Or “I give.” Or even “I’m sorry.” What he said was, “Come to my house at eleven o’clock, and I’ll have your money.” “All of it?” I asked. “All of it,” he said, and hung up. “I’ll be damned,” I said to the receiver. I took my time shaving, showering, getting dressed—at least I thought I did. Truth is, I was so jazzed that I managed the job in fifteen minutes flat. It was barely eight when I finished. I’m not a breakfast person, and there isn’t anything on TV on Saturday mornings worth watching—even ESPN is disappointing, broadcasting nothing but fishing shows. I decided to pass the time in my office. Only there wasn’t much to do once I got there, either. I made coffee, read the St. Paul Pioneer Press and Minneapolis Star Tribune newspapers, and waited. I thought about calling my dad but decided he could keep until I had the cash in my hand. Of course, the thought that I might be walking into another trap never entered my mind. That’s why I took the Beretta 9mm, the one with the holster, out of my drawer and hung it on my belt just behind my right hip.
