Murder in the Wind by John D. MacDonald

have a cover. We got to have jobs. It doesn’t matter what kind. We operate at night. First we got to have papers so the new names will hold up. It isn’t hard to get driver’s licenses. Those are always good. You got to have a car for that. Tonight we start to operate.”
    And on that first night in Miami they had operated. Frank took a liquor store. He held a rock the size of a potato in his fist. They went in and he leaned over the counter and frowned at a lower shelf and said, “What’s that stuff?”
    When the man turned, he hit him solidly with the rock and the man fell behind the counter. Frank got behind the counter and said, “Customer coming. Be looking around.”
    Billy, his stomach trembling, walked over and stared, without seeing anything, at a wine display.
    “I want a fifth of Jim Beam.”
    “Here you are, sir.”
    “Where’s Joe tonight?”
    “He had to go up to Hollywood on business. I’m helping out. Anything else?”
    “No. That’ll do it.”
    Billy heard the rustle of the paper bag, heard the door swing shut as the man went out. He turned around and saw Frank empty the cash register, moving with deliberation. He saw Frank open a drawer, take out a heavy revolver, examine it, drop it into a paper bag. He bent over, came up with the unconscious man’s wallet, took some bills out of it and dropped it.
    “Let’s get out of here!” Billy said.
    “Relax, kid.” They headed for the door. Frank turned out all the lights but one in the back of the store. “He’s closed for the night.”
    “Is he dead?”
    “Damn it, what makes you so nervous? No, he isn’t dead. Wait a second. Might as well take a couple of bottles along. I got all the prints wiped off. Scotch ought to do.”
    Frank latched the door behind him, tested the lock, then wiped the prints off the outside handle. They walked three blocks and took a bus. When they were back in the hotel, they counted the money. Two hundred and twelve.
    Two weeks later Billy felt a lot less nervous. His new name was Danny King. He worked in a supermarket, packing orders and carrying them out to cars. Frank Stratter was Bob King, his brother. They lived in a garage apartment, owned clothes that fitted, owned a Buick in good condition, had papers in their pockets to prove their new identity. The road camp seemed a long way off. The head rolling into the ditch was something he had dreamed. Every other escapee had been captured. Frank worked in a big Ford agency, washing cars. Billy wished they could just go on the way they were, and forget the operations. Give them up.
    He tried to tell that to Frank, but Frank couldn’t understand what he meant. That was the funny thing about Frank. You could get just so friendly with him, but you couldn’t go beyond a certain point. There was a wall there.
    Frank liked to talk about the operations. “You can’t keep pulling the same stuff in the same way. Then they get to know where to look for you. You got to keep loose. But we’re messing around with little stuff. When the stake is big enough, we’ll try something bigger.”
    “Like what, Frank?”
    “Like maybe a bank. Something where you’ve got to do a lot of planning, but when you make out, it’s worth it.”
    “I don’t want to do anything like that”
    “Sure you do. Your nerve is getting better all the time. You’re shaping up good. And you handle the car nice. We can’t stay on this two bit level forever, kid.”
    “Let’s not rush it.”
    “No. We won’t rush it. I got some things I want to do first. One of them is pick up a friend.”
    “A friend?”
    “From up near Ocala where I come from. You’ll like her. She’s a good kid.”
    He had felt all along that Frank was closing him out, keeping him out of the center of things. The girl would be another door closed against him. Frank went after her in late August, taking the car. He was gone three days. It was bad while he was gone. The streets were different. He felt as though people