The stops came easy, went fast. Joe smiled when passing drivers, stuck for several minutes behind his soot belching truck, gave him the finger as they passed. And all because he’d kissed a girl. That’s as far as it had gone, as far as he was willing to let it go. They’d stood there for an hour talking, kissing again, talking some more. She thought he looked like De Niro. “You talkin’ ta me?” “Not ‘Taxi Driver,’ De Niro. Ich! ‘Heat’ De Niro.” That’s what she’d thought when she looked back and noticed him at the chapel. He wasn’t about to argue the point, though he didn’t see it himself. Frankly, he didn’t care if Marla thought he was a dead ringer for a horse’s ass, as long as she was partial to horses asses. It was about 3:00 PM. Joe had seventeen stops behind him with another seven to go. He was heading up to Commack from Bayshore along Crooked Hill Road when, just south of Suffolk County Community College, his winning streak came to an abrupt end. He had seen the unmarked Crown Vic in his sideview mirror when he passed St.
