Several of the blacks, especially the one near Oliver wearing a red do-rag, began glowering hate/kill looks, but the tall bald black just looked surprised. "Who it belong to, Charles?" he said, his eyes widening like Stepin Fetchit's.
"The Farino Family," said Charlie Scruggs.
The black's eyes got wider. "Oh, my goodness gracious, heavens to Betsy," he said in a fag voice. "Do you mean the Mafia Farino family?"
"I mean this truck and everything in itincluding Oliver and meare Organization property you coon sonofabitch,"
said Charlie. "You touch anything in it, and there won't be a shithole in Central America where you can hide your black ass."
The bald man nodded thoughtfully. "You probably right, Charles, my man. But I guess it be too late." He glanced mournfully at Oliver. "We done already touch Ollie there."
Charlie glanced at his dead companion and tried to phrase his next sentence carefully.
The jig did not give him the chance to speak. "Plus, Charlie, my man, you already use the N-word."
Malcolm shot Charlie Scruggs through the left eye.
"Hey!" screamed Doo-Rag from the opposite side, ducking low behind Oliver's body. "Tell me when you about to do that, motherfucker."
"Shut the fuck up," said Malcolm. "'Jectory be up . See Charles's brains on the roof there? You in no danger, nigger."
Doo-Rag glowered.
"Get the machines," said Malcolm.
Doo-Rag flashed a last look but went around behind the truck, cut the padlock with bolt cutters, and crawled in. A couple of minutes later he came around the driver's side carrying a stack of DVD players.
"You sure they the right ones?" said Malcolm.
"Yeah, I sure I'm sure," said Doo-Rag. He pointed to the decal with the serial number on top of each of the players.
Malcolm nodded and Cutter came around the front of the truck. The others made way for him. Cutter removed a small knife from his pocket, pulled open a screwdriver blade, and opened the back of the top DVD.
"You right for a change, Doo." Malcolm nodded again, Cutter took the DVD players, and everyone except for Doo-Rag and Malcolm headed for the Astro Van. "Start the engine," said Malcolm. "Set the block."
"Fuck that," said Doo-Rag. "All that blood and brains and shit. Top of the fucker's head gone , man. Dude could be HIV positive or something."
Malcolm grinned and set the barrel of his huge Smith & Wesson Model 686 Powerport.357 Magnum up alongside Doo-Rag's head. "Get the keys. Start the truck. Set the block."
Doo-Rag crawled in and did all those things. The engine roared as the wooden block was jammed against the accelerator.
"Now," said Malcolm, stepping back, "trick be to pop that brake off, put it in gear, and get the fuck off the running board before truck get there , my man." Malcolm pointed to the edge of the gorge less than fifty feet in front of the truck. There was a light fence there, but no guardrails. Some traffic passed on the road, but no cars pulled into the empty rest area.
Doo-Rag smirked, kicked the brake off, leaned delicately over Charlie's slumped, bleeding corpse, kicked in the clutch, and hit the gearshift lever.
The truck bounced over the concrete parking chock and tore up frozen turf as it roared for the fence.
Doo-Rag rode along for a minute, swinging on the running board, stepping off nonchalantly at the last possible second before the truck tore through the fence and plummeted out of sight, ripping trees and branches off the side of the cliff as it went.
Malcolm set the.357 back in its long shoulder holster under his topcoat and applauded. Doo-Rag ignored him and watched the truck fall.
It was a little over two hundred feet to the river below. This gave the truck time to do a half gainer,
Charlie's corpse flying out the open door in the dark, before the vehicle slammed, upside down, into the huge rocks right at the edge of the swirling water. Dozens of VCRs and DVD players went flying out over the river, each one making its own splash. One of them almost made it as far upriver as the whirlpool. Everyone in the van cheered at the noise that came up out of the deep gorge.
There was no explosion. No fire.
Charlie had been planning to gas up on the American side, where the fuel was cheaper.
CHAPTER 23
"The feeling was mutual," said Kurtz. He had left the office phone as his contact number, and Parole Officer Peg O'Toole had called saying that he was required to come in to finish his first appointment. Arlene had said that O'Toole had sounded a bit surprised that Kurtz had a real, live secretary.
"Shall we pick up where we left off?" said O'Toole. "We were discussing the fact that you needed a permanent address within the next week or so."
"Sure," said Kurtz, "but can I ask a question?"
The parole officer removed her tortoiseshell glasses and waited. Her eyes were green and cool.
"When they dragged me out of here," said Kurtz, "they wanted to pin a murder rap on me when they knew I wasn't involved. During the arraignment, the charge was changed to illegal possession of a firearm and violating parole. Now that's been dropped."