The Greasecar War

The Greasecar WARt's a little after six on a frigid Febru­ary morning, and my ancient olive-green Mercedes is doing its typical diesel death rattle as it skitters across the black ice. The old girl doesn't like to be up at this hour of morning, not in the dead ot winter. Neither do I. I slide the car around the still-dark corner of a middle-of-nowhere strip mall, park behind a pizza place and do a quick scan of the alley. I need to make sure I'm alone. I am about to commit a crime.Silently I sli...