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.
A thick hulk of a boyish-looking man met me at the threshold wearing what they call a “New Bedford Tuxedo:” 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 didn’t 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 don’t fully comprehend.
We stared at each other silently for a few long seconds.
“What the fuck are you doin’, faggot? Fuck off!” he honked at me.
I stuck the muzzle of the Springfield pistol in his belly.
“I’m here for a talk with Jumbo. Reach into your pants or wherever it is on your person and drop the pistol to the floor.”
“What the fuck?”
“You heard me. Do it or get a belly full of blood. I really don’t give a shit.” (I did, actually, but less than you might have imagined.)
“I ain’t got no fuckin’ piece on me.”
“Okay, chucklehead, lead the way. Make a move, I’ll put a couple in you without thinking twice.”
“Dude, you watchin’ way too much fuckin’ cable.”
“No question,” 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.
“Hey strunz!” 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. “What’s the matter wit’ you, flyin’ in here like that, Christ almighty? Mah-rone!” 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.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you supposed to be, Paul friggin’ Bunyan?”
“Thanks for reminding me – that’s on my to-do list for today. I really need to buy myself a new set of clothes.”