"You tug, twist ’em," Skinner said, behind him, "bastards’ll clinch up on you. Cops used to carry those. Got made unconstitutional." There was a crash that shook the room and made the light flicker. Yamazaki looked over his shoulder and saw Skinner sitting on the floor, his knees drawn half up, leaning forward. "There’s a pair of twenty-inch bolt-cutters in here," the old man said, indicating a dented, rust-scarred green toolkit with his left foot. "That’ll do it, if I can get ’em out." Yamazaki watched as he began to work his toes through the holes in his ragged gray socks. "Not sure I can do shit with ’em, once I do ..." He stopped. Looked at Yamazaki. "Better idea, but you won’t like it."