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.