Beast

My name is Jack, Jack Crow or "Crowbar" to my close friends. That is
to the few close friends that I actually have. See when you're in my
line of work you don't make friends easily, it's better that way.
Anybody could rat you out at anytime for a few measly dollars so you've
always got to watch your back. It might sound crappy but that's just
the way it has to be, the way it's always been. Especially
now&;#8230;everything's different now. But we'll come to that in due
course. Best to start at the beginning, in fact scratch that. Let's go
all the way back, past the beginning. It's best you know
everything.
See I'd gotten into this racket when I was barely sixteen. Once I got
that license in my hand it was like I could do anything. My first score
was an old Lincoln that some wise ass always used to park across the
street to his local bar. The poor sap always came straight from the
office and he always got too drunk to drive home and had to call a cab.
It was so easy; I turned up just before midnight. By then the street
was empty leaving the car and me all alone. Ten minutes later I'm
blazing up the interstate screaming so loud I thought I'd wake my folks
back home. It was the biggest buzz I ever had. Anyone'll tell you, no
matter how much you steal or how good you get, nothing compares to that
first score. It's beautiful.
From then on nothing could stop me, I went from heist to heist getting
more and more brazen all of the time. I'd take them from anywhere,
parking lots, street corners, I remember one time I even took a Ferrari
out of some yuppie's front yard. They were just all there for the
taking, the bodywork, the sound of the engine, the smell of gasoline,
you can't beat that. Now you can't run around the city stealing cars
left, right and centre without getting noticed. Pretty soon I got asked
to join one of the local crews. Whatever we stole got shipped to Miami
where they had some fat cat buyer and everyone got to keep a
percentage, it was that simple. Every now and then they'd have a
particular make or model they wanted us to "acquire" but apart from
that as long as the rides kept coming in they were happy. Like I said,
simple.
By the time my parents finally figured out that I wasn't really
working at the local burger stand it didn't matter. They threw me out
of course but by then I had so many contacts and so much money stashed
away finding my own place was a snap. I found a modest studio on the
upper West Side and I was set. I've been here ever since. The only
difference is now I run my own show with people working for me which
means I get a bigger cut, that and now we deliver the cars to Detroit
instead of Miami. They pay better for this stuff over there and the
transport's cheaper. We've even stolen trucks before and moved
everything ourselves.
So by now I'd been in business for a good five or six years.
Everything was great. Sure I'd been pinched once or twice but they
never made anything stick. As soon as I got nabbed for stealing a car
the rest of my boys would make sure said car disappeared giving the
cops no case. I could pull in a nice five-figure sum every year and
still put a little aside every now and then for my retirement fund. So
what in the hell could go wrong? Everything was taken care
of&;#8230;that was until I saw the light.
It must have been sometime in September around nineteen ninety-one.
With winter settling in the city took on more of an unfriendly guise
than usual. Storm drains bellowed steaming waste and everybody was
already on edge desperately trying to find that perfect Christmas gift.
On the upside the days were getting shorter which gave my boys and me
more hours of business. Not that we never worked during the day but it
wasn't exactly a nine to five routine. It was a busy night so rather
than send all the guys out and relax back at my place I had to hit the
streets too. See people think it's easy boosting cars but like any line
of work it's all about supply and demand, you've got to keep your
customers happy or they'll go elsewhere and I didn't have that many
customers to begin with.
So I was down on West forty-seventh outside some fancy sushi place.
This was one of my regular spots; me and the parking valet had an
arrangement. I slipped him a hundred (FIND OUT WHOSE FACE IS ON THE
BILL!!!) and he looked the other way. It meant I got away nice and
quiet plus the cars never got a scratch on them. On top of which I
could literally have my pick of the entire parking lot.
On this particular night I'd managed to drive away behind the wheel of
a brand new Benz, full leather upholstery, electric windows, the works.
I was in the mood for some fun so I decided to take it for a spin,
maybe go and impress one of my ladies. I shifted into fifth, punched
the gas and headed for Broadway.
After I'd been driving for a few blocks I noticed someone was tailing
me. Now New York is a big city and there's always traffic on the
streets but over the years you get to know the difference between
someone who's behind you and someone who's following you. I changed
lanes and then back again, the tail mirrored my moves. I drove down an
alley to skip half a block, still there. Whoever this was wanted me to
know that they were right on my ass. We pulled up to a red light and I
took the opportunity to get a better look at the stranger behind me. In
the rear view mirror under the acidic burn of the street lamps all I
could make out were a pair of headlights. Two icy halogen crystal balls
in the exhaust fuelled darkness. That and the slightest trace of
bodywork, a curve here, a ridge there. Could've been anything from a
Buick to a Bentley. Well whatever and whoever it was, recess was over.
This was beginning to seriously piss me off.
I dropped the clutch, spun my tyres and left in a hail of screeching
rubber and angry horns blazing right across the junction checking to
make sure my shadow was still with me. I'd take this punk for a ride he
wouldn't forget in a hurry; I just had to make sure I survived it.
Taking a deep breath I floored the gas and headed for the next set of
red lights. Three blocks and three near crashes later the slimy bastard
was still there. What was this guys problem? Why didn't he just cut the
cord? Well enough was enough, I pulled over damn near ripping the hand
brake out of its socket but by the time I got out he was already dust.
I was left alone with a pair of skid marks in the street.

TO BE CONTINUED...