Tony Scram; Mafia Wheelman
shot over a pool of black ice. In the rear view, a NASCAR brew-ha.
Black and whiteÓs spinning into a bumper car rally.
Tony buzzed the Tappan-Zee, hooked the Deegan, and
reached the Bronx. The leader bitched, but forked TonyÓs fee in
full. After all, he got them out, earning his pay. The rep expanded,
beamed out wide: Tony Scram's the real deal.
Tony smoked the tunnel in a minute flat. No cops waiting for
a stop. They recorded his tags. They mail the fines nowadays. A
packet with pics. Another bullet dodged. Twelve minutes in the
hopper. Tony banged the right onto Ninth Avenue. A flush of
green lights. Ten minutes. Thirteen blocks. Eyeball any floating
badge. Punch the reds, keep it wheeling.
Doctor CÓs the man. Bad, and city-wide. Big time cred in the
gangsterÓs handbook. The spread, the tools, the tables. An
underground funhouse where bad guys bang out slugs, and
bandage up. No records, phone calls, or fuzz. An all night stitch
and swab, on the hush. Scram dialed a heads up.
"WhatÓs your blood type?" The doc asked.
"Low," Scram said.
"IÒll figure it out. Get here as fast as you can."
His stomach, skinned, and torn. Every time Tony jimmied, he
felt sharp pains. The exposed pulp, stinging as it rubbed his shirt.
Never felt like this before. Never been hit with buckshot either.