Dog Eat Dog Read Online Free PDF

garage were his tools for crime, oscillators that they would use on electronic burglar alarms, a scanner to follow police calls, and even a Navy surplus portable acetylene torch.
    Diesel got into his car, started the engine, and put down the convertible top. He was backing out when the front door opened. Gloria stuck her head out. He braked. “Telephone,” she called.
    “Who is it?”
    “McCain.”
    “Mad Dog?”
    She nodded.
    “What’s he want?”
    “He didn’t say.”
    “Tell him you couldn’t catch me.”
    Gloria shut the door and Diesel continued out. As he drove away he asked aloud, “Why’d that dingy motherfucker call me?” The last time he’d talked to Mad Dog was a year ago when they had heisted the merchant ship payroll. Because Mad Dog’s girlfriend worked for the shipping company and she had fingered the score, when they were splitting up the money, Mad Dog wanted a share for her. He hadn’t mentioned it before. “Sure,” Diesel said, “and I’ll take a cut for Gloria.”
    “Whaddya mean?”
    “If Sheila gets a cut, why not Gloria?”
    “That’s bullshit, man.”
    They confronted each other across a kitchen table. The moment had been tense. Diesel half rose from his seat and leaned forward. He outweighed Mad Dog by over a hundred pounds. Mad Dog’s pistol was holstered. He would never get it before Diesel broke his jaw. Mad Dog backed off from the confrontation, but Diesel knew a seed of hate had been planted in a mind already fertile with madness. He’d kept away from McCain ever since. Troy said he could manage the little maniac. Time would tell if Troy was right. Troy was up for parole in two months or so, and he had a plan for a three-man mob that would specialize in heisting pimps, drug dealers, and gangsters, all people who couldn’t go to the police. Diesel had one good thought about Mad Dog: “At least he ain’t no stool pigeon. But why is he calling me?”
    Three hours later, Diesel stood in the shadows of an oak tree in a field of dry grass. Thirty yards away was the raised Southern Pacific right-of-way. Beyond that was a sloped embankment that ended at the fence of Star Cartage. As the moon moved in and out of clouds, he saw the silhouettes of the big trucks and the quonset hut offices. The windows were dark. Jimmy the Face had arranged for the watchman to call in sick. It seemed The Face was right again.
    Beyond the trucking company was U.S. 99. Traffic was light, mainly trucks of farm produce rolling through the night. Several hundred yards down the highway was a liquor store with a neon sign. It looked easy.
    Diesel rolled up the canvas bag with the tools and kerosene. It was easier to tuck it under his arm like a football than carry it dangling from his hand. Bending over to lessen his silhouette, he trotted across the field and over the railroad tracks. The gravel dislodged as he slid down the embankment to the fence.
    He had wire cutters in the bag, but as he looked around it was obvious that he could climb the fence more easily than he could cut it. It was equally safe, too, for the buildings hid the fence from the highway. He pitched the canvas bag over and jumped up, hooking his fingers over the top.
    The fence rattled down its entire length. No matter. Nobody was around to hear. He dropped to the ground and froze in a crouch, watching for any sign of arousal or alarm.
    Nothing. Silence except for a truck shifting gears as it went by. Oh yeah, this was going to be easy. He’d taken three Dexamyl spansules and was glowing inside. He kept the buildings between himself and the highway as he moved toward the trucks.
    Again he paused; again no alarm. He grabbed the big, sharpened screwdriver. It easily went through the fuel tanks. No need for the hammer. Diesel fuel ran out into dark wet circles on the ground. When it was pouring from all five trucks, he poured kerosene between them, so all the inflammable liquids were connected. He was a little winded. Too many