“Well?”

“We’re done,” a heavy voice shouted. “We’re coming out. Don’t shoot.”

Reno asked: “Who’s we’re?”

“This is Pete,” the heavy voice said. “There’s four left of us.”

“You come first,” Reno ordered, “with your mitts on the top of your head. The others come out one at a time, same way, after you. And half a minute apart is close enough. Come on.”

We waited a moment, and then Pete the Finn appeared in the dynamited doorway, his hands holding the top of his bald head. In the glare from the burning next-door house we could see that his face was cut, his clothes almost all torn off.

Stepping over wreckage, the bootlegger came slowly down the steps to the sidewalk.