The Matter of the Vanishing Greyhound
Golden Gate Disappearing Greyhound Bus Caper
Master of the Impossible Crime
Harrah was buttoning his black leather trench coat while Billingsley and Hardesty checked their weapons.
“Are you still carrying a fly prick?” Billingsley pointed his Colt .45 at Hardesty’s .38. “You get a big man he’s not going to do much more than burp when you hit him.”
“Depends on where you hit him, don’t it, Gov?”
“Not if you’re carrying this,” Billingsley waved the .45.
“Don’t get too enthusiastic yet.” Harrah shook his head at the display of firepower. “It’s still a long, long way to Tipperary. Anything could happen.”
“And Hopkins?” Billingsley looked at Harrah. “From the moment we walk out this door it’s going to be very hairy. This curtain is going to come down fast and we might not have time to talk in private again.” He chambered a round, checked to make sure the safety was off and then slipped the weapon beneath his belt at the small of his back.
“Our first concern is our money, the original $10 million. The money takes top priority. We secure the money – and I mean all the way back to a safe location. Then we worry about Hopkins. I don’t want gun play until the money is secured. None. Do both of you understand my words?”
Billingsley and Hardesty nodded.
“After the money is secured we’ll have another talk. But I don’t want anyone killed, hurt or injured in any way; anything can be linked back to us. We don’t need the bad publicity.”
“So we just let Hopkins get away with plucking $10 million of our money out from under our noses?” Hardesty bent his head forward and looked at Harrah over the top of his glasses, his bald pate shining under the overhead lights like the moon.
“It’s 5 o’clock now. This should be wrapped up by 7. Who knows what might happen at 8?”