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son of a bitch had definitely squealed.
    The Buick slalomed its way down the icy exit way. Jimmy turned into the skids, kept the hood ornament straight as the back end swung and swayed. We looped back around to The Flats, the bottomland of the river and the arsenal of democracy. The steel plants were to the east along the serpentine Cuyahoga, the ship docks to the west.
    Jimmy turned west. We drove down Elm Street, a block below Mrs. B’s, and crossed a two lane cantilevered bridge to Whiskey Island. The Huletts, the towering one-armed ore unloaders, sat silently along the port channel, waiting for the spring thaw. We drove past them to the tip of the island.
    Jimmy parked the Buick next to a wine red Packard big as a steam yacht. We climbed down the stairs at the head of a deserted pier and walked a few paces to the door of fishing shack. Jimmy gave out with a coded, top secret knock.
Shave and a haircut, two bits.
I followed him inside.
    It was some shack. A paneled room with an upholstered chair and matching chesterfield, wood burning stove and a wet bar. The Schooler was sitting in the upholstered chair. Kelly the bouncer hoisted me up by the coat collar with one hand and patted me down with the other. Jimmy lipped a butt and thumbed his lighter. It was old home week on Whiskey Island.
    Kelly dumped me on the chesterfield and crossed to the bar.
    â€œWhat’re you drinking?” said The Schooler.
    â€œRye rocks.”
    Kelly handed me a cut glass tumbler containing four ounces of liquor and two ice cubes. “I’m a man who hates to drink alone.”
    â€œFrom the same bottle,” said The Schooler.
    Kelly made another. The Schooler took a bite. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down before I followed suit, and detailed the plan.
    The armored car would be on its regular Friday run, picking up commercial deposits. The Wigman and East 7 th location was selected because Wigman Place is a dead end. Armored car drivers are trained to drive off if their delivery guards are robbed at the collection point. This was why we would need a big truck, to block in the armored car.
    â€œThey’re not gonna provide a truck?” said Kelly. “The G-men?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “The G-men are not gonna provide a truck, a chauffeur driven getaway car or a box lunch. They’re providing the money.”
    The Schooler coughed out a laugh that Jimmy echoed a moment later. Kelly grinned as if he had made a joke.
    â€œWe’ve got a truck,” said The Schooler and looked to me. “Where are the buttons on this?”
    I thought this a very odd thing to say. “Excuse me?”
    â€œThe buttons, the coppers, the
Cleveland Police Department.
Are they on board?”
    â€œOh. Yes and no. The cops will circumvent the vicinity of Wigman and East 7 th but we don’t get a free pass. If shots are fired we’re on our own.”
    The Schooler wrinkled his brow ever so slightly.
    I stretched out my legs and crossed my ankles. I made two ounces of whisky go away. I was going to have to take up smoking again. This was the perfect moment to take a drag and spew a long plume toward the ceiling. “It should be at least sixty grand.”
    The Schooler didn’t exactly dance a jig but something approaching interest flickered across that impassive mug. “And what’s your dib?”
    â€œFifty percent.”
    â€œWell, now we’ve got something to talk about.”
    â€œNo we don’t,” I said, pleasantly. “This is a take it or leave it proposition.”
    Jimmy and Kelly muttered darkly. The Schooler’s head rotated like a radar antenna. They clammed.
    â€œI’ll carry your offer upstairs,” he said, then asked the question. “Will the armored car guards be federal agents?”
    This was where deciding where to salt the lie with truth got tricky. The Fulton Road Mob wouldn’t be tempted to misbehave if they thought the