URSE COLLAPSED INTO BED, EXHAUSTED. It was just past midnight. The elegant 8th-floor room at the Palace Hotel and Casino had a connecting door leading into Sound’s adjacent room. Cap’n, entering the hotel some minutes after them, had landed a room on the 11th floor. Behind a drawn set of luxurious curtains, a big picture window overlooked the Strip.
After putting away his things, Cap’n took the elevator to the 8th
floor, hesitantly made his way down the corridor to Nurse’s room, and knocked. Nurse gaped through the door at the dark, brooding eyes on the other side of the peephole. She opened the door and shooed him inside. “What th’ crup ya’ doin’, Cap’n?”
The man’s pained expression darkened even more. “I figured we better count the cash. Don’t feel good holdin’ all this money, you know?”
Nurse waved him away with a weary hand. “Ain’t nobody I’d rather have hold it. Now . . .”
At that moment Sound came through the adjoining door, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe and drying his thin crop of hair with a fluffy bath towel. “Oh, hi, Cap’n,” he greeted. “We did real good today. By my calculations we took in over a hundred-grand.” Like Nurse, he too was feeling a bit flushed from the long day. Over and above that, his ribs were more than a bit sore where Cap’n had elbowed him the day before. He was having trouble breathing.
Cap’n persisted, “Well I’d like to count it.”
“Ya’ knows they got cameras in th’ hallways,” Nurse admonished. “Somebody mighta’ seen ya’ come t’ my room.”
“Did you take any money out?” asked Sound, pondering his own agenda.
“No, but I ain’t never seen this much money in one place in all my life,” Cap’n whimpered. “It makes me feel like runnin’ away.”
“Man, you don’t run from nothin’,” exclaimed Nurse. “But if’n you’d feel better, ya’can sleep in my extra bed.”
Cap’n expelled a heavy sigh and went to put the briefcase he held under his arm on the chest of drawers. He paused a moment to let Nurse transfer her dentures from the cabinet top to the top drawer. “How much more do we need?” he queried.
“Eddie said the cards were good for a quarter-of-a-million,” Sound said.
Cap’n gave a noiseless whistle and, digging a napkin from his back pocket, wiped the sweat from his shiny head. “I ain’t sure I can take it that long,” he sighed. “I ain’t been under this kinda pressure in forty years.”
Nurse pulled her dress up over her head and lay it at the foot of the bed. “I ain’t got no pj’s, so you boys’ll just hafta’ put up with me in a slip.” Sliding a hanger through the gossamer fabric, she hung it in the closet and crawled into bed for a second time that night. “Now you two stop flappin’ your jaws so’s I can get some rest.”
Sound retreated to his own room and Cap’n stripped down to his briefs. By the time his head had hit the pillow, the whistling air coursing through Nurse’s crooked nose was singing sweet lullabies, music that indeed soothed the savage worries in the big man’s breast.
Clint’s blue sports car sat out in front of the large warehouse, located in the business district just off Craig. A ways down the street, the car Mitch had stolen was tucked squarely behind a row of garbage trucks lined up tightly against the building. They would most likely start off on their appointed routes a little before dawn. Mitch could imagine the cussing and carrying on of their drivers when they showed up to work to find their trucks blocked in. Then, once the nature of the bothersome car was revealed, first the police would be called in and then the FBI would show up to take prints. By the end of the day, all of them would be scratching their heads, wondering why the auto had been left in such an unusual spot.
“Bino told me the truth for a change,” Mitch whispered. “That blue one’s Clint’s car.” Smitty didn’t need to be told. He’d seen the sleek convertible at the gym on many occasions.
The warehouse had but a single outside lock. The only way in or out was at the main entrance, near where Clint’s car was parked. After ditching the stolen car in the most conspicuous spot, both men had circled the building like two Indian braves, and now were slumped up against the neighboring building, awaiting their chance.
An old Dodge with blackened windows was parked next to the blue ragtop. Mitch moseyed over and casually placed a hand on the hood of each car. “Clint’s is still hot; he hasn’t been here long,” he said. “But this old piece of junk hasn’t moved since last night.”
Smitty, feeling the scalding air pour out from under the Vette’s hood, raised his eyebrows, obviously impressed by Mitch’s deductive powers. The apprentice sleuth stuck his nose down by the front of the engine and sniffed in the hot air. Then he did the same with the older car.
Mitch scanned the warehouse’s deserted perimeter. “It looks like we’ll have to go right through the front door.” Smitty plucked his tools from his belt and the two of them stepped to the dimly lit doorway, then paused as they stared at the coded keypad on the lock. “Er . . . and maybe not.”
Unable to gain entrance into the building, Smitty turned his attention on the Dodge. A scant three minutes later, he was curled up asleep in its back seat while Mitch lay in the reclined passenger seat. They’d discussed a simple plan of action for when the car’s owner climbed behind the wheel.
Mitch struggled to stay awake as the hours ticked slowly by: 1:20 . . . 2:09 . . . 2:14 . . . . Smitty tossed and turned in back, occasionally twitching an arm or a leg. By three a.m. Mitch had started to get nervous. The day’s first vehicles arrived on the lifeless, dead-end street, pulling into the parking lot of the waste management business next door. The drivers would stop for their morning coffee and then be ready to hustle their massive garbageeating trucks out onto the Vegas streets. He sat up and reached for the door handle, when suddenly the front door to the warehouse clicked open. Clint stepped out into the semi-cool early-morning air and dusted a light spray of shredded paper shavings from his tight-fitting jeans.
Careful to remain out of sight, Mitch eased his seat once more into the recline position. From behind him, Smitty stirred, then stretched his gangly arms into the air, striking the back window with his hands. Mitch reached back and coaxed the flailing arms down. “Shh,” he cautioned. Smitty’s eyes blinked hard as he struggled to rouse from his stupor.
Thirty seconds after Clint came out, a second man, sporting a straggly mane of hair, stalked from the building. He removed a pair of reading glasses from his face and stuffed them in his pocket. The two men had been clashing, it was clear, their feud spilling out onto the dock. Now they exchanged several more pungent words. Clint slammed shut the warehouse door and set the code. The ex-fighter was first to climb in his car. Gunning its powerful engine and thrusting it in first gear, the sporty coupe peeled from the parking lot. In contrast to his hotheaded companion, the other man was in no hurry to leave. Lingering in the shadows, he lit up a cigarette.
Mitch waited as the man took a number of long drags on the smoke. Finally, he pulled his keys from his pants pocket. But instead of coming to the car, he turned back to the warehouse and reached down into one of the garbage cans near the front door. After sifting through its contents, he finally came up holding what looked like a shoe box in his hand. He peered back and forth in the darkness, then strolled over to the Dodge. Smitty eased a ratchet from his pouch and slouched to the floor behind the driver’s seat.
Mitch, after taking in a deep breath to calm his nerves, lay stockstill in the darkness. The car door opened and the man slid inside. Smitty sprang up from behind and pressed the ratchet handle against the back of the man’s stork-like neck. “If you don’t want your brains splattered on the windshield, do exactly as I tell you,” Mitch said in his most menacing voice.
The man was an easy mark. “Clint told me to do it,” he yammered. “Put both hands on the wheel.” The man did as ordered. Sliding the box from the sniveler’s lap, Mitch opened its lid and peered inside. “You’re going to open the door now and get us inside.”
“I–I don’t know the code.”
“Just shoot him, Smitty, and we’ll crash the car through the garage door.” Mitch opened his door and climbed from the vehicle, still holding the box.
“Okay, okay, I’ll get you in,” said the man. He cautiously got out of the car, with Smitty on his heels.
“What’s your name?” Mitch demanded.
“Ivan . . . Ivan Lions.”
“Well, Ivan, it looks to me you’ve got enough information here to sink the ship.”
“Life insurance.”
“Right. Insurance. . . . Say, Ivan, you scared?”
“You aren’t?” Ivan punched in the code on the lock.
“Nah, Vinnie’s a pussycat. I’m the guy to be afraid of–the one who shut him down.
Ivan flicked on the lights and turned his head to address his principal captor. “Been hopin’ I’d meet you. I heard Vinnie’s got a price on you.” He went to remove the glasses from his shirt pocket. Smitty jammed the wrench deeper into the scrawny back. “Easy, bud, I’m unarmed. I’m just the talent. I hate the violent crap.”
The man was in his early 50s, with hair that looked as if he’d just crawled out of bed and a wrinkled wardrobe to match. His eyes were swollen and drowsy-looking. At Mitch’s request, Smitty ran his hands up and down the man’s body to check for a weapon.
“What do you do for Vinnie?” Mitch continued.
“Nothing, anymore. Just officially closed up shop.” It appeared that Ivan’s nerves were beginning to mellow.
The men stepped from the small foyer into a room piled deep in shredded paper. Rows of empty file cabinets, their drawers half open, lined the wall. Computers lay among the debris, smashed to pieces. Smitty turned and stared through a window, where there were piled an assortment of new appliances, home entertainment systems, electronic equipment, and furniture, most still in their boxes.
“Looks like the operation under Eddie’s gym I heard about,” Mitch said.
“I told Clint we should’ve shut it down six months ago. Ran too long.”
Mitch walked into the warehouse and flipped on the lights. The blue glow of the halogens slowly illuminated the room. The warm reflection of the gold GTO, parked snugly in one corner, quickened Mitch’s pulse and warmed his heart. Smitty lowered his wrench and smiled a wide, cheesy grin as he glanced between Mitch and the golden prize.
“She’s a beauty,” Ivan said. “I’d have taken her with me, if I thought you’d leave well enough alone. But I reckoned that within a few days that car would be hotter than Hades.”
“Mike’s life wasn’t worth it,” Mitch said, “but I’m still glad to have it back.”
Ivan reached out expectantly. “If you’ll give me my box now, I’ll be on my way.”
“I don’t think so,” Mitch smiled. “It’s time these people got their lives back–just like me.”
A strangely relaxed camaraderie had hedged itself between Mitch and Ivan over the brief, five-minute stretch. Ivan gauged Mitch, admiringly. “I’m no saint like you, kid. But I have to admit, it’ll be fun watchin’ the headlines. A couple of days’ head start, I figure maybe two more years until the laws put me out of business. But if I play my cards right, I can still retire like a king.”
“Not in this town, I hope.”
“You kiddin’? Have you seen the news reports?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Roy nailed the senator, the governor and two of your congressmen. I’ll be as far away from here as I can get.” Ivan punched the button on the overhead door.
“Roy?” Mitch asked.
“Some loser used to work for me. With what you’ve got in that box, Mr. Domenico will be wishin’he’d never met you.” Ivan ducked under the door, then stuck his head back inside and said, “And next time, use an extension instead of a ratchet. It makes a better gun barrel.”
Outside, the old Dodge disappeared into the early-morning shadows, its driver hiding behind the smoked-glass windows and still carrying enough false identification to buy his way to a 20-year prison term.
Mitch sank into the familiar seat of the GTO and pumped the gas. “You ever driven a car before?” he asked Smitty, who was fidgeting expectantly in the passenger seat. The mute shook his head. “If we get through this in one piece, I’ll teach you.”
Smitty fondled the dashboard, running his fingers along the smooth curves. Mitch fired up the monstrous engine. It roared to life, sucking air through the triple carburetors extending up out of the hood. “It’s no Ferrari,” Mitch yelled over the rumble, “but I gave her life. Rebuilt it with my own hands.” He cranked the wheel and, maneuvering forward, then backward, eased the car from the warehouse. Smitty hopped out and cranked down the overhead door.
At the front of the line of garbage trucks, two of their drivers had looped a tow chain around the stolen car’s bumper. A third man sat behind the wheel of one of the monsters, poised to drag the car from its resting place. With all the legal hoopla they’d had to go through, they’d be late getting out on their routes.
Seeing the GTO idle onto the street, one of the waiting drivers called out, “Hit it!” Mitch did just that, launching the muscle car out onto the open road, headed for a junkyard.
Barnes and Horne with a half-dozen other agents, each packing an automatic weapon, crouched under the canopy of Three Queens. Each agent had on a bulletproof vest, a blue windbreaker pulled over the top with the white letters FBI stenciled boldly front and back.
“Open up!” Barnes yelled at the sleeping guard. He hammered on the glass door with his fist.
The guard wobbled to his feet and came to the door, blinking and bewildered. “What do you want?” he mumbled.
Horne slapped a folded document up to the glass. “Warrant! Open up!”
The guard cranked the prehistoric brass lock and stepped aside, then pulled his radio from his hip. The agents burst through the opening, Barnes yelling instructions as they went. “Cover the exits; make sure he doesn’t get out.”
“Mr. Domenico, Mr. Domenico,” the guard hollered into his unit. “We’ve got Federal agents coming in the building. They’re searching the place. They’ve got a warrant.”
When Horne heard the word “warrant,” he snatched the radio away from the stunned guard. “Shut up!” he ordered. He pressed the radio’s transmit button. “The warrant’s for a Trenton Ritter,” he called out, clarifying the matter. “The charge is arson. We know he’s somewhere in the building. We’re here to take him in.” He could just imagine the havoc he’d incited at that instant on the 13th floor.
Indeed, upstairs, Vinnie stumbled from his bed and rifled through the small fridge in his office bar.
And twenty minutes later, Ritter, in handcuffs, was being escorted from Three Queens. In meeting with the agents, Vinnie swore he’d have the money-grubbing stoolpigeon out on bail within the hour–and swore even louder that his attorney would shut the agency down for harassment.
Out on the street, Horne eased Ritter’s head below the roof line of the Ford sedan and buckled him in. Then he climbed in front and Barnes pulled away. “How’s the finger?” he asked, cool as can be.
“How d’ ya’ think it feels, mate? Feels like it’s been bloody chopped off, that’s how. Don’t hurt as bad as me bloody head though.”
Horne chatted on. “Yeah, Vincent’s old man used to use the same MO. At least four of the guys’bodies the Agency found roasting out in the desert off the highway had part of a pinky missing. Yup, that’s how he kept his people in line . . .”
Only a mile down the street Barnes pulled over and Horne climbed out to unlatch the cuffs from Ritter’s arms. “I ain’t guilty a’no fire,” he parroted for at least the sixth time. Horne, suddenly speechless, merely refastened the man’s seatbelt and climbed back in front. Once the vehicle had gotten up to speed, Horne reached back over the seat, the warrant in hand. “This warrant is blank,” he confessed.
Ritter, clearly considering himself the poster boy for abuse of every kind, shape and form, shot Horne an annoyed glare. “So what’s this all about then?”
The agents looked at each other, then Barnes began to explain. “We did a little research on that shortened pinky of yours. Agent Horne, here, was giving it to you straight. When Vinnie’s old man chopped off someone’s finger it was the mark of a very short life. We couldn’t find a single man who lived to tell about it.”
“I’m still here, ain’t I?”
“For now. It’s just a matter of time.” Barnes then threw out a seed he knew would germinate. “We thought you ought to know we have authorization to pay you fifty-grand for Mike’s body. If it’s where you say it is, that is.”
Ritter glanced back and forth between the two faces in the front seat. “What if I give you the murder weapon, too?”
“Lets go back to the office and talk.”
Smitty had found heaven on earth. Having made immediate friends with the brutish pack of junkyard dogs, it was like he’d been accepted as part of the gang. He would jump around and play with them, his tongue hanging down, matching the mongrel bunch’s every action. While man and beast romped in the dawning morn, Mitch pulled the GTO into the dingy paint booth and locked the door. When he turned the corner of the shed, back to the gravel parking lot, he came upon a sight both amazing and amusing. The dogs were all sitting on their haunches in a neat row. Their eyes were trained on Smitty, who loomed like some bizarre choir director in front.
“How’d you do that?” Mitch asked, clearly puzzled. More than once over the years he’d tried to control the canine mob, if not to actually train them, at least to tame them of their high-strung antics. But he’d never even gotten past “Okay, run around and bark as much as you want!”; and the “sit” command was out of the question. The pack mentality had always won out.
Now here they were, eagerly surrendering to Smitty’s beck and call. Hearing the approach of their young master, the dogs’ gaze met Mitch’s, then quickly turned back to Smitty, ears perked, eyes attentive. The mute sent a series of tiny blasts of air through his rotting teeth, sporadic, shrill, whistle-type screeches. The oldest of the pack raised his head and let out a howl. The other five, one by one, jumped on the bandwagon, sending an eerie, high-pitched dirge out across the metal boneyard.
When Smitty’s whistles stopped, the dogs stopped howling. A pleased grin flooded the man’s face. His voice had no doubt been heard, listened to, and obeyed. Mitch was equally delighted. “That was cool, Smitty. I’ve never seen them obey anyone like that–not even Grandpa.” Thrilled with his triumph, Smitty hunkered onto the ground, letting the mongrels wash over him in a manic display of dog dribble.
Mitch gazed down on the display of human bliss. “You haven’t had much sleep, Smitty. I’ve been thinking of a safe place for you to stay while I’m gone.” The new leader of the pack stopped his cavorting and got to his feet. A look of despair followed by a rapid series of hand signals told Mitch that he wanted to go as well. Mitch wouldn’t hear of it. “Grandpa will be coming home from the hospital either today or tomorrow. I need you here to keep an eye on him. He’d object to having you here, so I don’t want him to even know you’re around. You be like . . .” Mitch paused to think, “like the phantom of the junkyard.”
The idea brought a smile to Smitty’s lips. He shot a menacing glance around the enclosure, his eyes dancing back and forth in their sockets.
“A key is on a hook under the front steps,” Mitch continued. “You’ll need it if the trailer’s locked. Scrounge yourself up something to eat. And there’s a pretty nice wreck out in the northwest corner of the yard. I used to play race car in it when I was a kid. You can sleep in that.”
The adventure ahead proved too inviting for Smitty to remain focused. Before you could say “lickety-split,” he was off to explore the nooks and crannies of the expansive compound.
Turning to more pressing matters, Mitch fired up the loader and bounced his way between row upon row of cars, some flattened, some rusty relics. Just past the row with a dark green Vega on the end, he veered right and gunned the loader all the way to the shed. Making another right, he entered the building, started the old diesel to the crusher, backed up, scooped up his prize and started toward the wrecker.
Ten minutes later, the red prize was tooling down I-15, chained to the bed of the tow-truck.
The atmosphere in the interview room was not nearly as explosive the second time around. It was, however, more frigid. The agents’ questions were grim, somber. Although the investigation had made progress, the loss of the agent had hung a dark and humbling burden around the Agency’s neck. Even Ritter–center of the stage, leading man, marquee player–seemed more accommodating, less arrogant. Still, he balked at their approach to the situation. “I promised him, mate. If I don’t show, he won’t go.”
Barnes was adamant. “You turn over the body to us and we’ll make that deposit in Midland Bank.”
“I can’t promise it’s still where we put it. Besides, you need to get your hands on the gun, too.”
A soft knock came at the door. A secretary stuck her head in the room. “Officers, Agent Field would like to see you.”
Barnes and Horne started for the door. “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” grumbled Barnes.
“I’ll catch me breath while I wait.”
When the two agents entered the SAC’s office, they found Field sitting next to a short, rather pudgy man. Both stood. “Reverend Keller,” Field said in the way of introduction, “this is Agent Barnes, the Assistant Special Agent in charge of this case.” The reverend reached out and offered his hand. “And this,” Field added, “is Agent Horne, his assistant. Please describe for them what you’ve just told me.”
Handshakes completed, the men took their seats and Reverend Keller, remarkably calm, started in. “I run a soup kitchen on Stewart. One of my parishioners came to me, asking for help. To make a long story short, in exchange for your help, I’m prepared to tell you where the body of your fallen agent is.”
Barnes stared over at Horne. The case was suddenly taking a turn for the better. “Who is this parishioner of yours?”
Keller smiled. “Shame on you for asking. But, if possible, I would like to speak to the man you arrested yesterday afternoon for kidnapping. That was quite the news report, you know.”
Barnes smirked. “That is, if you believe the agency’s run by a bunch of bumbling idiots,” he replied, the sarcasm ringing like a church bell.
“You have to admit, chasing a transmitter down a sewer pipe is a little funny. And tipping off the neighbor–well, that’s even more weird.”
“Mitchell Wilson’s going to get himself killed.
Keller’s mood turned pensive. “He goes by the name ‘Lightning.’ He’s kind of a Robin Hood figure among my patrons. The boy’s been shutting down illegal activities in my neighborhood one after another.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, but I think he plans on making an appearance today. Be gentle with him; he’s a good man. Make sure you have an adequate number of agents in front of Three Queens by nine this morning. Keep a close watch on Mr. Domenico–he won’t be a happy man. . . . Now, about Mr. Hart.” The reverend stood. “Why don’t you let me speak with him and we’ll finish this conversation later.”
Mitch exited the freeway at Washington and pulled into the coinoperated carwash next to the Texaco station. After dumping five dollars in change and making a handful of passes around the Ferrari– using both the brush and spray wand–the black ash was rinsed off and a new coat of hot wax had been applied. Then, walking over to the service station’s phone booth, he dropped a quarter and a dime into its slot and punched in a number, one he knew by heart. It was the number he’d seen flashing on Mike’s cell phone the week before. It was the number to an incoming call from Vinnie, as he stood in front of Carson’s Auto Body. “Shame on you, kid,” he’d heckled.“Didn’t you think about your gorgeous woman first? Hope you get to her before Frankie does. . . .” The threat had burned into Mitch’s soul. He remembered peering down the street and seeing Vinnie smiling at him over the hood of one of the police cars. “Looks like I gotta go. Call me if you need any help with the details. You got his phone now.”
It was Mitch’s turn now. Many times he’d rehearsed his role in this final act, right down to the last detail. The running was over. To use another fitting analogy, it was time to pay the conductor for his long and terrifying ride.
Meanwhile, Vinnie paced back and forth in front of his desk, making another in a persistent string of impossible demands on his attorney. When the phone rang, his hand flew to the pocket of his jacket. “What?” he shouted into the phone.
Mitch initiated the freewheeling chat by taking a dig at his foe’s warped sense of decorum. “Mr. Domenico . . . Or should I call you Vinnie?”
An earful of malicious oaths and threats–sprinkled with a glut of choice profanities–sprayed through the phone.
When the earpiece had cooled down, Mitch taunted, “No need to be hostile. You’re the one who lied–again.”
“You’re a dead man, kid. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll . . .”
“Vinnie, Vinnie, listen to me,” Mitch said, putting a bridle on the crass carousel of words. “I picked up my goat this morning and thought it only fair to deliver your car. I just gave it a bath and a coat of hot wax. I was wondering if maybe we could kiss and make up, sort of start off fresh, if you know what I mean.”
The line went silent. For perhaps the first time in his life, Vinnie was speechless. “I think you’ve seen I’m good at what I do,” Mitch continued. “You could use a guy like me to help get the place up and running again. And, who knows, I might be able to rig your tables for you to make a better profit.”
Vinnie’s brain spun like a merry-go-round. A dim hope of redemption dawned. He stammered for words.
“Of course I wouldn’t settle for anything less than half the business,” Mitch added. “I’ll give you a few minutes to think about it. I’m just around the corner. I’ll meet you under the canopy in five minutes.” Slamming down the receiver, he jumped back in the truck.
Two blocks from Three Queens Mitch eased the flatbed wrecker over to the side of the road. He removed the safety chains from the Ferrari’s chassis and tossed them on the floorboards of the old truck. Then, pulling his rumpled baseball cap low on his forehead and checking his watch, he fired up the wrecker one last time.
Still towing the gleaming, fire-red vehicle behind, he inched the tow truck the remaining few blocks up the street. For the second time in a week, Mitch felt as if he were floating through space. He’d experienced a similar feeling shortly after seeing Mike murdered–a stilted, surreal nauseating sensation. But now the sense of buoyancy was more a butterflies-in-the-stomach, weightless, thrilling, tired resignation. Aclimactic, fateful ending; the dawning of a new beginning.
He drove on. Outside the casino a dozen agents hunkered near their cars. Making a wide arc in front of the canopy, Mitch jammed the truck in reverse and backed under the canopy. With the agents gazing on, Vinnie pushed aside the glass door to claim his beloved prize. But Mitch wanted the presentation done right. With a flick of the wrist, he yanked the handle to the power take off and set the parking brake with his foot. By now two agents had come forward, their weapons drawn. Cautiously, they opened his door and called him down out of the truck’s cab. Mitch climbed out, his hands in the air, having finally come to the end of his chain of daring–some would say reckless–exploits. Immediately he was forced to the ground. The blur of arms and blue jackets fogged his eyes; all he could hear were a series of screams, shouts, and the sound of metal sliding from the bed of the wrecker.
The truck’s mechanism had been set in motion. Once the back lift had done its hydraulic magic, the bed of the tow truck continued to rise slowly into the air, a rise leading to a fall that Vinnie was helpless to prevent. The shouts died down, the metallic grinding abruptly ended, and a torrent of vulgarities rent the air. With the truck’s bed up, it’s load disengaged and slammed onto the concrete drive. Well tagged by the jaw marks of a junkyard crusher, the car lay flat on the ground, a scant ten inches tall, a crushed beer can at Vinnie’s feet. It took five agents and one over-paid attorney to restrain Vinnie. He fumbled for his gun–but it was over.
When the ruckus had quelled to a relatively mild squawking of radios, milling FBI agents and curio