Fifty-Seven
Pete faked a swagger as he cut across the alley behind his agency. He jumped into his black late-model pickup. It was a stand in for the luxury car he kept hidden in his garage at home just for out-of-town trips.
How was he going to find those guys? He didn't even know names. But he knew the vehicle—a white Buick. There were only maybe twenty of those in town, mostly driven by little old ladies. He'd written the insurance policies.
He drove down the alley, crossed the street and into the next alley. Cars parked there were awaiting miracle work of the body shop. The town had three body shops which meant claims, which meant opportunity. He had deals with two of the shops: find a clunker, file a claim, and split the money. Business was good.
Wait. Was that the car? He drove cl
