Insurance Adjustor George Arrant of Elsmere, Delaware, broke and about to be evicted from his home, instead annihilates his family, murders a bank executive and flees to Providence RI, home of the New England mob. He quickly falls in with the New England La Cosa Nostra, committing bank robberies across the US, his ultimate goal being the savage take-down of the "foreclosure king" - the sitting Secretary of the US Treasury himself.
Excerpt
A thick hulk of a boyish-looking man met me at the threshold wearing what they call a âNew Bedford Tuxedo:â a top-of-the-line soccer warm-up jersey adorned by a navy-blue sport jacket that looked a little small on the torso. Somewhere I knew he must be packing, or at least someone else ahead of him was. I had to make him move back into the room before me to take any surprise bullets or physical assaults. And whoever might be waiting across the threshold would probably keep on shooting long after the big man dropped.
Either way, this was another moment where death was more ready for me than I was for it.
It didnât matter. At least in this new life of mine, I understood the rules. Risking death was what it took to survive, and I fully intended to survive. It had become a ferocious need within me superseding all logical thought with a weird meta-logic of its own I still donât fully comprehend.
We stared at each other silently for a few long seconds.
âWhat the fuck are you doinâ, faggot? Fuck off!â he honked at me.
I stuck the muzzle of the Springfield pistol in his belly.
âIâm here for a talk with Jumbo. Reach into your pants or wherever it is on your person and drop the pistol to the floor.â
âWhat the fuck?â
âYou heard me. Do it or get a belly full of blood. I really donât give a shit.â (I did, actually, but less than you might have imagined.)
âI ainât got no fuckinâ piece on me.â
âOkay, chucklehead, lead the way. Make a move, Iâll put a couple in you without thinking twice.â
âDude, you watchinâ way too much fuckinâ cable.â
âNo question,â I agreed, then booted him in the small of the back for emphasis.
He stumbled in ahead of me and I followed right behind, keeping the pistol in full view.
âHey strunz!â shouted a wizened, desiccated mummy of a man wearing a New England Patriots windbreaker and a gray sweatshirt beneath. He was chain smoking cigarettes, obvious from the ashtray whose debris overflowed before him on the cluttered, cheap wooden schoolroom desk. âWhatâs the matter witâ you, flyinâ in here like that, Christ almighty? Mah-rone!â The mummy wore aviator glasses way too big for his face. He looked like an insect.
An absurdly large flat screen TV had been rigged up and suspended securely from the ceiling by a steel frame for easy viewing from behind the distressed desk. Images flashed without sound.
The mook in the New Bedford tuxedo gathered himself. I let him apologize before I emerged from the light into shadows, the Springfield XD9 all but cocked.
âJesus Christ, what the fuck are you supposed to be, Paul frigginâ Bunyan?â
âThanks for reminding me – thatâs on my to-do list for today. I really need to buy myself a new set of clothes.â
