Diamonds and Debutantes

I have to pistol-whip the doorman to get out of the building. In the street, I realize the extent of my fuck-up: I have no get-away car. I suck in the cool night air. Think fast, Angelo. What are you going to do?

This was supposed to be an easy job. The plan called for me to exit through the garage, nicking a car. But I've coked up my frayed nerves with one line too many, fidgeted too long with the safe. The 30 seconds in-and-out became a mad dash down the stairs, and here I am, no wheels. The heat will be on me any second.

Just then a silver sports car comes to a screeching halt across the deserted street. An Aston Martin top down roadster. Definitely not inconspicuous, but fast. Just what I need. I spot a flash of blonde behind the wheel and am off in a sprint, clutching my briefcase.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she screams as I hop over the side and land in the passenger seat, so close I can smell the Chanel on her. I stick my trusty Smith