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She was a 1972 Chrysler Newport. Exactly forty-three hundred and eighty-one pounds empty weight. With his wiry if creaking hundred and nineteen behind the wheel, it came to exactly five-thousand. Two and a half tons of carefully polished, perfectly tuned steel—Detroit at its finest. The eight cylinder Chrysler engine displaced three hundred and eight three cubic inches. Frank kept it well-tuned and running on a fifty-fifty mix of unleaded and aviation fuel. Since the car was manufactured before the nonsensical EPA mileage restrictions (introduced in 1973), the motor generated a respectable three hundred and twenty-five horsepower. Stock. Frank got in, shut the door, which really did sound like a vault, and started the motor. Power. Pure internal combustion explosive force transformed into awesome thrust through a whisper-smooth automatic transmission and a twelve-bolt rear end. Also stock. Frank easily put the column shift into "D", and squeezed the gas pedal carefully to the floor, as if it were the trigger of a Colt .44 Python. Frank looked out at the bright blue spring sky, and pulled into the street. It was a lovely morning. "Yessir", he said aloud as he began his leisurely cruise down Wilson Boulevard, "today is the day someone is going to pay." To be continued...
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