“How did you get that?” Tex asked.
“Mr. Curtis handed it to me to open a box. When I was done, I couldn’t find him. So I just been hanging onto it. I wanted to give it back, for real! The thing feels, like…evil.”
Tex’s dreds had been pulled back into a ponytail. He pulled off the elastic and shook them out. He removed the camera from the table and said, “Set it in the center.”
It only took a second this time for all the boys to put their hands on the table. Tex didn’t need the coins to go into his trance state. Where the images before had been fleeting wisps and passing glimpses, this was something completely different. All four boys’ closed eyes were filled with vivid technicolor scenes.
A very large muscular man with a flat top hair cut and a blue-collar demeanor you would expect from a mid-century steelworker or old-time blacksmith sat across from a dark-haired man in a new brown suit with a pencil-thin mustache and armed with a completely nonsense attitude. The man said, “Mr. Merryweather, as you probably know, my name is Melvin Pervis. I am the head of the newly formed Federal Bureau of Investigation. After reviewing your file, you seem in every way the kind of person we need, except one. We are going to hunt down the worst group of ruthless, lawless killers this country has ever seen. I plan on seeing every man on that list behind you and two women, Bonnie Barrow and Ma Barker in prison or in the grave. The only thing keeping you from joining us today is that bum arm.”
Rupert Merryweather instinctively kept his left arm at an angle next to his body because of the damage that had been done to it. He stood up and said, “Sir, if you please.” Then he held out his crippled arm to shake Melvin’s hand.
Melvin reached for the proffered left and Rupert’s iron grip twisted the man’s whole frame sending the agent face down on the desk, immobile.
“How bum is it now?”
“It’s fine! It’s fine! You’re hired!”

The images fast forwarded to Rupert asking a fellow officer to trade cases with him.
“Are you sure you want this case? This guy is just some moonshiner we suspect killed a crooked agent. Hell, the agent was as bad as the crook.”
“Oh, I definitely want it,” Rupert tucked the file marked Curtis Shaw under his arm.

The images flashed to high-speed pursuit from Mr. Curtis’s vantage point. The cop car was dead on his tail as the two vehicles screamed around the curvy backwoods roads of Barataria, Louisiana. Mr. Curtis followed two rules as a moonshiner, if you get caught, don’t talk, and if you get chased, don’t lead them back to the still. Mr. Curtis’s superb hand-eye coordination made his driving skill uncatchable. He had never been close to being apprehended. For some unknown reason, the cop behind him matched his skills with death-defying precision. Something in Mr. Curtis felt like de-ja-vu, like he had done this before.
Finally, the road they had been traveling dead-ended at the Mississippi River. Curtis slammed on his brakes and both men ran out shooting. When the moonlight hit Rupert’s face, Curtis painted it with slugs from his 45 Thompson sub-machine gun.
As he loaded the ex-angel’s body into the trunk of the cop car he thought, “Will this cat ever die?!” But the boys didn’t hear it. He pushed the car off into the river and watched it sink under the current.
The image started breaking up, but not before the boys saw a mud-soaked Rupert walk into the FBI office across the street from the Roosevelt Hotel in New Orleans and tell Mr. Purvis, “I’m gonna need a new car.”