A cashmere scarf peeked from beneath the lapels of a stylish wool overcoat. Doc Khoury, the president of the Long Riders, sat in the passenger seat. His Long Riders cuts layered over a worn sweatshirt, the hood of which hid half of his bull-doggish face, reeked of cigarette smoke and perspiration. His jeans, stiff with dirt, bled thawing snow, leaving dark puddles around his scuffed leather boots. Jack fumed. The big, boorish man was going to ruin the car’s expensive interior. Across the Creel River, lights from the paper mill shown upon the black water, casting long shadows upon the thin, fragile ice clinging to the river’s edge. A light snow fell from the cold night sky. Parked in a deserted parking lot, the two men plotted. Doc blew on his knuckles. “Billy’s been a hang around for the Long Riders for over a year. He told me about what happened at the Ritz because he figured it would get him in as a prospect.”
