At the close of his twenty-third birthday, Michael Mosely sat behind the wheel of a 1968 Chevy Bel Air, looked around the empty bank parking lot, lifted a pint of vodka, and took a good slug. He screwed the top on and put it under the passenger seat. He sat up straight, shook his head like a dog drying off, pulled the shift lever on the column toward him, dropped it into drive, and eased the nose of the car out onto Broadway. Amped and fuzzy at the same time, he cranked the window down to let in the clammy night. The windshield wipers squeaked into action, smearing greasy mist into greasy streaks. He looked to the left, and cut the wheel hard right, making the power steering squeal and moan. He toed the gas. The right rear tire dropped off the curbstone, thumping into the gutter with a hollow, rubbery sound.

He inched along beside the high curb, rolled by the bank, and braked to a quiet stop in front of the steak house. Using his left hand, he pinched the fleshy web on his right hand. The pain yanked him back to his body and sharpened his mind.

A swirl of darkness exploded through the glass front doors of the steak house, and three men wearing Red Sox caps atop blurry faces rushed at the car. Two of the men held handguns, while the man in the middle clutched a satchel like it was Ann Margaret.

TJ, carrying the bag, yanked the front passenger door open and jumped in. Paul pulled the back door open and dove in headfirst, followed by Larry, large and loud. He slammed the door closed and yelled.

"Go!"

The air in the car boiled with kinetic energy, but the scenery outside didn't change.

"Nope," Michael said. "Not until you say please."

The large man tried to articulate some sort of threat, but only produced a lowing noise.

The thin guy sitting shotgun looked sad but sounded giddy. "Oh no. That's not funny, man."

"Time, little brother," the guy directly behind Michael said. He put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Gotta go. Not too fast. Slick road." Michael looked at his brother Paul in the rearview mirror, then stomped on the gas, pinning them all to their seats. The five-year-old green sedan, as anonymous as a telephone pole, zipped down Broadway toward Sullivan Square.

"Okay, ladies," Paul said, "get down so we can take off the stockings."

In shotgun, TJ pulled off the stocking mask as he slid out of his seat and into the foot well like liquid mercury.

"TJ," Michael said, "be a good fella and hand me my jug while you're down there."

"No, you can wait, Mikey," Paul answered from the floor in the back.

"Just need to loosen the straps a little," Michael said.

"Fuck! Stop fuckin' talkin'!" Larry was the size of a newborn killer whale, and now wedged in between the seats, he sounded near hysteria. "You're s'posed to be alone if anyone fuckin' sees you, you stupid fuckin' fuck. Just drive the fuckin' car, you fuck. Fuck the fuckin' booze."

"Aunt Betty'd slap your face," Michael said, "if she knew how her little Larry swore--"

"Shut up about my mother!" Larry barked.

"Easy, boys. Mikey, anyone behind us?"

Michael checked the rearview. "Just the dark."

At the Sullivan Square traffic circle Michael spun the car around the far edge, with the tires slipping, and then whipped up the crumbling street that ran along the short section of elevated road. A quarter-mile up, the car turned right at Middlesex Avenue and then broke off a fast right into the employee parking lot at the First National Stores grocery warehouse, where there must have been three hundred cars parked in the open dirt lot.

Michael slipped the Chevy Bel Air down to the row of cars against the chain-link fence and stopped at a dark '65 Ford Falcon. The three passengers got out. Paul keyed open the trunk of the Falcon, and they tossed in their guns, hats, stockings, and the money bag. TJ pulled off his sweatshirt, dropped it in the Falcon's trunk, and pulled out two license plates and a screwdriver. He moved to the front of the Chevy Bel Air, ducked out of sight, and popped up again before Michael had time to find his Zippo, chunk it open, and fire up his Winston. TJ paused at Michael's window on his way to the back of the Chevy with the second license plate.

"That's it for me," TJ said. He was wearing an Esso gas station T-shirt with the name Thomas over the pocket. "You suck to work with. I'm not going back to jail." Thomas Jefferson Moran walked to the back of the Chevy.

Paul knocked on the passenger window, and Michael leaned over and rolled it down.

"What's TJ saying?" Paul asked. He leaned in the passenger side as he pulled off his warm-up pants. Underneath a bulky turtleneck sweater he wore a white shirt and a red silk tie.

"Nothing, post-game jitters. You're all dolled up."

"Late date." Paul turned back and closed the trunk of the Falcon. He threw the trunk key over the fence, out into the growth of bulrushes in the marsh.

Larry got into the front passenger seat of the Chevy. He had worn a Patriots jersey during the robbery, now he had on a Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

"Rock on, man!" Michael said. He held his hand up for a high five.

Larry sneered. "One of these days, Michael."

Paul and TJ got back in the Chevy and Michael dropped each of the three at their own cars, which they had driven to the lot earlier that night.

Michael parked the Chevy, fished the vodka out, and took a drink. He got a rag from his back pocket, soaked it with vodka, and wiped down all the surfaces in the car that anyone might have touched. Then he tossed the Chevy key over the fence. He drank the last of the vodka, dropped back, and tried to spiral the bottle over, hoping to reach the oily creek, but it fell short and smashed into something solid, silencing the marsh.

He walked up two rows to his car, a black GTO. He put his key in the door, and felt the top end of his throat stretch itself wide. He turned his head and threw up beside the car. Wiping his mouth with the rag, he muttered, "Fuckin' egg salad."

He placed his feet carefully around the puddle, opened the door, and dropped backwards onto the driver's seat, pulling his feet in.

When he was done shaking, he woke the Goat and drove it to North Quincy.

The Sagamore Grill was the name on the liquor license, but it was commonly known as The Sag, partly because there was no actual grill. The only grill any of the patrons ever saw was the cross-worked iron bars at the Quincy police station.

On Saturday morning, Michael sidled up and placed his order with Bud, the day bartender. "Hi, neighbor, I'll have a 'Gansett, please."

Larry and TJ came in together, stopped at the far end, and ordered. Bud lifted the hose from behind the bar and squirted soda into a couple of glasses. They crossed the room to sit at a red square Formica table, way at the back. Michael took his beer and followed.

"Look at this guy," Larry said to TJ. "Beer for breakfast. My aunt's dying of cancer and her son's getting gassed every time I see him."

"When you're not here, I drink milk," Michael said. "I see you, I lose the will to live."

The front door opened and Paul came in followed by the sun, and by the time the door chopped off the outside light, he was cutting a path through the tables. Michael watched him move; fast, without hurrying; covering a lot of ground with deceptive speed. Paul sat down at the small table.

"Hey," Michael said. "I forgot to ask, how was your date last Saturday?"

"Good. Nice girl, but not the one. The search continues," Paul replied.

"Girl from work?" Larry asked.

"In a way. I met her when I took a customer to lunch. She was our waitress."

Paul was a sales rep for Triple-T Trucking, a union carrier that operated in the New England and the metro New York-New Jersey area.

"Which customer?" Michael asked. He was a driver for Triple-T, jockeying trailers around, making local deliveries and pickups.

"The traffic manager from Schrafft's Candy, he suggested this place, which, I found out too late, doesn't take credit cards. I didn't want to look like a chump, so when the check came, I pretended to go to the restroom, flagged down the waitress, said I didn't have enough cash on me. I was short a buck for the bill and had no money for a tip. I told her if she lent me a dollar and waited for the tip, it would be a good one. I went back the next day, gave her a fifty, and asked her out for Saturday. She said she was working; I said after. I'd be in the area."

Michael watched Larry and TJ do the quick nod, polite but impatient, waiting for Paul to get to the good part: their share of the robbery. Michael took a drink from his beer, brought the bottle down, and rapped the bottom against the tabletop a few times.

"Get it?" Michael said. Larry and TJ stopped nodding and looked over at him.

"Cash only," Michael said. "No cards? That was our restaurant last Saturday night."

Larry's jaw fell like the trapdoor on a gallows. TJ shook his head.

"And you went back to pick up the girl?" Larry asked.

"Shhh. Turn it down," Paul said. He leaned back against the booth in his bright white starched shirt. No matter how grimy the environment, somehow Paul remained spotless.

"Did you know?" TJ asked Michael.

"I just figured it out," Michael said. "Anyway, how did we do?"

Paul shrugged. "Better than we'd do tonight, now that they're going to start taking credit cards. That's what they get for trying to shortchange the IRS." He flashed a phony smile, followed by a real one; he was charmed by his own insincerity.

"My brother, the patriot," Michael said.

"You get eighteen hundred each," Paul said.

"You get twenty-four," TJ said.

"That's the deal. Twenty-five percent more," Paul said.

"That's thirty-three, isn't it?" Michael asked.

"Okay," Paul said. "Then you get seventy-five percent of what I get, which is twenty-five percent less. Whatever makes you feel better. Either way, it's like five weeks take-home driving a truck."

"What do we do next, boss?" Larry asked.

"Keep in mind," TJ interrupted, "I'm gone. Mahla wants to move to Florida. She don't like the snow."

"What snow? It's June," Michael said.

"Fuck off, man. It gonna stay June?"

The front door opened and they watched a figure lurch into the shadows before TJ spoke again.

"No, I hear you," Paul said to TJ. "Especially with the toy guns. But this new thing has no need for weapons, real or otherwise, which I knew you'd like. We're going to liberate a truckload of cigarettes." Paul smiled like a dust bowl Bible salesman, going face to face to share his look of joy and wonder.

"Cigarettes? From where?" Michael asked.

"One of the car loaders, Blue Ribbon Distributors."

"What's a car loader?" Larry asked.

"A warehouse with a railroad siding. It transfers freight between rail cars and trucks."

"Can't be from Triple-T. We don't haul smokes, or booze either," Michael said.

"We do now. My new boss, Guy Salezzi, is the nephew-in-law of Mr. T.T. Tortello, so I guess he can change the policy. They're going to start using us on cigarette loads to the BPM warehouse in East Bridgewater next week. I've called on Tony Bentini in the Blue Ribbon traffic office for fourteen months and never got a sniff of the work. Why? Because company policy is we won't take cigarettes, and he won't give me any other loads unless we take them too. Nobody wants the smokes. But Salezzi went to Fordham with Bentini. So now we're getting business because they're pals. They're going to give us one load, see if BPM is okay with us. If so, we'll get more."

Larry smiled at his older cousin. "You got some balls, man. You want to knuckle a load the first week?"

"We better act while we can, right? What if we lose the account?"

Michael said, "I guess we're going to ignore the fact--"

"The rumor," Paul cut in.

"--that Mr. T.T. Tortello is a member of the Gambino family."

"Tortello started that rumor so no one would steal from him," Paul said. "This is good for forty grand. Split evenly. We each put ten in our poke." Paul leaned toward TJ. "Think: forty thousand bucks. A few like that and we quit. Become homeowners, family men, good citizens."

"God bless America," Michael said.

"I spent six months at the farm," TJ said. "Watching corn and punkins come up out of the ground. I'm not going back. How long you think you can steal from your company before they start investigating and whatnot?"

"They'll look at the Teamsters," Paul said. "I'm management."

They stared at Michael the Teamster. He snapped open his Zippo, touched the Winston to the flame, and inhaled. Then he smiled around the cigarette and clapped the lighter closed.

"Is Michael going to get this load?" TJ asked.

"No, they pick up at 3 p.m.," Paul replied. "He starts at 6 a.m. He's on OT at 3. They'd give the pickup to a straight time guy. We have fifty drivers that start at 8."

"Good chance I'll deliver it, though," Michael said. "There's only two of us at 6."

Paul nodded. "BPM wants all loads backed in and ready to unload when their crew starts at 7 a.m. Which means the driver will come from the 6 start." He looked at his brother. "If Rosie gives you the P&G or the Jordan Marsh load, you call the apartment, let the phone ring once, and hang up. If you get the right load, don't call. Even Rosie might notice if you did. If you don't get this one, we'll have to hope you get the next, assuming there is a next."

"And listen, Michael," Larry warned, "lay off the booze! Someone might smell you."

Paul turned to Michael and raised his eyebrows but didn't look directly at him. "He makes a good point, Mikey. Work has to come first. By the way, go see Ma today, will you? Eat something, take a nap, and go see her."

Michael pulled the GTO up behind the old man's Rambler, across the street from the house, a small brown bungalow with a screened porch. A strip of sidewalk and a patch of grass separated the house from the street. If an eighteen-year-old kid who stood six feet tall tripped in the gutter and fell forward, his head would bounce off the bottom cement step. The morning after the night that Michael proved that, his father had thrown him out.

Paul leaned against the kitchen sink holding a glass of water, while their father sat in his chair at the same spot at the same table they'd had since Michael was a small boy.

"Here he is, Dad," Paul said. "I'll go slay the fatted calf."

"Michael. How've you been?" His father stood and offered his hand.

"Hey, Dad." They shook. "You say that like you haven't seen me in years. I was here, what, two weeks ago?"

"Yeah? Seems longer."

"How's Ma?"

"Go up and see. She's awake, we just put her in the chair."

Upstairs in the front bedroom, their mother was propped up in her wheelchair looking out at the street. While on chemo for breast cancer, she had a stroke, or a shock, as his aunts called it. Her left hand had curled into a claw, and her whole left arm was as rigid as the left side of her face was slack.

"Hi, Ma." He kissed her forehead and put his chin on the top of her head. His eyes stung, and he squeezed the bridge of his nose until it hurt enough to stop the tears. He kissed her cheek and sat at the foot of the bed, hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, as they both peered out the window.

"Michael?" Her voice sounded like she'd swallowed shards of glass, and the way she said his name broke his heart. "When will it stop?"

Michael stared down at his feet. "Pretty soon, Ma."

It was a warm day and the windows were up as life passed by on the street below. Kids on Sting-Ray bikes with towels draped around their necks hollered at each other on their way to Wollaston Beach; young mothers pushed strollers carrying big-headed toddlers; cars rolled by, windows down, volume up, sharing the thump with one and all, like it or not.

It was hard for Ma to speak, but his three sisters were here every day, and their kids visited several times a week, so she had more family news than he did. The result was Michael stretched out sideways on the bed with his hands folded on his stomach, talking to her about his softball team, which was just fine. What he said didn't matter, she just needed the comfort of his voice.

He heard the steps squeak and a few seconds later his father came into the bedroom. He sat in an armchair and they talked about Yaz and the Red Sox. If Michael wanted to avoid the AA jive he had to stay on his toes. When the conversation began to slow, he moved rapidly to other safe topics, like politics, war, and religion. Yet the old man could spot the smallest opening and race through it, turning an innocent remark about the weather into a tale of winos in winter. Many were the trolls pulled from under a bridge and into a meeting by a hazy memory of free donuts--but not all who were called by the pastry were chosen by the higher power to live clean, dry lives, and those who were gave thanks to the program, the program, the program.

His mother was snoring softly in her chair. She'd sleep on and off until late evening. Most nights she'd lie awake in the dark, listening to Larry Glick on the radio.

"She's been asking me if I think you're going to stop soon," his father said.

"Yeah, I'll stop by again soon." Michael looked at his watch and stood up. "Now I gotta scoot. I'll be back in the next few days, okay?"

"Yeah," his foiled father said, a note of resignation in his voice. "Okay."

Paul was still downstairs and he walked out with his brother.

"Did you ever deliver to Pat's Vending down in Providence?" Paul asked.

Michael looked up to his mother's window as they walked across the street to his car. "A number of times. New candy and tonic machines, mostly."

"They own a ton of cigarette machines too, in bars and strip joints. The owner's son is going to take the Blue Ribbon load. He'll get top dollar in the machines."

"This won't do your new boss Salezzi any good, will it?"

"Probably not." Paul smiled and shrugged. "It's a tough game."

At 6 a.m. on Wednesday, Rosie the dispatcher handed Michael the BPM delivery papers. "You get our first load from this shipper, Mosely. Try not to screw it up."

Michael walked out of the terminal into the truck yard and climbed up into his tractor, a spotless red U-model Mack. He turned the key to the on position and pushed in the black rubber nipple on the dash, kicking the diesel to life. At the top of the long sideview mirror he saw dull gray smoke roll out of the stack. He fed the noisy beast some fuel, and the smoke, now thinned by heat, shot out of the pipe. He pushed in the clutch, wiggled the stick into second, and, with the heel of his hand, whacked the pentagonal red button on the dash. With a sharp whoosh, the tractor brake was off and so was he, over to the trailer pad, searching for the right trailer, number 5432. There were five rows of trailers, about a hundred in all, but the high-value load would be in the first row. He found it, turned the truck away from it, and stopped fast, skidding the eight tires on the rear axles. He looked at the three mirrors while he wiggled the stick into reverse, took a bead on the trailer, and rushed the tractor backwards at the box. He stopped when the fifth wheel was about an inch from the bottom of the trailer. He pulled out the red pentagon to lock the air brake, slipped the vehicle into neutral, opened the door, and swung himself out.

Standing on the grate at the back of the tractor, between the tractor and trailer, he unhooked the hoses for the trailer brakes and the light cord that hung on the back of the Mack, then coupled them with the connections on the trailer, swung back into the cab, popped it in reverse, and rammed the fifth wheel under the trailer. The box lifted as the Mack wedged underneath, the kingpin locked, and Michael put the stick in first gear, left the trailer brake on, and tried to pull back out from beneath the box. He rocked the coupled unit violently, trying to break the grip. The last thing he wanted was to make a turn out on the road and see the trailer uncouple and go zipping off alone. The trailer felt light, but he was used to pulling loads out of P&G; a full load of soap could weigh forty-two thousand pounds.

He switched on the lights and flashers and got out to do a series of visual checks, along with bopping the tires with a mallet, checking for flats. At the back of the trailer, he checked the security seal on the doors. To open the doors, the skinny metal strip had to be cut. It was stamped with a unique number that had already been called in to BPM security. The guard at BPM was supposed to come out to verify the seal number, but he wouldn't have to today.

Michael walked toward the front of the box and rolled up the landing gear. He climbed into the Mack, slammed the stick into second, and punched the brake buttons. The brakes released with a great hiss, then he popped the clutch and the tractor roared and jumped ahead, slamming the driver's door closed with a metallic bang, as the trailer slid out of its hole. He was in fourth gear by the time he swept around the corner of the building. At the far end of the yard the security gate was closed. He aimed at it, building speed and pulling on the air horn cord, and the gate seemed to jump before it rolled aside.

Thirty minutes later, Michael was stopped at a red light on Route 106. A hand reached in the open passenger window, pulled up the lock button, and TJ climbed in.

"There's no seat here." TJ crouched, like someone would be right along to bolt a seat to the floor underneath him.

"Close the door and sit on the floor. Get down, will ya!"

"People are supposed to see me so you can say you were hijacked."

Michael had no answer to that, so he just glared straight ahead. The light turned green, the truck lurched, and the matter was resolved by TJ falling on his ass.

At Route 18, they headed south.

TJ stretched to see the sideview mirror. "Is Larry still behind us in the van?"

"Silly bastard is so close I can't even see him," Michael said. "It's like he's skid-hopping me."

"Boy, you're a real grouch. Is it because you're hungover? Or not drinking?"

At the Middleboro Rotary they picked up Route 44 west and had the road almost to themselves.

"That the sign?" Michael took his foot off the accelerator.

"That's it," TJ affirmed. "Weir Brothers Saw Mill."

Michael checked his mirrors, braked, then geared down the transmission and pressed the fuel pedal, swinging into the turn.

"Man, you took that fast. It's a miracle you didn't tip this over."

"We were going too fast to slow down. You go into a turn on the brake and you wreck."

They bumped along a wide asphalt road until it became a single-lane cement dust strip. At the end, in the middle of an enormous hangar wall, was a rusted corrugated sliding door, twenty feet high, forty feet wide.

"We're supposed to drive right in."

"I vote we open the door first," Michael said. He rolled the truck up near the door and stopped.

"Paul said we should drive right in."

"He may have assumed that between us we'd figure out what to do if the door was closed. I think we should try to open it first. I can always crash the truck through it, you know, if nothing else works."

Thomas Jefferson Moran jumped out like a parachutist, landed, and walked toward the door, turning a 360 as he went, glancing in all directions. He grabbed the handle on the metal door with his right hand, leaned all the way to the left, using his weight to slide the door open. He almost fell when the door rolled easily. He turned and gave his accomplice the finger.

Michael put on his headlights to see a wide cement floor inside the hangar. He played the clutch out, and the truck crept inside, TJ walking along beside it. Michael hit the high beams and about a hundred yards off, at the back of the hangar, he could make out piles of unfinished picnic tables. He swung the steering wheel left and right, using the tractor like a giant flashlight, looking for the empty rental trailer that was supposed to have been left inside. Back in the van, Larry had lengths of metal rollers they were going to use to convey the freight from the Triple-T trailer to the rental box. But all Michael saw in front of him was the inside of a cavernous, abandoned saw mill.

Larry pulled the van inside the building, up near the front of the trailer. He stopped and was getting out when Michael jumped down from the tractor.

"Where's the empty trailer?" Larry asked. "They were supposed to leave it by last night at the latest. What's the story?"

"How would I know?" Michael answered.

"Should we just leave this trailer here?" TJ said. "Should we unload it?"

"I don't know," Michael snapped. He walked back to the trailer doors, took out a jackknife, and sawed at the seal until it broke. He opened the doors carefully in case the load had shifted. There was always a chance something could fall out and land on your head. But not today; the trailer looked almost empty, other than some cartons he could see in the nose. "Aw, shit." Michael climbed in the trailer and walked up to the nose. When he returned, he went to the back end of the trailer and looked up at the number stenciled in black at the top inside corner. "Forty-five seventy?" he said.

He jumped down, grabbed the trailer door, pushed it closed, and stared at the four-digit number affixed to the door: 5432. He pulled at the corner of the number on the outside of the trailer door, peeled the decal off, and revealed a different number underneath: 4570.

"He put phony numbers on."

"Who?" TJ asked. "How?"

"How's easy. There're cartons full of number decals in the repair shop." Michael looked at his watch. "Let's go. Quick." He gestured to Larry. "Give me the van keys."

Michael drove the van, Larry rode shotgun, and TJ sat on the floor between the seats.

"What was up in the front?" Larry asked.

"Eight pallets of Cocoa Puffs."

Michael pulled the van into one of the spaces in the drivers' parking lot at Triple-T Trucking.

"You gotta say something, man," Larry mumbled. "What are we doing here?"

Michael looked at his watch. "Good. Five of 8."

"So," TJ said, "are we surrendering or what? You got a plan?"

Michael pointed toward the terminal building, a monstrosity the length of three football fields that had dock doors numbered 60 through 140 on the side facing them.

"See the ramp? And all those red Macks parked in rows? At 8, it's going to look like a jail break. About fifty guys are going to come down that ramp, jump in those tractors, and start driving around, all over the yard. Some will hook up to trailers backed into the dock doors, the rest are headed to the trailer pad in the back to hook up out there. I'm going to go in the repair shop and get a dupe key from the cabinet. Jimmy, the Waltham driver, is on vacation this week and nobody will use his tractor. He eats his lunch in it and throws the bags on the floor. It smells like a restaurant dumpster."

"Why? What are you doing?" Larry asked. "Why don't we call Paul?"

"On what? You and him got shoe phones?"

"On a pay phone," Larry said.

"Okay. Where is he? Where do I call?"

"I don't get what we're doing," TJ said.

"These guys don't screw around. If we want to keep breathing, we need those cigarettes."

"What cigarettes? That's my answer," TJ said. "We don't have none. Never did."

"Which guys? Who we're stealing from? Or selling to?" Larry asked.

"Both, probably," Michael speculated.

"I knew this was a bad idea," TJ said. "My grandmother was right. First time I got pinched, she said, 'Thomas, be careful. Life's going to be tricky for you because you're a complete fuckin' idiot.' I said, 'Me? No way.' She had me pegged."

"Why do you think the load is here?" Larry asked.

"What's a better place to hide a forty-five-foot Triple-T trailer?" Michael said. "They're on 4570. Not the real one, but one here with that number on it. Look, you want to, go home, I'll keep you guys out of it."

"Screw you," Larry said. "We stick together."

Larry looked at TJ, who closed his eyes and nodded. "It's what we do."

The receiving department for Pat's Vending was around the back on a side street. Although cars were parked on both sides of the road, there were No Parking signs posted near the receiving doors so Michael had plenty of room to draw the trailer up along the curb. He pulled out the plunger on the dash and the engine shuddered and died. He turned the key off and jumped out.

The dock doors on the building were pulled down and a sign read, No Deliveries After 11 a.m.

At the top of the cement steps there was an employee entrance door. Michael pressed a black button inside a brass ring and a shrill bell sounded. He backed down a couple of steps just before the door flew open. There stood a tall, young man. Michael had delivered here many times, and this receiver, Victor, always acted as if he'd never seen him before. Victor sported his usual Sha Na Na get-up: starched white T-shirt, new jeans, and an elaborate hairdo.

"What?"

"I've got a delivery."

"Can you read?" Victor jerked a thumb in the direction of the roll-up door and the No Deliveries sign.

"I sure can. Let me help you out." Michael squinted at the sign and moved his lips. "It says, No Smoking. Okay now, Bowzer, you do me a favor. Go tell Junior I have his delivery."

Victor shifted his weight to his left foot, reached up to grab the doorjamb with his left hand, and stretched his right out to grab the other jamb. Michael closed the distance between them and, using both hands, grabbed Victor high on his arms and pressed his thumbs into the nerves on the inside of Victor's biceps. Michael pushed him inside the darkened warehouse while Victor emitted a series of high-pitched yips.

"You gonna boot me in the kisser?" Michael said. He grabbed the front of Victor's T-shirt with two hands and twisted it hard to the right, and the man toppled to the side, almost to the floor. Michael held onto him, then lifted him back up and released his shirt. He pretended to smooth out Victor's tee and dust him off.

"Now, Victor," Michael smiled and patted him on the cheek, "go get Junior, or so help me God I'll muss up your swirly hairdo."

He shoved Victor backwards, just as another man came out into the warehouse from the office. This man had a confused and unhappy look on his face. "Hey, what's going on? Who is this guy?"

"I'm Michael Mosely and you're Junior. I have a delivery for you."

"Oh no. No. You didn't bring them here." He ran to the exit door and looked out. "Is that them? Tell me you didn't. Mr. T. is on his way here. We're all dead."

"Give me our money. I'll drop the trailer. You can give it back to Mr. T.," Michael said.

"No!" Junior raised his hands in the surrender pose. "No. I'll give you the hundred I promised your brother, I have the cash, but you gotta screw, with the truck."

"Okay. Get the money."

"No, get out of here and come back later."

"And what, you'll give me a check?" Michael said.

Junior walked over to a tall, gray metal desk against the wall, opened a drawer, and pulled a pistol out. He pointed it at Michael. "Get going. Move."

Michael walked down the steps, over to the tractor, with Junior right behind him. Michael opened the door to the tractor and turned. "Where do you want it?"

"Take off, or I'll shoot you where you stand," Junior said.

"Don't be hasty. I'll get the trailer out of here after I get the money. My pals in the van across the street there have guns pointed right back at you."

Junior kept his weapon on Michael and pivoted around in a half-circle. The back door of the van was open. TJ and Larry were inside on the floor with pistols aimed at Junior.

At that moment, a bright yellow Lincoln Continental came around the corner and rolled to a stop right beside Junior and Michael. The rear window on the driver's side slid down to display a very old man who looked as if he had been poured into the folds of the leather seat. He had an inert, baggy face, and the thin, wispy hair of a newborn.

"Junior, is that my driver you're menacing with a firearm?"

The Lincoln driver's tinted window stayed closed. The engine burbled, and Michael imagined a couple of slicked-down gorillas in the front seat pointing their guns at Larry and TJ.

"We're just kidding around, Mr. Tortello," Junior said. He bent down and looked in the backseat. "I didn't know until late last night these cigarettes were yours. I called Pop to ask him what I should do."

"Your father called me from Atlanta, Junior. He's green-lighted you, if I feel I've been insulted. You weren't trying to insult me by stealing from me, were you?"

"Goodness no, Mr. T." He put his hand on his collarbone and raised his eyes skyward. "I would never."

"Is that my load of cigarettes?"

"Yes sir, it is," Junior said.

"How much money do you have inside?" Mr. T. asked.

"I don't know exactly. Maybe two hundred thousand."

"How much were you going to pay this fella?"

"A hundred. But honestly, Mr. T., I had no idea--"

"A salesman from my company offers you a hot truck and you didn't ask yourself if it could be mine?" Mr. T. shook his head. "Sadly, Junior, I believe you. Do you know why? Because it's a well-known fact you're an imbecile. Your poor father is in prison because you're an imbecile, but why should I do his dirty work? He can kill you himself when he gets out. Go in and get my money, Junior."

"Absolutely. How much should I get?"

"All of it. Take whatever cash your employees have on them too. You can reimburse them later."

"You bet, Mr. T." Junior ran over, vaulted up the cement stairs, and passed by Victor, who was holding the door open.

Mr. T. looked at the driver in the front seat of his car. "Help me get out."

The driver's door opened and a skinny, older blond woman in a chauffeur suit hopped out and opened the back door. She helped Mr. T. peel himself off the seat and pulled him to his feet, then edged him toward her and closed the car door with her knee. She leaned him against the car like a board and fixed his tie. His trousers were pulled up so high that his belt practically bisected his shirt pocket. It didn't look like he was wearing a pair of pants, as much as it looked like they were devouring him. The blonde stood at his elbow.

"You're Mosely's brother? Your father worked for us too. The three of you were there when we bought the Boston operation from Blaney," Mr. T. said.

"Yeah, until your terminal manager fired him for poor production. A sixty-two-year-old guy."

"Well, that stinks. But in our defense, he's a drunk, right?" Mr. T. asked.

"He used to be. He's in AA now, so he's an alcoholic."

"Well, your brother never said this was about revenge."

"It is for me," Michael replied.

"I cannot respect suicidal stupidity for purposes of money," Mr. T. said. "But I can for revenge, especially on behalf of a father. Very much so. Tonya, tell Chuck and Brucie to pull the other Mosely out of the trunk."

Michael felt like he'd been bitten by an electric eel.

"Relax. He's fine," Mr. T. said. "He said he didn't know where the load was so he's been manhandled a little. He'll need to be delumped before he goes looking for a new job."

Two very large men got out on the passenger side of the Lincoln, front and rear. Over the roof of the car, Michael saw Larry and TJ get their toy weapons up, as if ready to squirt water at the two goons. Tonya keyed the trunk open and a bloody Paul, bound and gagged, was lifted out. He was conscious and he looked extremely pissed off.

The men set Paul on his feet and one produced a switchblade to cut the rope around his legs and wrists. The other guy peeled the tape off his face. Even the sound of it hurt, but Paul was silent.

"See, Paul," Mr. T. said, "this is why I have a rule. No cigarettes or liquor. They are just too tempting a target for shenanigans."

Paul said nothing, and Larry and TJ came over to help him back to the van. Paul got in, and the other two turned to keep an eye on Chuck and Brucie.

"In case you're wondering," Mr. T. said, "you're fired too."

"Okay, but now I really need that hundred thousand. Then I'll go quietly."

"Why would I pay you? We're going to deliver the cigarettes this afternoon," Mr. T. said.

"No, you're not. You'd have called the cops. Instead you switched the numbers so I got the wrong box. You're stealing it too. Your plan was to keep the smokes, file a claim with the insurance company. They'll pay Blue Ribbon for the missing butts."

"You're a shrewd one. When Raymond called last night, I thought this was a chance to make lemonade from lemons. Brucie was going to take the real cigarette trailer out of the yard after the 8 o'clock driver rush was over. But he couldn't find it, so we figured out where Paul was making a sales call and picked him up. But he didn't know anything, so he said. Now Brucie will take this truck down to Jersey. We'll sell the cigarettes there. Cigarettes are way too tempting. But I promised myself I'd just have one."

"Famous last words," Michael said.

"And I'm entitled to collect a fine from Junior. Sounds like it will be about two hundred thousand."

"May I suggest a way to make an additional fifty grand?" Michael asked.

"Please do."

"Keep the tractor and trailer down in Jersey, put new numbers on them, and file a claim for lost equipment."

"You are a smart kid. You'll go far, if someone doesn't kill you first."

"I know it won't be you," Michael said.

"How do you know that?"

"You need me to talk to the insurance company so you can get your claim paid. You don't want to have to pay Blue Ribbon out of your pocket. If I'm found dead right after talking to the FBI and the insurance men, that won't be good."

"I like the cut of your jib, mister."

"Aw shucks," Michael said. "I'm just helping you have a productive day."

"It is a good idea to stay busy at my age," Mr. T. said.

"Yeah? I figured a guy your age would rather be home praying for a peaceful death."

Mr. T. barked two sharp sounds to indicate mirth. "Ha! Ha! I like that."

"So don't I," Michael said.

"That sounds like a Boston thing." Mr. T. turned and looked at his three people. "Wait in the car." He gestured for Michael to come closer. "I feel bad about your father. I'm glad he's off the booze. I'll give you fifty thousand when Junior gets back. Give some to your pop."

When they got back to North Quincy, Larry dropped the brothers at their parents' house. Paul was going to clean up and they were going to borrow the old man's car to get back to the Triple-T parking lot to pick up Michael's GTO.

Michael started up the front stairs with the bag of money for his father under his left arm.

"Hey," Paul said, "my back is sore. Give me a hand going up the stairs."

Michael went back down, and Paul draped his arm over his shoulders. After a moment's thought, Michael handed Paul the bag of cash, reached up and took his brother's left hand in his, then slipped his right arm around Paul's waist and helped him up the stairs.

Their father came out of the house and held open the screen door. "What happened?" he asked.

The brothers made it up to the porch and the door clapped shut behind them.

"It got a little rough," Paul said, "but I got you some money from Tortello." Paul handed the bag to his father and smiled at his brother. "Mikey helped too."