Unchanging men, in changing times. What happened to the American dream? The posse. Shoot 'em up, bag the gold, riding off into the sunset gig. The real outer limits. Once you hit sundown, the game's over. You made it. They're supposed to get it. Leave you alone. Just like the movies, and all those cowboy stories.
Super fuzz were tweaking an armored car heist. They suspected Tony might have driven getaway for the Phoenix job.
They didn't know who else was in on it. But if they could track down Scram, they might find out. After all, if he didn't give it up, he'd face real, hard time. At his age, he'd never get out. They'd piss on his grave alright.
At first, they only suspected. A meaty hunch. When the jacket titled Shorty Magee flew in, the Hoovers jitterbugged, pounding pavement. The feds dug the case so much, they pulled a pair off the jihad beat. Find this Tony guy. If he scrams the planet, fire up an unmarked rocket. After all, he might lead us to Bones.
That's the one we really want. Those fuckin' feds, man.