“Look, buddy,” the wig salesman said, “I’ve got to close. Either choose now or take a hike.” I couldn’t really blame the guy for his impertinence. After all, I’d been examining his fluffy merchandise for the better part of an hour by then, although I hadn’t told him the real reason for my visit. “Just cool it, friend. You know the customer is always right.” What I didn’t say was that, directly across the street, in plain view through the store’s plate glass window, stuffed with more cheap, tawdry goods than I had ever before encountered, was the small, greasy diner that was the actual focus of my attention.

As I fondled one last item, I spotted my quarry exiting the establishment, surrounded by his usual entourage of thieves, pimps, punks and killers. Tossing the rug aside, I hurtled through the door to the street, the owner yelling to my back, “Thanks for nothing wise guy.” As I reached the curb, the surly mob was piling into a black Escalade that had been idling in the alley. It roared off as I dove into my ‘62 British racing green MGB. Touching the ignition, the exhaust emitted the characteristic throaty growl that no other sports car in the world had ever been able to match. I slammed the shift knob into 1st and spun after the big SUV, checking to see that there were no cops in sight. I certainly didn’t want any around for what I needed to do.

I left the wig shop in the dust, the image of the shop owner pulling down his security gates rapidly receding in my rear-view mirror as I raced through the next 4 gears. I knew where the mark was heading. Perhaps I could beat him there. However, as I careened onto Lower Wacker Drive, my steel-belted Pirellis screaming in protest, I saw too late that I had been set up. The first burst of gunfire took out half the right fender, slamming me into a hard spin toward the river. Something exploded behind me, eliminating the black canvas rag top, on which I had just expended considerable capital for repairs. The thought was fleeting, however, as I now realized that my tires were no longer in contact with pavement. Rather, I was looking at a long dive into the frigid blackness of the Chicago River, rapidly rising toward me. I struggled to free myself of my constraints, silently cursing my law-abiding nature. I couldn’t get the damn seat belt unhooked. I didn’t feel a thing as the octagon MG logo hit the icy water. After that, I wouldn’t have any more complaints.