Get Rid of the Gun
I walked out the front door slowly, as if nothing had happened. I went to the car, got in, and drove off. Now, I had to get rid of the gun. I never liked keeping guns after a job—too much chance of getting caught. When I was in New York, I used to bury them in the Pine Barrens in New Jersey, where even I couldn’t find them again. I thought about where to ditch this one, then it hit me.
I drove to Alban Park, but then changed my mind, opting for Browntown instead.
Browntown was a poor, old Polish neighborhood, which had decayed into just a poor neighborhood with a mix of everybody, though it was still predominantly Polish. I should have no trouble finding a willing participant. I headed down Maryland Avenue and turned right at the old Johnny’s Supermarket.
Johnny’s su
