Being spread-eagled on the pavement, in the middle of the fucking road, well, that was just a bit much. The spot light on the unmarked car was blinding and even with his eyes closed he swore he could feel his retinas melting. He had tried turning his head the other way but they wouldn't let him. The asphalt was cool against his face but he could feel the day's burning heat radiating just beneath the surface. The white cop, the one with the goatee and the jean shorts that came down to the middle of his shins, was standing between his legs. The other one, the black cop who was dressed like a forty-five year old gang-banger, was standing by the car. A grunge rocker and a street gangster. Oh yeah, nobody would be suspicious seeing these two hanging out together. He would have laughed but at that moment there was a total eclipse of the spot light and he knew that Fat Wally had arrived.

Dylan had sat in the director's chair in his apartment staring at the recliner until well after midnight. By then he figured Fat Wally was either sound asleep or four feet into a six foot hoagie. Taking only his cash, he snuck out of the apartment and circled around to his truck which he always parked on a different block. Old habits were hard to break. He headed west figuring he could drive straight through Indiana and Illinois and be in St. Louis by mid morning. He knew a guy there who, for five hundred, could set him up with some new I.D. That is, if the guy was still alive and still living in St. Louis. He'd worry about that when he got there. What was important now was that he was on the road. It was important because Dylan, during his last stretch in Lebanon, had experienced an awakening, an epiphany of almost biblical magnitude.

Prison sucked.

Almost twenty percent of the prison population in Lebanon when Dylan was there had been over the age of sixty. Old wrinkled men with faded, watery tattoos shuffling along on walkers and wheelchairs, pissing into plastic jugs through tubes jammed up their dicks. Home health care the hard way. Nobody ever thought about what happened when the rapists and the killers got old. Dylan had known one inmate, Luther Johnston, seventy-three years old and doing life plus twenty-five years. And old Luther had only been a thief! He’d been in Lebanon since 1963! No, there was no way Dylan Gallagher was going to grow old in prison. He’d do the nine to five gig, he’d pay his taxes, he’d recite the pledge of allegiance if that’s what it took. Because Dylan Gallagher was never going back to prison.

Because prison sucked.

He was only three miles from the Indiana border when the Buick Regal came out of nowhere and ran his truck into the ditch by the side of the road.

Which is how Dylan came to be spread-eagled in the middle of the fucking road.

Fat Wally, carrying a battered, old briefcase, walked out of the spot light and looked at Dylan. He shook his head sadly and knelt down next to him. "Leaving the state, that’s a parole violation. I could have you before a judge by nine a.m. tomorrow morning."

Dylan had to squint and twist his head to look up at Fat Wally. "I'm still in Ohio."

The white cop looked at Fat Wally and shrugged, "I got a rope in the trunk. We could drag him."

Dylan looked at the white cop and then back at Fat Wally. "Okay. I'm in Indiana."

Fat Wally smiled. "I think you're finally getting the picture here, Gallagher. I got eyes everywhere. Take old Lester over there," he said, motioning to the black cop, "him and me used to be partners back when I was on the job. Worked District Four together. Ain't that right, Lester?"

Lester gave Fat Wally a bored look and then spit in the grass. "Let's get this over with. Jeopardy's on in twenty minutes."

Dylan's stomach dropped. Over with? He definitely didn't like the sound of that.

"Those are just re-runs, this time of night," said the white cop.

"Not if I haven't seen 'em yet, they aren't," Lester said in a tone one would use with a slow child.

"That don't mean shit. If they've been on..."

"Will you two shut the fuck up?" Fat Wally said, cutting them off. Lester turned his bored eyes to Fat Wally. Dylan felt the sweat breaking out on his forehead as he looked from Fat Wally to Lester.

"Let's just get it done," Lester said.

Fat Wally leaned closer to Dylan. Dylan jerked around to see what he was up to. "You a religious man, Dylan?"

Dylan looked at the others. "I'm considering it."

"Well, the bible's full of second chances. So, that's what I'm going to give you, a second chance." He looked at Dylan and frowned. "What, you lose my handcuffs? Lucky for you I got something better." He grabbed Dylan's right foot and yanked it back. Dylan twisted to his left to break free but the white cop took a hop step and kicked him full on in the armpit.

The force of the kick took Dylan's breath away. His chest felt like it was going to explode. Needles of pain shot down his right arm, quickly followed by numbness. The entire arm felt dead in a matter of seconds.

While the white cop kept his Doc Martin pressed down between Dylan's shoulder blades, Fat Wally ripped off Dylan's work boot and his sock. He pulled an electronic ankle monitor, which looked like a pager attached to a rubber strap, from his briefcase and wrapped it around Dylan's ankle. Dylan fought for his breath as he tried to twist and see what Fat Wally was doing. The white cop put more weight on his shoe.

Fat Wally closed the latch on the strap, permanently locking the device to Dylan's ankle. He reached back into the briefcase and pulled out a hand held monitor which was about six inches square with an antenna at the top. A display screen was on the front with a flat keypad just beneath. Fat Wally punched in a code number on the keypad and the unit beeped. The unit on Dylan's ankle sounded an answering beep.

"Okay," Fat Wally smiled. "You're on line."

Fat Wally looked at Lester and nodded. Lester stood there for a moment just looking at Fat Wally. Finally he spit in the grass again and turned and walked back to his car. The white cop gave Dylan one last shove with his foot and then joined his partner. They got into the car, leaving Fat Wally and Dylan alone on the deserted road.

Dylan slowly, painfully rolled onto his side. Pulling his knee up to his chest was a whole new adventure in pain. Finally, he got his leg close enough to see the anklet.

"That's an electronic transmitter, Gallagher. From now on you and me, we’re wired together."

Dylan looked from the anklet to Fat Wally. His breath was coming slower now, not as ragged. His right arm, however, was still dead.

"You try and take that off, I'll know about it," Fat Wally said, tapping the receiver in his hand. "You try and cut it off, I'll know about it. You ain't home, I'll know about it. You ain't at work, I'll know about it. You ain't getting me my money...I'll know about it. Are you sensing a pattern here, Gallagher?" Fat Wally asked moving closer. "What we got here is a whole new religion. I'm God. And God says you got thirteen days."

So much for going straight.

Johnny had perfect teeth. He knew he had perfect teeth. When you were as good looking as he was you were aware of these things. So, why Cil would be bugging him so much to see a dentist was beyond him. He had completely forgotten about his appointment yesterday and when he got home she had given him that look. It wasn't a particularly angry look, or even a reproachful look. But after fifteen years of marriage he knew she was pissed. Which is why he had rescheduled with Dr. Whitbeck first thing this morning.

They were able to squeeze him in between a temporary bridge and a bleaching at eleven-thirty. He had a complete set of X-rays taken and then spent the next thirty minutes deeply in love with the dental hygienist who cleaned his teeth. She had blond hair and her lightly tanned skin seemed flawless, smelling just faintly of cinnamon. She made him giddy when she leaned over him and all he wanted to do was lick the tiny blond hairs just below her ear. Of course, that was before she took off her surgical mask and he saw she had a honker on her that could hose out a Bar-B-Q. Even Dave would pass on this one.

Probably.

With a verdict of 'no cavities,' Johnny headed for the plush office he shared with his brother in the Over the Rhine district. On the way he was able to place two bets on some local high school ball games and even managed to get through to Stan 'The Umpire' Shire on The Jock. Of course, he didn't give his real name until he was on the air.

When he got to the office, Dave was already at his desk, drinking beer and tomato juice and cooing into the telephone to Lindie, no doubt trying to get her to turn off the fucking TV. The huge office was completely out of character for the old brick shoe factory Stew had bought from Sid Grossinger. Not that they were making shoes there anymore. That hadn't happened since the mid-sixties when it became cheaper to have the shoes made overseas. 'The Scream,' for instance, was made in some place called Balikpapan on the southeastern coast of Borneo. Johnny thought that was a great selling point though he didn't have a fucking clue where Borneo was.

The machines and tools in the factory had long ago been sold off and the old building was now really just a warehouse, currently filled to the rafters with box after box of 'The Scream.'

But none of this had stopped the brothers last year from gutting the five small offices on the second floor, including their father's tiny corner office, and building one massive office that would be the envy of any CEO in the country. They even hired the city's hottest decorator of 'the moment,' a short, color blind, art school-dropout faggot named Dion, who kept offering to blow Dave in the alley behind the factory. As a result they now had an office full of chairs you couldn't sit in and pictures you couldn't look at. The brothers loved it.

Johnny spent the remainder of the afternoon behind his desk leafing through golf catalogs and listening to a Red's game on the radio. So it was no wonder, what with all this going on, that Johnny had completely forgotten he was supposed to meet that carpenter guy at his house a full twenty minutes ago.

Dylan rang the doorbell for the third time. He stepped back and looked up at the second story for any sign of life. It was a beautiful white brick house, nestled in a small, tree filled valley. The roads leading out must be a bitch to drive in the winter, he thought, seeing how steep they were.

The house was built in the sixties and, like it's custom built neighbors, sat on a little over an acre of land. Dylan checked his watch again and unconsciously scratched at the anklet, which he had tried to hide, with marginal success, under a rolled down sock. When he had finally gotten home last night, he had found that Fat Wally had been there and had hooked up a receiver to his phone that monitored his movements in the apartment. Whenever he left his apartment, he had to call Fat Wally's cell phone at prescribed times and had to inform him of where he was going, such as coming here today. Fat Wally also wanted to be informed once Dylan had found his score. Dylan wasn't too sure about that.

He had spent a sleepless night thinking about just that. It wasn't that he didn't know where to find a score, that part was easy. Everything was a score. Take this place for instance. Knowing how flashy Johnny was, there was probably cash and jewelry all over the place, both his and hers. His type was always too lazy to make it back to the safety deposit box at the bank where they swore they were always going to keep the valuables. And Dylan was familiar with the alarm company that had its sticker in the window because he had worked for them once for two weeks as an 'armed response guard.' They had given him a minimum wage, a .38 and a background check Charlie Manson could pass. After he had completely familiarized himself with all the company's alarm systems, he had volunteered to go out for coffee and donuts for his colleagues one day and never went back. He sold the .38.

Cut the phone lines, it was as simple as that. The locked alarm control box was usually in one of the upstairs closets. He could be in the house and have the box open and the alarm disarmed, all in under two minutes. Since there was no phone, there would be no signal to the alarm company and neighbors hearing the alarm would just think that the Gruenings hadn't punched in their disarm code in the allotted time.

Dylan thought about all this as he strolled to the back of the house, walking on the paving stones that ran along the side. The back yard was large and beautiful with a pool in the middle of the tree-lined tract and a gazebo at the far end. Some major bucks went into this landscaping, he thought. Yeah, finding a score was easy. Finding a score and staying alive, well, now, that was hard. Because Dylan didn't trust Fat Wally any further than he could throw him. Or lift him.

"You always trespass on people's backyards?"

Next Chapter: Chapter 1