Lone Wolf #1 by Mike Barry

Author:Mike Barry [Barry, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General
ISBN: 978-1-4405-4234-3
Publisher: Adams Media
Published: 1973-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

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He had no trouble. The fat man driving the Ford LTD was only too happy to give him the car and take his chances on his own hitchhiking. “For God’s sake,” the fat man said, little odds and ends of jewelry flapping from his exposed shirt front, “I’ve got a wife and children. Don’t shoot me. Don’t shoot me. Take the fucking thing and get out of here. The mileage stinks anyway and the goddamned carburetor float mechanism was never right. She keeps on stalling on cold idle for God’s sake. Don’t shoot me.”

Wulff didn’t shoot him. He waved the man off the road, reached into the back and flung a heavy valise after him, put the gun away inside and got the car back into gear. Maybe they only did get ten miles to the gallon and maybe the exhaust-emission devices did shut the choke down too soon on warmup but the LTD’s were good machines, at least for the purpose of getting back to the city on a warm August night. Wulff put the accelerator to the floor, decided to take his chances on the Southern State going flat out. He thought he had the skills to outrun an ordinary patrol car and short of that he simply did not give a damn. There was activity back at Islip but sooner or later, probably much sooner, the blond was going to get on the job and he would bring a battalion with him. Scum like Marasco had to be avenged, not out of personal feeling—there was none—but to prove that any chinks in the armor could be sealed off instantly. Otherwise, things might collapse. The people who surrounded Marasco, top and bottom, would risk death themselves rather than letting the idea get around that there might be a way to snip through the protective net

Wulff drove like fucking hell. There was no traffic; he picked up the telltale signs of radar approaching the Grand Central link but barrelled right on through that as well. A patrol car going the other way, sirens open, flashers like a quartet of bubble dancers might have noticed him but had other things, down the line, on its mind: possibly the soon-to-be-famous Marasco fire. Wulff found that he still had his wallet, used it to pay the toll at the interchange—without it he just would have gone on through—and took the Grand Central at a slightly more reasonable pace. Thursday morning at two or three; almost no traffic. He took the Triborough, swinging wide to dodge across three lines, drove the car off at 125th Street, cut crosstown then to get to the West Side.

125th Street was active. Even at two in the ayem on Thursday, even in still August, 125th was alive and hopping. You had to give the Marascos that much credit. They were unleashing poison into the cities at the rate the utilities were pouring smoke in, but poison could have a greenish, exciting lustre of its own and 125th Street, the central point of this dying part of the dying city was filled with activity.

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