"What do you mean, little kids?" Monroe asked from behind the cash register.
"Eleven, twelve years old," the man said.
His name was Henry Kirby, and he lived in a building up the street. He was perhaps sixty, sixty-five years old, a thin, graying man wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and wrinkled polyester slacks. He'd told first Meyer and then Monroe that he was coming to the store to buy a bottle of wine when he saw these little kids running out with shopping bags and guns. Monroe still couldn't believe it.
"You meanchildren ?" he said.
"Little kids, yeah," Kirby said.
"Grade-schoolers?"
"Yeah, little kids."
"Pre-pubescent twerps?" Monroe said.
He was doing okay without Monoghan. Without Monoghan, he was being Monoghan and Monroe all by himself.
"Yeah, little kids," Kirby said.
"What were they wearing?" Meyer said.
"Leather jackets, blue jeans, sneakers and masks."
"What kind of masks?" Monroe asked. "Like these monster masks? These rubber things you pull over your head?"
"No, just these little black masks over their eyes. Like robbers wear. They were robbers, these kids."
"And you say there were four of them?"
"Four, right."
"Ran out of the store with shopping bags and guns?"
"Shopping bags and guns, right."
"What kind of guns?" Monroe asked.
"Little guns."
"Like twenty-twos?"
"I'm not so good at guns. These were little guns."
"Like Berettas?"
"I'm not so good at guns."
"Like little Brownings?"
"I'm not so good at guns. They were little guns."
"Did you hear any shots as you approached the store?" Meyer asked.
"No, I didn't. I didn't know Ralph was dead till I walked inside."
"Ralph?" Monroe said.
"Ralph Adams. It's his store. Adams Wine Spirits. He's been here in this same spot for twenty years."
"Not no more," Monroe said tactfully.
"So where'd these kids go when they came out of the store?" Meyer asked.
He was thinking this sounded like Fagin's little gang. The Artful Dodger, all that crowd. A cop he knew in England had written recently to say his kids would be celebrating mdash;if that was the word for it mdash;Halloween over there this year. Lots of American executives living in England, their kids had introduced the holiday to the British. Just what they need, Meyer thought. Maybe next year, twelve-year-old British kids'd start holding up liquor stores.
"They ran to this car parked at the curb," Kirby said.
"A vehicle?" Monroe said.
"Yeah, a car."
"An automobile?"
"A car, yeah."
"What kind of car?"
"I'm not so good at cars."
"Was it a big car or a little car?"
"A regular car."
"Like a Chevy or a Plymouth?"
"I'm not so good at cars."
"Like an Olds or a Buick?"
"A regular car, is all."
"They all got in this car?" Meyer asked.
"One in the front seat, three in the back."
"Who was driving?"
"A woman."
"How old a woman?"
"Hard to say."
"What'd she look like?"
"She was a blonde."
"What was she wearing?"
"I really couldn't see. It was dark in the car. I could see she was a blonde, but that's about all."
"How about when the kids opened the doors?" Monroe asked. "Didn't the lights go on?"
"Yeah, but I didn't notice what she was wearing. I figured this was maybe a car pool, you know?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the kids were all about the same age, so they couldn't all beher kids, you know what I mean? So I figured she was just driving maybe her own kid and some of his friends around. For Halloween, you know?"