Strega

'Mole, we need three things, okay?' I told him, holding up three fingers to let Max follow along. 'We need to disable their car real quick, get the trunk open, and get in the wind.'

The Mole nodded, his pasty skin gleaming in the dark basement. 'Tiger trap?' he wanted to know. He meant one of his bombs under the lid of a manhole cover-one flick of a switch and the street would open up, dropping the car into the pit. That would sure as hell disable the car, open the trunk, and give us all the time in the world to walk away. It wasn't exactly what I had in mind-the Mole's heart was in the right place, but it would take years of therapy to reduce him to a lunatic.

'Mole, we don't want to kill them, okay? I had in mind maybe the Prof gets their attention for a second, Max and me hit them from either side and brace them-you pop open the trunk, grab the suitcase, and slash the rear tires. How's that?'

'How does the trunk lock?' the Mole wanted to know. It was all the same to him.

I looked over to the Prof and he nodded-we'd know soon.

'You can get us an old Con Ed truck, Mole?' I asked him.

The Mole made a face like 'Who couldn't?' It was true enough for him-he lived in a junkyard.

11

THE NEXT time the muscle boys stopped at the red light before they turned onto the bridge for Harlem, things were a little different. The battered Con Ed truck was nosed against the metal support for the traffic light, blocking most of the intersection. The black Chevy slid to a smooth stop-running red lights wasn't the best idea when you were carrying a trunkful of dream dust.

I climbed out of the driver's seat, wearing a set of Con Ed coveralls and a thick leather tool belt around my waist with another strap over one shoulder. My eyes were covered with blue-tinted sunglasses-I had pasted on a heavy mustache a few minutes ago. The Con Ed cap covered a thick blonde wig and the built-up heels on my work boots made me two inches taller. The Prof was slumped against a building wall, an empty bottle of T-Bird by his side, dead to the world.

I walked toward the Chevy, spreading my hands in the universal civil-service hostile apology: 'What can I do?' The driver wasn't going for any delay-he spun the wheel with one hand to pull around the truck: I could get out of the way or get run over. His hard face said it was all the same to him. He was in control.

Then it all went to hell. I tore open the snaps on the coveralls and unleashed the scattergun I had on a rawhide cord around my neck just as the Mole threw the truck into reverse and stomped the gas. The truck flew backward right into the Chevy's radiator, and one chop from Max took out the guy in the passenger seat before he could move. The Prof flew off the wall, an ice pick in his hand. I don't know if the driver heard the hiss from his rear tires-all he could see were the twin barrels of the sawed-off staring him in the face from a distance of three feet.

I flicked the scattergun up a couple of inches and the driver got the picture-his hands never moved off the wheel. He didn't see the Mole slither out of the truck and around to the back of the Chevy-another couple of seconds and the trunk was open and Max had the suitcases.

I patted the air in front of me to tell the driver to get down in the front seat. As soon as his head started to drop, I cut loose with the scattergun right into his door. I blasted the second barrel where his head had been a second ago, taking out most of the windshield, and sprinted for the side of the warehouse where the cab was waiting. Max was at the wheel, with the Mole beside him, the engine already running. I tossed the empty scattergun to the Prof in the back seat, dove in beside him, and we were rolling. Everyone knew what they had to do-we were pretty sure there was no backup car, but it was too early to relax. The Mole had his grubby hands deep in his satchel and the Prof was already reloading the shotgun for me.

12

WE LEFT the suitcases with the Mole in his junkyard and split up. We didn't make our move for a few weeks-the mobsters were too busy murdering each other to answer anonymous telephone calls. I don't know if they dusted the driver and his partner or not-probably kept them alive long enough to make sure they were telling the truth, and then started looking. But they weren't looking outside the family. Me and Max and the Prof were sitting in Mama's restaurant when we read the headline in the Daily News.-'Torched Building Was Gangster Tomb!' It seems someone had wiped out a whole meeting of the heroin syndicate and then set fire to the building-the Fire Department hadn't discovered the bodies for a couple of days, and it took another few days for the cops to make positive identifications. That kind of massive hit didn't sound like it was connected to our little hijacking, but we didn't know who we could ask.

The Prof looked up from the paper. 'Sounds like Wesley's work to me,' he whispered.

'Don't ever say that name again,' I snapped at him. Wesley was a guy we had done time with before-if I thought he was operating in New York, I'd move to the Coast.

Anytime you pull a snatch-and-switch, the last part is the hardest. You can grab the goods easy enough-the mark isn't expecting the move-you just disappear and let them look in their own backyard. But when it gets down to exchanging the goods for cash, you got major troubles. It's easy enough to do if you don't mind losing some of your troops along the way, but our army was too small for that kind of sacrifice.

We agreed to wait another two weeks. It was fine with the Prof. Max looked unhappy. I spread my hands, asking him 'What?' He just shook his head. He'd tell me when he was ready.

13

WE WERE in the sub-basement of Mama's restaurant, planning the exchange. It was simple enough-I'd make contact over the phone, explain my problem, and wait for the solution to come from them. Sooner or later they'd agree to use one of the freelance couriers who work the fringes of our world. These guys worked off a straight piece, no percentage-maybe ten thousand to deliver a package and bring something back. You could move anything around the city that way-gold, diamonds, blueprints, funny money, whatever. None of the couriers were family people, although one was Italian. They were men of honor-men you could trust. Even back then, there were only a few of them. There's even fewer now. Anyway, the scam was for them to suggest some halfass plan that would get me killed, and for me to act scared and start to back out. They'd eventually get around to suggesting one of the couriers, and Max was on that list. We'd agree on Max, and that would be it. Simple and clean-the heroin for the cash. I laid it out for the others, figuring on scoring about fifty grand apiece when this was over.

'No,' said the Mole, his pasty face indistinct in the candlelight.

The Prof chipped in, 'Burke, you know what the people say-when it comes to junk, the Silent One don't play.'

And Max himself just shook his head from side to side.

I knew what the Prof meant. Max would carry anything, anywhere. His delivery collateral was his life. But everybody knew he wouldn't move narcotics. If he suddenly agreed to do this, it'd make the bad guys suspicious. Even if they let him walk away, he'd have to make dope runs from then on. No matter what kind of sting we pulled off, if Max was the courier he was finished.

There wasn't much to say after that. I watched the candle flame throw shadows