Six hundred and fifty thousand dollars, that's how much money was in the duffel bag staring back him. More than a half a million bucks, all to be used to purchase five microprocessors no bigger than a postage stamp each. He knew he'd only have one chance for the deal to go smoothly, any mistake would mean certain death. Yes, certain death was definitely on the mind of Victor Allen, and it made him sick.
"You know it only took me fifteen minutes to get over the GW this morning," Detective Leon Wiess always felt the need to tell his partner about his morning commute, "no shit" replied Sgt. Ted Kowskie, he always humored Leon that way. Leon Wiess needed humoring,
he was a twenty year veteran of the New York police department and it was starting to show. He was only forty two years old but could have easily been fifty two; years of long nights and old coffee had finally started to take its toll, not to mention his fifth of bourbon a day habit, something he picked up working the vice squad and was never able to quit. When all was said and done, Leon Weiss could definitely use some humoring.
It was half past six in the afternoon when Victor Allen arrived at the agreed upon meeting point; an old train yard up state just outside Syracuse. As Victor looked at the old run down trains he thought about his situation, " how the hell did it get so bad, so fucked up" he thought to himself. It was Victor's own hot temper that led him to this old graveyard for the iron horse; And as he saw the black sedan creeping towards him he knew it would be his temper that would decide if he made it out of this alive.
There was something about eastern Europeans that made Victor Allen uneasy, especially this one. He was all of six foot four and had a physic that looked like he had spent years breaking rocks in a Russian gulag; "good afternoon Mr. Allen, you have some money for me?" "Shit" Victor thought, no more than two seconds out of the car and he's already asking for the money. As Victor Allen stood there amongst the rusted trains looking at who was certain to be his killer, his mind wandered, if only for a moment, to the day his life took a turn down this dark path, the day he met Michael Quinn.
In the early eighties no one ran Buffalo New York except Michael "Mickey " Quinn. He was second generation Irish, his parents had been straight off the boat and originally settled in the Bronx. It was during these early years that Mickey developed a taste for crime; he committed his first robbery at age 9, his first rape at 14 and by 16 was doing "hits" for the local mafia crew, you could say Mickey Quinn took to crime like a fish to water. However it was not enough that Mickey commit crimes, he wanted to run crime, he wanted to own it. Well it didn't take long until Mickey realized that to run crime in new york city you had to be mafia and since he could never be a full member because of his Irish heritage he knew that the city would be no good for his dreams, so he decided to move his operations to the place where the mafia had little influence at the time, Buffalo......
TO BE CONTINUED...
STAY TUNED FOR PART 2
