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Glen had, in addition to his old Cadillac, a deep green 1957 International Metro van, which looked like an old laundry truck. Larry would outfit the van with the stolen stereo speakers, albums, and the shag rug he had stolen from a classmate’s rooms. They called the van Fuller’s Fuck Truck. Out on deliveries with Larry, Glen had friends who would get them beer or whiskey. Then they would pick up girls. The girls Glen knew were chubby and unattractive, but they were willing to have sex. He introduced Larry to Sherry, who had a pornographic manual showing 1,001 ways of having intercourse. No matter that Sherry was no beauty queen; Larry fell in love. He and Sherry went to work on the book, page by page, in the back of Glen’s van.
    Glen broadened Larry’s experience in other ways. There was nothing Glen wouldn’t do. If Larry had an idea, Glen was at once ready to act on it, no matter at what difficulty or risk. Once, when Larry mentioned that his father needed lumber for a construction project at home, Larry and Glen took the Fuck Truck on a night trip to a nearby home construction site. The next day Larry told his father, “We found some lumber that somebody dumped out in the woods,” and directed him to it. Justin was delighted. Larry would always remember how happy his father was . . . and that he hadn’t asked any questions about the windfall.
    It was in December 1971, shortly before Larry was to start at Exeter, that he got his first taste of serious crime. Larry had talked his folks into letting him go off with Glen Fuller for a three-day ski trip, but when the friends got together they realized that their cash was short. Over a bottle of syrupy sweet Boone’s Farm Strawberry wine, Glen proposed a quick way of fixing that.
    “I know this guy in Salem who’ll give us a hundred bucks for a hot Ski-Doo, no questions asked,” he said.
    The Ski-Doo, a compact little skimobile, was the newest snow toy in rural New England.
    Glen added, “And I know where we can get a Ski-Doo.”
    That night, he and Glen visited two local dealerships, loadingthe Fuck Truck with two Ski-Doos, an engine, and a set of tools. At the first location, Mears Trust in nearby Plaistow, New Hampshire, Larry rigged an ingenious sequence of overturned barrels and a ramp to ease the heavy snowmobile up and into the back of the truck.
    With the truck loaded with booty, Glen and Larry drove out to the snowy New Hampshire hills and roared around on their new toys until dawn.
    They got caught the next day. Glen had sold the Ski-Doos to a fence in Salem, New Hampshire, but not before insisting on one last joyride. He threw a tread on that ride, and as he worked to fix it, stranded on the back lot of a local high school, a man had stopped his truck and walked across the field to help him.
    Hung over and strung out from the excitement and lack of sleep, Larry and Glen drove back into Haverhill later that morning. As they passed by Fifth Street, Larry noticed a police car parked in front of Glen’s house. They drove by without stopping. Larry was convinced they had been discovered already.
    “You’re paranoid,” said Glen. “How could they know?”
    Glen stopped the truck around the corner and dropped Larry off. Filled with nervous energy, Larry ran the four miles through a heavy snowfall back to his own house. When Larry got home, his father sent him out to help his brother, Paul, shovel the walks. As they worked, Larry explained to Paul what had happened. Paul was dumbfounded. Home from the University of Pennsylvania, he was completing his premed studies at the top of his class. He hadn’t been around his little brother that much over the last few years, but he had thought he knew him better than this! Larry would always remember the look on Paul’s face.
    “Oh, my God, Larry! Why in the world would you do that?”
    The police phoned while Larry was outside shoveling. Glen had been arrested when he got home, and he had given Larry’s name to