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We were in the Wyoming Valley, and to my right I could see the Poconos rising. I had never been on a road trip before, if you didn’t count the trips to Florida with my mom, which you couldn’t count, since that was a family thing. But you really couldn’t count this as a road trip either, since the one thing all road trips have in common is they’re supposed to be fun.
Bennacio turned on the scanner and listened to the chatter, but there wasn’t anything about a stolen cruiser—not yet, anyway, though we both knew it wouldn’t be long.
“What now?” I asked.
“We must find another means of transportation.”
“Lemme guess,” I said. “White stallions?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a very fast cat,” he said. He turned on the flashing red-and-blues. The car directly in front of us changed into the right lane and Bennacio followed it, coming up close on his bumper.
“A Jaguar,” I said. “Fast cat, I get it, very funny, but how is carjacking part of the code of chivalry?”
He didn’t answer, but reached for the button that operated the siren.
“Hey, can I?” I asked.
“If you wish.”
I hit the button, the siren wailed, and Bennacio proceeded to flash his headlights at the Jaguar. It eased into the emergency lane. Bennacio stopped about ten yards behind it. Then he unhooked the shotgun from its holder and pressed it into my hand.
“I thought these were barbaric.”
“Just so, but you are not a knight.”
“I’m not shooting anyone, Bennacio.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, thin leather-bound folder. A checkbook. On the face of the top check, embossed in gold letters, were the words “Samson Industries.” He flipped it open and signed a blank check.
“To answer your question: No, we do not steal; we do not ‘jack cars,’ but sometimes there are those who refuse to sell. Come, Kropp.”
He was outside the car and walking up to the Jag before I could say anything. I heaved myself out of the cop car and followed him, holding the gun across my body. A big guy in a tan overcoat was stuffed behind the wheel of the little sports car. It was pretty clear from his expression that Bennacio and I weren’t what he was expecting after being pulled over by the Highway Patrol.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Bennacio said. He motioned to me and, as soon as I stepped forward, Bennacio ripped the shotgun out of my hand and pointed at the big guy’s nose.
“Sure looks like I should be!” the big guy cried out, instinctively bringing his hands up.
“Step out of the car, please,” Bennacio said.
“Sure. You bet. Don’t shoot me.”
He had some trouble getting his bulk out of the car, but being nervous probably wasn’t helping his coordination.
“This is for your trouble,” Bennacio said, shoving the check at him. “I place it upon your honor to fill in an amount you feel is reasonable. Come, Kropp,” he said, and he tossed the shotgun at me. I caught it and halfheartedly pointed it at the incredulous guy, who didn’t know what to look at by that point: Bennacio getting behind the wheel of his Jag, me holding the shotgun, or the blank check in his trembling hand. I walked around him to the passenger side and said, to be helpful, “We left the keys in the ignition”—motioning toward the cop car—“but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to follow us.”
I climbed into the car and Bennacio floored the gas before I could even get my seat belt fastened.
“You’re awful trusting, Bennacio,” I said after a few miles had rolled by and it was clear the guy wasn’t going to follow us in the borrowed cop car. “How do you know he won’t write himself a check for a million dollars?”
“Most people are honest, Kropp. Most are good and will choose right when given a choice. If we did not believe this, what point would there be in being a knight?”
Then he reached across the seat, grabbed the shotgun out of my lap, and tossed it out the open window.
25
