If Strutt was part of the heist crew, why did they need directions to his place?

What if, now that Kraft was on a morgue slab, they needed a new driver, and Kraft’s pal Strutt had been elected? Thal Lockhart had indicated Strutt was a stunt driver, too.

The rain kept up its rhythm and I just sat there wondering whether to dance or go home. Come back another time, maybe. Or sit it out and wait till Strutt’s guests took their leave…

After all, the bank heist crew, if that’s who these cars belonged to, was not the point of my country sojourn—talking to Strutt was; the goal was getting him to own up to training Vincent Colby for that hit-and-run farce.

What did rounding up some (presumed) bank robbers have to do with the job at hand? Not a damn thing.

But I was an officer of the court, wasn’t I? Didn’t I have a responsibility to check this out and, if my assumptions about them were right, haul their sorry asses in?

Still, I sat there for maybe fifteen minutes sorting through my several shitty options, waiting for the rain to let up, which it never did. I prepared to brave the storm. Should I ditch the raincoat, to give myself more freedom of movement, and maybe leave the porkpie fedora on, to keep at least a little of the rain off me? Out of my eyes, anyway?

But I left the raincoat on, and of course the hat, with the brim down all the way round, and walked down the blacktop with my 1911 Colt .45 in my right-hand raincoat pocket, my left hand gathering the lapels of the coat as tight and protective as I could manage. The only break I got from God or nature or somebody was that I wasn’t walking straight into the rain—it was at my back, and actually seemed to be prodding me, pushing me along.

When I turned down the gravel lane, I veered off along the tree line. That sheltered me somewhat from the downpour, and from getting much water in my eyes for that matter. A whipcrack of lightning would occasionally light the landscape up in momentary white.

When I got closer, I saw that the cars were recent models, their beautiful paint jobs pearled with raindrops—a Chrysler Conquest, a Corvette, a Mustang GT, a Firebird. Parked alongside the house was an older model Camaro – Strutt’s ride, probably.

This might mean the veteran thieves, with their successful run of bank knockovers, were spending money like they won the lottery. On the other hand, the vintage car might indicate Strutt wasn’t part of the crew yet, or at least was its newest member—driving a Camaro ten years older than these ’88 models his visitors had arrived in.