Another installment — Chevy van of uncertain vintage
I pulled into the parking lot behind the bar. Everywhere I looked there were unmarked police cars – occupied by unmarked policemen. Dicks. Feds perhaps. But I repeat myself.
It was the last delivery of the day. I loaded the two-wheeled dolly with cartons – beer glasses, bar napkins, candles in colored oval jars bound in white plastic mesh, that sort of shit.
I wrestled the dolly through the back door and into the kitchen. The cook motioned for me to leave the cartons by the storeroom door.
I went into the bar to collect. One of Harold Supply’s C.O.D. customers. A lot of them were.
“What are all those unmarked cop cars doing out back?,” I asked the barkeep.
He made a beeline for the kitchen. Next thing I know, the cook ran past me lugging a cardboard box crammed with papers and bolted out the front door.