Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.