As I waited at the run-down auto salvage yard, I thought back to the events that had led me there. Earlier that evening, I had been nervously pacing in my living room. The jury was deliberating my fate, and my defense team, friends and relatives were all nearby. As I paced, one thought kept gnawing at me. If I were to get a life sentence in the pound – a distinct possibility given the serious panty-larceny charges against me – I would have one great regret: I had never avenged my betrayal at the hands of Juan Carlos Galvez. His treachery a year earlier had left my knee shattered, my head imprisoned for weeks in that damn cone. As I left the house that evening, my attorney Johnnie Cochran ran after me. "It’s too risky, Mugsy!" he cried. "You can’t do this!" "Sorry, Johnnie," I replied. "It’s payback time."
I was soon at a farm in Wylie, the town of my birth, where I met with an old family friend. I handed him a wad of cash, and he handed me the keys to a pickup truck. The attached trailer was filled to the brim with wooden crates. My second stop was an industrial park in East Dallas. The sky was pitch black as a crew of nervous workers loaded my pickup with the second ingredient in my vengeful brew. Their boss, a shady character with darting eyes, opened the briefcase and began to count the unmarked bills inside. "Five-hundred, six-hundred …" he muttered as he examined each bill under the blue glow of a bug zapper. "All right, Mugs, it’s all here," he said. "You sure you wanna do this?" I simply nodded.
That brought me to this grimy auto yard in Oak Cliff. The trap was set; now I could only wait for my prey. It wouldn't be long. The rumble of the gate inching open roused me from my reflection. A black Mercedes convertible entered the salvage yard. It was time for Galvez to meet his gruesome fate.
To be continued