Piece of cake

Turk's looked like any other independently-owned service station. Small office with a sun-bleached spark plug calendar. Two bays with hydraulic lifts. The service area lined with old metal shelves crammed with oil-stained cartons and boxes containing carburetors, fan belts, coils of radiator hose, air filters, and quarts of Quaker State. Couple of hefty, greasy-nailed guys in coveralls shuffling around inside.

For the last nine years Turk had run a game in the back room. A friendly game on Friday nights. Sometimes the game would last until Sunday afternoon, but usually not. Turk took seven percent off the top. His taste was never less than eight hundred rarely more than fifteen and a half. There was usually fourteen, maybe fifteen thou on the table.

Not enough to attract federal heat. Maybe enough to attract local cops. More than enough to attract a couple of neighborhood mooks looking to make a score.

Put on a blue mechanic's jacket, buy an orange jumpsuit from Sears. At a signal cover your face with a stocking stolen from your girlfriend's panty drawer, step into the garage bay, pop the two hefty guys replacing a muffler. Open the door to the back room, take care of business.

In and out in five minutes, tops. Piece of cake.

posted by greg @ 4:50 PM