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Tony Scram; Mafia Wheelman


meat. Dancing in his belfry, now a mosh pit. One day IÓll bag your
ass, you high octane ball breaker. DonÓt piss the bugger off, heÒll
light a fuse, and really kick things off. Back to biz. One skull fucker
at a time.
If he could only dime that angel. The one with the heister
hots. Time, stitches, break out. All points bulletin for Saint Sonny
Corleone.
Tony sailed the toll booth. Cops inspecting a box truck.
Scram swerved, blitzing the tunnel. Twelve minutes. Worked this
patch his entire career, now pushing seventy. A detour to the big
bunk if he didnÒt snap it up.
The tube posted thirty-five, and a double stripe. No passing,
watch your speed. They meant it. Scram jetted up to forty five.
Play it safe. An open alley. What do I got to lose? Tony gunned
the gas. The CTS catapulted. Strobe lights popped. High-def
scoped.
If they had a hall of fame for heisters, theyÓd put Tony in the
getaway wing. His own spread and mantle. Work rods boxed in
velvet rope. Monitors squeezing off highlights. TonyÓs Greatest
Scrams. Gift shop Blue-Rays. X-box editions for Christmas.
That Rockland County raid. The target, a gun shop. The
cutter clipped a foul wire, ripping the alarm. They bolted ass,
empty handed. A wolf pack of prowlers, high speed chase. Tony
 
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