By Brian Coffey
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Thinking about the money, he grew uncomfortable and shifted in the brush, stretching his long legs and working a cramp out of his thick, muscular thighs. When the vigil first began, he occupied himself by pulling burrs out of his clothes, his heavily callused fingers uninjured by the sharp points. Now, though his calluses remained inviolate, he was too nervous to fool with such minutiae, and he longed to be on the move. On the right-hand side of the roadway, across from Harris, the gravel berm dropped abruptly into a rock-strewn ravine that bottomed out more than three hundred feet below.
Harris's gloom was not based on inexperience, as was Shirillo's, but on a growing certainty that he had been too long in this business and that he was nearer than ever to a big payment of dues. He remembered his short time behind bars, and he knew he wouldn't go that route here-this would be worse, much worse, and painful. Baglio wouldn't send him to a cell but to a grave. "Okay, then," Shirillo said, resigned to the worst. " Shirillo drove into the weed-choked track with all the caution of a man who fully expected it to be generously laced with land mines.
He asked. " "Go to the front of the class," Tucker said. Harris's goblin mask hung below his chin like a second face in the middle of his chest, bobbing when he talked. " "Because we can't go back," Tucker said. "Obviously Baglio knows we're on this road and has the other end sealed up. " _ At the beginning of May, when the trees were just greening and the summer ahead seemed devoid of any job possibilities, a letter had arrived at Tucker's midtown Manhattan mail drop, sealed in a white envelope with no return address.