46.
The bloody CTS ditched by a fire hydrant. That darn CTS. That night at Doc C's. When D.O.T towed the Caddy back to the pound, red flags fingered out. It's a little suspicious when a luxury sedan, fully loaded, isn't claimed. Sure, you could clean it up, and send it to auction. New York's good for that stuff. A sixty-large sedan, unclaimed, no problem. People have money around here. Alot of it. Most times, they're a little short on sense, but not cash. The math continued to bend.
It was the second part that jumbled this play. The moment when you open up the ride to wipe the interior. That's when the DOT connected the d-o-t's. Detectives were called in, labbing the crate. Fingerprints, DNA, and blood work. The computers crunched the info, and spit out Anthony Mangano. New York's finest knew the equation: Tony Scram. NYPD spammed the New Jersey troopers. They were the ones that were looking for him. A bullet-riddled body in the morgue. A son and luxury sedan. Both bloody, both connected, both unclaimed. The cops wanted to rap about this one. Find this Scram guy. Bring him in. Let's hear his version of things.
The feds vamped the info. The Hoovers had the hots for Tony Scram. They always have. Ever since that bank job in quiet, old Morsemere. They could care less about a ditched Cadillac or a whacked drug addict. They dug armored car jobs.
Street snitches frogged in. Every darn gangland killing. The fifteen minute gig. Badge knows it's jackpot time. Every time a gangster pops up, the public goes bat shit. Enough tipsters to log Steve Mangano, Tony Scram, and Mermaids. Rocky Higgins figured in. Whitey Russo, ex-Phoenix money hound horned in. The jigsaw shedding mystery.