3.
The old man knew his shit. The kid turned out alright. The gigs nifty. Tony was reliable, and professional. He’d match the car to the job, and pick discreet locales to hash details. Tony never cooked up a demo when meeting a crew. Like that scene in Driver, where Ryan O’Neal goes bat shit in a parking garage. Guys spitting up, dizzy, and juiced. Man, we better hire this guy if we want that loot.
Tony learned to drive through time and miles. Years behind the meter, peeling city streets. The million miles of pavement, it seemed. Every town, inch of road. Every stop sign, and yield post.
One ways, highways, and ramps. Scram wasn’t a stuntman, or stock car racer. Hell, he wasn't even the fastest.
He worked his ass off. Learning the cars. Learning the road.
The hours of shift-work, all behind a wheel. Time and prep. AM radio only. Constant traffic reports. Three every ten minutes.
1010 WINS on the ones. Twist the dial for the fives, pop the trifecta with the eights. Updates around the clock. Accidents, construction, closures. Heads up on any over night projects, rerouted traffic, run offs, trouble spots. You want the British Invasion, pull the job, and hire a tribute band.
In Westchester, Tony wheeled a home invasion. The joint resembled a country club. He made the hit in a four door Chevy Chevelle. Tony had the pep boys unload the granny engine, and replace it with a big block. Eight bad-ass cylinders, bored out. The pit team welded in metal slabs, extra pipes to cradle the big boss.
They also installed heavy duty air shocks, and a dual exhaust system. On the outside, a family sedan. In the bolts, a freakazoid.
Trunk full of goodies, Tony scrammed towards the Hutchinson River Parkway, a few miles out. A dog leg ahead, zip the slight bend, up and down a hill. Cool the engines, coast the banks. Home free.
Back at the ranch, a maid holed up in the attic. She ducked the raid, horning the fuzz. A squad car popped into Tony’s rearview. Pacing Tony for a quarter mile. No biggie, just an escort.
That’s when a buddy creeped from a cross street. One’s a shadow. Two’s a stop.
Tony punched the gas. Rack lights flashed, patrol cars zoomed. The Chevelle launched. The cop cars in Tony’s rearview, shrunk to Matchbox scale. Tony burned the crest of the hill, and started to dive. The gray hide of the Hutch, a dry river bottom, snaking wide right. Once he grabbed it, these punks were smoke.
Midway down, two more squad cars. Rack lights whirled.
Snout to snout, blocking the road. Dark duds bunkered behind the prowlers. Each hanging twelve gauge. Super-fuzz hair cuts and aviators. Scram zoomed in.
Tony pressed the pedal. An incoming comet. Like a zillion Hollywood shots, he aimed to pierce the grills. Great. A debris field of glass, plastic, and twisted metal. Gun shots to go. Flat tires, and a busted radiator wouldn’t get them out of town either. The better odds of an impact.
A track of cream gravel hugged the shoulder. A shallow ravine carved a three foot ditch, just past the gravel. That thing ran both sides of the street, up to the rails guarding woods. Fifty feet from impact, the studs meant biz.
The barrels locked in. Tony jerked the wheel left. Clouds of gun smoke. The windshield spider webbed. The officers pumped again. Tony slashed, cutting right.
He did it perfect. So did the cops.
The front wheels hit grass, the rear jimmied. Shit. Quarter panel buck shot slammed the ride. Tony sailed the blockade. He steered back to the road, rear wheels skidding. More pellets. A rear window exploded, blasting glass like popcorn. The guy behind Tony cupped his neck. His blood smeared the rear window. The second badge aimed at the front wheel, hard on for a flat tire. He nailed the top of the wheel well, sending sparks and pellets in a swirl. A hubcap sailed. Loose buckshot hit the metal of the wheel, sparing rubber.
Tony, unnerved, cut the wheel. The ass fishtailed. His rear wheels bit the gravel, launching a giant cloud of kitty litter. Tony straightened out. He floored the gas, unleashing the six pack of carburetors. The horsepower erupted, rocketing the Chevelle through a sandy dust cone.
The two tails hit the bottom of the hill. One cop cut left, skidding the gravel. His rear wheels lost traction, digging the lip of the ravine. He cut the wheel, ramming his snout into the ditch. He spun the wheels some more, slamming the shifter. Reverse, Drive, Reverse. A tyke in a Big Wheel, navigating a bath tub.
The second tail followed Tony. He cut the corner too wide.
The front end grazed the lip of the ravine, springing the front end.
The physics released, and spun the car like a mower blade. He managed a few twirls, before ass landing softly in the ditch, front wheels, airborne.
Tony kept the pedal pressed, ripping the Hutch at ninety-five. Two more cop cars got in on it, chasing Tony onto the highway. In seconds, he slalomed the Chevelle through light traffic topping a hundred. The speed gave one of the blues the shakes. He bailed. His partner in heat floored it. He clipped a Ford Pinto in the tail, lost control, sailing the squad car into a metal guard rail.
Through the splotched glass, the crew howled over the debris field. They ditched the wheels, and hot-wired a relay. The legend grew. The team cashed out, and the guy in the back lived. He’d push through with nerve damage, but reaching the bank, as the old man says, is what it’s all about.
The the good old days. Big brother is now badge’s bitch.
Cameras, copters, computers. They cart in the snitch theater, and set it up like a hot dog stand. They’re on your ass before you could fill out a crew. You proceed nice and slow, or you hole up and wait for a cool breeze.