On the best days it was bumper-to-bumper, a bitter argument of honks and curses, and on rainy days the potholes were treacherous lagoons, one grim slosh. Narrow and indifferently cobblestoned, the road was a botch from the start. Just that morning there was another article in the Tribune about the city tearing down the elevated highway. The pickup bounced in the unholy rut of the West Side Highway. The radios were top-of-the-line three years ago now padded blankets hid their slick mahogany cabinets, fastened by leather straps to the truck bed. Now they took up space in the basement that he needed for the new recliners coming in from Argent next week and whatever he picked up from the dead lady's apartment that afternoon. He'd given up on the radios, hadn't sold one in a year and a half no matter how much he marked them down and begged. First up was Radio Row, to unload the final three consoles, two RCAs and a Magnavox, and pick up the TV he left. Ray Carney was having one of his run-around days-uptown, downtown, zipping across the city. His cousin Freddie brought him on the heist one hot night in early June.
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