Heat Lightning

what’s good for you, you won’t be back. I’m providing ninety percent of the security at the convention, and if I tell somebody you’re a risk, you’re gonna go away. So I better not see your face again.”
    “What the fuck convention? What convention?” Andreno whined.
    “The Republican National Convention. What, you don’t know what convention is coming here?”
    “What the fuck do I give a shit about a bunch of political shit.”
     
AS THEY WERE squabbling, the third man left the restaurant, unlocked the back of the Cadillac, leaned inside, did something. . . .
    “Getting some money,” Virgil said. “They had more than ten thousand.”
     
 
WHEN WARREN’S security man had the money, he walked quickly to the red Jeep, said something through an apparently open window, then hurried back to the restaurant.
    “Something happening?” Shrake asked. “Maybe they’re gonna try to lift him.”
    Virgil started his truck and said, “Get ready to move.”
     
 
INSIDE THE RESTAURANT, the third man’s voice came up. “Ten. Count it if you want, but keep it under the table.”
    Another pause. Andreno: “Okay. Lot of money for a picture that isn’t of you.”
    “Fuck you,” Warren said. “Where are the pictures?”
    “Here . . .”
    The third man said, “He’s got the money, we’ve got the pictures.”
    Virgil asked, “What’s that? What’d he say?”
    Andreno said, “What’d you say?”
    The third man said again, to somebody unseen, “He’s got the money, he’s got the money.”
     
 
IN THE PARKING LOT, two guys got out of the Jeep and a third from the Corolla, and Virgil called, “Something’s happening, we gotta move,” and Shrake called back, “Hey, that second guy, that second guy is Dave Nelson, he’s with Minneapolis, he’s a cop.”
    “I know the third guy, he’s with Minneapolis, I know his face,” Jenkins said, “Hell, they’re cops! They’re gonna bust Andreno.”
    Virgil said, “God . . . damnit. They were wired. Mother . . .”
     
 
HE PULLED INTO the parking lot and stopped at the door, but all three of the men were inside and he hurried to catch up. He turned one corner inside, blowing past the hostess, who was looking after the Minneapolis cops anyway, and when he turned the next corner the three were crowded around Andreno and he could see Warren’s face, sneer playing across it, and Andreno was saying, “Wait a minute, wait a minute . . .”
    All the customers in the restaurant were looking, some half standing for a better view, and then Virgil turned the last corner and one of the cops was telling Andreno to get out of the booth and Andreno settled back and said, “Look that way.”
    The cop turned his head and saw Virgil coming, and then Shrake and Jenkins, and Virgil dropped open his ID and said, “BCA. You just busted our show.”
    The lead Minneapolis cop looked from Virgil to Jenkins to Shrake and said, “Ah, shit.”
    THEY ALL BOILED into the parking lot, Warren screaming-angry, ripping a wire from under his shirt. He tossed it at a Minneapolis cop and then pointed a trembling finger at Virgil. “You motherfuckers. You’re all done. You’re all gonna be unemployed in two fuckin’ hours. You don’t know what getting fucked is like until I fuck you. . . .” Spit was flying from his mouth, and his face was heart-attack red and the Minneapolis cops were shaking their heads.
    Virgil got tired of it and said to Warren, “Shut up. I’m tired of hearing it. So get us fired. Go do it. In the meantime, I’ll take the photographs.”
    “You’re not taking any photographs.”
    Warren put his hands up, and Virgil said, “You touch me, I’ll put you on the ground, and after we pull your teeth out of your throat, we’ll charge you with assault. Now, give me the photographs: they’re state evidence.”
    The lead Minneapolis cop, whose name was Randy, said, “Give him the photographs. You gotta give him the photographs.”
    “The photographs,” Warren said. “The photographs . . .”
    He kept backing away, Virgil a step away from him, and Randy tried to get between them, but then Warren had his back against Virgil’s truck and Randy said, “Mr. Warren. Give him the photographs. This is enough of a screwup without you going to jail. If you push the man, I can tell you, you’re going to jail.”
    “The photographs . . .” Warren was so angry that his entire body shook, but he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the envelope of