The silver 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500 waits in cooling silence outside the restaurant.

The blonde at the counter speaks quickly to the pinstriped waitress. The befuddled waitress shakes her head. The blonde gets frustrated so that she slams her fist on the table. All this is seen through the 9X6 sheet of bulletproof glass that makes up one of the windows.

Through the windshield of the Mustang; blackness, like a blanket covering the inside of the glittering shell. The blackness seems to seep, covering the windows with the customized, barely legal tint, and then flows down the top of the vehicle in a void racing stripe.

As if one of the inferior gods of Mesopotamia had called for light, the weak but effective blaze of a Zippo creates a halo of dim light, encircling what can now be seen as the head of Ichabod, with a Newport clenched tightly between his lips. As his cheeks slowly sink in, the cold, pursed, and emotionless lips open slightly to allow the initial draw to escape. The blue smoke fills the halo of light, and then the flame is extinguished with all the metallic finality of a coffin being closed at the wake.

Another glow, this time dull blue, as Ichabod checks the time on his watch.

3:47 am.

Deidre would be telling the waitress about the problem. She would be explaining how she had no chance of getting away from the man stalking her. How he was sitting outside right at this moment. How she was scared to death of him.

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Ichabod had found the girl struggling with her job as a waitress. It was a well known fact in this business that the waitresses who met the managers’ demands to a T would be the ones with benefits. Deidre hadn’t met this manager’s demands as the others had. The manager had asked her to sleep with him, a reasonable request in his eyes: all the other waitresses slept with him, and they had gotten payraises, scheduling benefits, and their choice of position, not only with him, but in the store of their chosing. Deidre had refused to lower herself to that level.

Ichabod found all this out one night when he had come in for a cup of coffee. She was just off the clock and waiting for some gallant eighty year old regular to give her a ride home, that is if he ever finished with his damned pack of Pall Mall’s. Ichabod had invited her to sit down with him, later intending to give her the ride she desired, intrigued by her beauty and a little something else only a man in his business could have caught. This was when she shared her story.

Ichabod met her at the store the next night, beginning what would be a customary encounter; he sat with her, enjoyed a meal, and took her home. It was one week later that Ichabod walked in to find her crying at the regular booth, out of uniform much too early for her shift. She told him that she heard she was going to be fired. Apparantly, the manager, Rob Hart, had approached her for what he called the final offer. Refusing him resulted in her termination.

This was yesterday.

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Ichabod had a description, and he had formed the plan quickly. He checks his watch again.

4:07 am.

At Deidre’s prompting, the waitress had been on the phone for the past five minutes with the man that Ichabod correctly assumed to be the manager.

4:15 am.

As Deidre sits at the usual table drinking a cup of coffee and feigning shivers of fear, a green 2000 Saleen Mustang pulls into the parking lot. Rob Hart, knowing it is good business etiquette, arrives at least twenty minutes before the county sheriff. Ichabod had counted on this. Hart walks toward the entrance of the restaurant looking important. Ichabod is already out of the Shelby, following him in. A few waitresses recognize Ichabod and bid him hello, unaware of what he is planning. He stares straight at Hart’s back.

Hart walks toward Deidre as if she is suddenly the best employee he has--again business etiquette. But she purposely glances over his shoulder at Ichabod and fakes sudden fear. Hart turns and Ichabod grabs him by the collar. Ichabod’s mind clicks with the urgency of time concerning the police and his plan, and for lack of much time, throws himself and Hart through that large window. Ichabod laughs as both of their heads smack on the glass covered concrete outside.

Bulletproof. . .

Deidre runs outside in a fit of panic to watch what is happening. Ichabod bounces Hart’s skull off the newspaper dispenser, then spins him around and Bitch Thumps his fat ass. He drags him over to the Shelby and pops the trunk, shoving him inside. He slips into the driver seat and keys the engine. Within seconds of Hart’s arrival, he and Ichabod are gone. Deidre backs up purposely to the Saleen, turns and lingers for a moment, then reaches in her pocket for the keys that Ichabod had given her earlier. She walks into the next parking lot calmly. She doesn’t bother saying goodbye to the coworkers she will never see again. If she dawdles in this store, this parking lot, this state longer than Ichabod planned, she knows she would be bait for the law.

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Once again, the Shelby sits cooling. This time it is on a dark country road, on a set of rusty railroad tracks. Ichabod sits in the front seat smoking once again, listening contently to the scratching and tapping of Hart on the inside of the trunk. He looks at his watch once more.

4:59 am. Ciao, Mr. Hart.

Ichabod steps out of the Shelby, and walks toward the darkness. Suddenly the glare of twin lights cut through the trees that shelter out any light that might seep in fron the city. Ichabod continues toward the Monster, where Deidre waits. He climbs in and they drive toward the interstate and the turnpike.

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As Ichabod’s watch turns to 5:00 am, Rob Hart stops his banging on the inside of the trunk, listening to see if he hears the sound again. The train’s whistle blares its warning to the night again as Hart realizes just what is going on . . .