he thought.

By the time he arrived on the third–floor, his thoughts had shifted to the business at hand, although the corridor was eerily empty. His footfalls echoed down the hall to Room 315, and he tugged on each of the two heavy oak doors — both locked. Peering through the crack between them, he could tell it was dark inside. Great.

A bailiff, toting a gym bag, turned the corner and started walking in his direction. “Hey,” Tom called to him. “Why’s Judge Carter’s courtroom locked?”

The bailiff looked startled. “Are you O’Sullivan?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t you get the voicemail? The clerk tried calling you.”

Tom fished in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone; sure enough, he had the ringer switched off.

“Spring fever; the judge took off early for the weekend. Sorry you didn’t get the message in time.”

“No problem,” he lied and leaned back against the courtroom doors. He glanced at his watch. He had wasted nearly an hour driving out there. There wasn’t enough time to go back to the office, and it was still too early to head off to Nikki’s. Maybe, he thought, the judge got it right. Maybe the most productive use of the rest of the afternoon would be to simply waste it.

He got into his car, dabbed sunscreen on his nose, and set off for a leisurely drive. He looped lazily through the streets of the Northwest suburbs, his radio blaring an old Bruce Springsteen CD, his mind unfocused and wandering. Given the stress of recent weeks, it was a relief just to let his mind wander with no destination in mind, no appointment for which he was late, no hearing for which he felt unprepared.

He pulled onto an asphalt road that led to the Deer Grove Forest Preserve and claimed a parking place facing a green field guarded by a thicket of oak and pine trees. He’d felt lighter since talking to Phillip’s pastor friend, Bullock. Maybe their King David character had it right — confession was good for the soul.

Still, every time he heard a news report mention Reese McKelvie as a potential appointee to the Senate, his stomach churned. Once again he’d find himself clicking through his options, one by one, only to settle once more on the safest path: keeping quiet.

It was really the only rational choice, he would tell himself. After all, he committed a felony when he passed the bribe to McKelvie. There’s no reason to expose himself to possible prosecution.

He sat in the afternoon sun for a while, basking in the warmth, and then had an idea. He’d never updated Phillip after his session with Bullock. Although he couldn’t tell Phillip the substance of what they’d discussed, he figured he did owe him a briefing.

He punched Phillip’s number into his cell phone. “Did I catch you at work?”

“Trying to finish up early so I can get out and enjoy the weather for a while.”

“That’s what I’m doing. Hey, how about meeting me for dinner over at Nikki’s before the meeting tonight?”

“If you’re buying,” said Phillip, “I’ll show up.”

IV

“What do you mean — hold the onions? You planning to kiss somebody tonight?”

“What’s it to you? You jealous?”

Tom O’Sullivan and Phillip Taylor were kibitzing at the counter of Nikki’s Hot Dog Stand as they placed their order shortly before 5:00 p.m. Having shed his suit coat and tie, Tom rolled up the sleeves on a blue shirt purchased recently enough to still be considered new, and stocked up on extra napkins from the dispenser just in case.

“Seriously, Phillip, these are Vidalias — they’re sweet and mild. Grown only in Georgia, where the sun always shines and life is easy and the soil doesn’t have much sulfur. This is a Chicago hot dog, my friend. Ya gotta have onions!”

Admittedly no purist when it came to the protocol of consuming encased meat, Phillip remained unconvinced by Tom’s appeal. Instead, he replied with a chuckle, “Ever hear that old song — ‘Sweet Vidalia, you always gotta make me cry’?”

“You’re changing the subject. Nick, tell him he needs onions.”

Thirty–three–year–old Nick Gamos, who had started this modest glass–walled business at the busy intersection of Hightower and Antonio four years earlier, shrugged and smiled.

“It’s a free country, right? Didn’t you study the Constitution in law school, Mr. O’Sullivan? If I remember right, it says that onions are always a choice. And this,” he declared with mock pride, his hand sweeping over the eatery, “is a pro–choice diner.”

“And I choose to exercise my constitutional right to have — no onions,” affirmed Phillip, adding under his breath: “I was going to say ‘no pickle’ too, but I didn’t want to start a fist fight.”

The dinner crowd hadn’t started arriving yet, and so Nick didn’t mind them loitering at his counter. There were only two patrons sitting among the fifteen plastic tables in the place — a couple of high school girls lounging in the corner, sipping diet sodas and chattering away to each other while simultaneously texting other friends.

Tom capitulated on the onions — although reluctantly. After all, this is how anarchy starts — first, no onions, and next time maybe it’s no poppy seeds on the bun or no dash of celery salt. And then what — ketchup? Who wanted to live in a world like that?

Tom and Phillip finalized their orders for two red hots each, plus drinks and fries, which Nick rang up on the register (and which Tom, despite Phillip’s half–hearted protestations, quickly covered with a twenty). Nick picked up his tongs and withdrew the first wiener from an aluminum container of simmering water so he could “drag it through the garden,” as Chicagoans liked to say — that is, quickly, efficiently, and precisely to add all the trimmings.

Tom and Phillip continued to banter as they watched Nick expertly assemble their dinners. Neither looked up at the sound of the side door opening. They didn’t notice the figure dressed in black, his face shrouded by a ski mask, who sidled up behind Phillip and slowly withdrew a. 38 caliber revolver from the pocket of his windbreaker.

“Holdup! Holdup!” he shouted so loud that the glass walls seemed to shake. “Hands in the air!” The bandit waved his chrome handgun recklessly around the room. “Hands in the air! Now!”

The girls shrieked and sprang to their feet, their plastic chairs flying, their beverages spraying across the window. They crouched to the ground, reaching out to hold each other, cowering and trembling as they pushed their full weight against the glass wall, as if hoping they could somehow break through to safety.

Instinctively, Phillip and Tom both jumped back, raising their hands quickly above their heads. Nick let an expletive fly, dropped his tongs to the floor, and thrust both of his hands in the air, while Alberto — manning the deep fryer in the kitchen — ducked for cover behind a refrigerator.

“Easy now … easy,” Phillip said, trying to prevent his voice from shaking. “Take it easy … real easy.”

Tom’s eyes were riveted on the weapon. “Just give him the money!” he called over his shoulder to Nick. But the proprietor stood wide–eyed and open–mouthed, paralyzed with fear.

The robber furiously swung the gun from person to person to keep them at bay, although nobody was interested in doing anything but staying planted where they were. While pointing the weapon at Phillip, the bandit yelled to Nick: “Put the money in a bag! Now!”

Nick was visibly in shock: he would start to lower his hands to open the cash register but then think better of it and quickly stick them back straight up in the air, as if he didn’t know which command he should follow.

“Your money!”

And with that, the bandit swung the gun to Nick — and the pistol barked, the muzzle flashed, and Nick tumbled backwards with a thud and a groan, sprawling on the floor.

“Oh, Lord!” Phillip declared.

Immediately, the bandit turned the weapon in the direction of the two men, extending the gun toward Tom — and pausing for the briefest of moments. Both of them could see his eyes narrow in the slits of his mask.

Tom swallowed hard and flinched ever so slightly, and the gunman yanked the trigger twice in rapid succession. The first shot passed cleanly through Tom’s right shoulder into the glass wall behind him, a cracked spiderweb instantly forming at the point of impact.

The second bullet lodged in his heart.

Tom grunted and clutched his chest with both hands and stumbled a few steps backwards, his expression a mix of horror and disbelief. And then his legs gave out and he twisted as he collapsed to the floor, face up, two pools of maroon expanding on his blue shirt. His eyes slowly closed; the muscles in his face relaxed.

Phillip gasped. The girls were hysterical now, plugging their ears as they shrieked uncontrollably. Without a word, the bandit turned his pistol toward them, but then he quickly brought it back to Phillip, who had turned from his crumpled friend to face the killer squarely. Phillip stretched out his arms as if for mercy; his eyes were shut tight in anticipation of impact.

A second passed. Then another. And another. When nothing happened, Phillip hesitantly opened his eyes — just in time to see the back of the gunman as he pushed through the doors and sprinted down the sidewalk, jumping a hedge of bushes before he disappeared.

The girls were still screaming; Alberto remained huddled in the kitchen, quietly cussing in Spanish under his breath; and Phillip just stood there, his face frozen in horror.

“Oh, Lord Jesus,” was all he could manage to mutter.