Mouthpiece by L. Ron Hubbard

broke. And if the cops are willing to shoot all the dope into
the night air that way, what’s the law against us going out after the business?
Did you ever hear of any?”
    Joe Pagett pursed his dubious lips and rubbed his palms
against greasy coverall legs and sighed. “I know there ain’t no laws about it,
Bill, and I’m just the mechanic around here, but I’d hate like the very devil
to see you cooling your heels in that bug-infested jail they’ve got in this
town. Maybe it’d be different if they was a good calaboose here.”
    Bill Milan went to the door, paused, looking out into
the rain which skittered across the black pavement. “Aw, those cops give me a
pain. They’re jealous, that’s all.”
    â€œOkay, Bill,” said Pagett. “It
won’t be me in the jail. But the least you can do is to drive slow and give
those coppers a chance to get there first. And don’t use that siren. They don’t
like that either.”
    B ill Milan shoved the garage door back and climbed into the ancient
Fiat. The onetime limousine had been converted into a fast truck, and though
its cab sat twice as high as any ordinary car, under Bill’s competent hands the
speed of the contrivance was astonishing.
    He shot it out of the garage and skidded it to a stop in
front of the door. The great cylinders scattered sparks down the exhaust
stacks, but above their bellow, the loudspeaker, still bringing in the police
broadcast, was easily heard.
    â€œAll cars. All cars,” crackled the radio. “Drop search
for Carbonelli and companion. They have been reported crossing the state line
fifteen minutes ago and are now outside our jurisdiction. This is radio station
PXQ.”
    The Fiat’s cylinders blasted out a throaty roar. Bill
Milan stamped on the accelerator and rocketed out to the black, shining
pavement. His windshield wiper was going across his line of vision, and through
the clear arc, the street lights began to lope past. The tires sang over the
wet asphalt. His fingers sought for and found the string which led to the siren
under the cowl . The rising scream of the nickel barrel began to clear the
traffic for a swaying, yowling truck. Bill Milan was headed for Tenth and Lynch Boulevard.
    The deftness of Bill’s saber-swift driving was not without
its reason. Only two years before, Bill Milan had taken the Indianapolis track
for a record. He had barreled and bent his streaking bus five hundred miles to
a new low time. But now, Bill Milan’s long right leg sometimes refused to move
when he wanted it worst. That had come from a badly mended break. The track
doctors had told Bill his racing career was done. That had been that. But there
was still a thrill in lashing the lurching Fiat out across the streets of the
city. Especially through the battering rain.
    For a while after the finish of his high-speed career,
Bill Milan’s fast driving had been profitable. He had found that the police
always broadcast wreck locations to their squad cars, and Bill had used that
fact to the limit. The loudspeaker on his wall always told him where to go and
when to go, and as a consequence, he had minted money. Always the first wrecker
there, he got the business.
    But the phenomenon of Bill’s presence at the scene of
every wreck had begun to cause not a little comment. It had gone too far to be
accredited to mere luck. And the rival towing companies had ferreted out the
secret. Even then, however, they stood little chance. The first man on the
scene was the man hired. And Bill’s racing tactics, even when applied to a rumbling,
bellowing tow truck, were something to be reckoned with.
    Up to that point, the police had
not cared. But as Bill progressed, it seemed that he had acquired the habit of
beating the squad cars to the scene. And that, because it directly reflected
upon the ability and efficiency of the department, was bad. Bill had been
summarily forbidden to