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Show 55 pick-up truck. The door flew open; a small middle-aged woman leaped out-into the street and slammed the door with excessive authority. Fogarty knew that this was it. The woman wore coveralls and her hair was tucked up into a blue stocking cap. She was built like a refrigerator. She did not walk or run toward the building, she assalted it. This was it. Fogarty filled his glass with iced tea, went back outside to sit on his own front stoop. He would be there as long as he had to be to see this thing through. He felt like someone going to the opening of a movie in which he had played a starring role. He had earned his front row seat. He did not have to wait that long. A few minutes later one of the men emerged from the building and hurried on foot down the street. He was back in less than ten minutes with a case of beer on his shoulder which, when he got in front of the Newgate, he transferred to the top of the station wagon. Then he went back into the building, but only for a moment. When he reappeared he was not alone. He and one of the other men were carrying the couch with the erupting springs. The girl with the feathers in her hair followed behind them carrying a lamp. The couch was placed in the far back of the pick-up, facing the raised tailgate. The bikers had taken off their leather jackets. This was hot, hard work. Tables and chairs, a mattress and box springs and stereo speakers, plants, a tree in a pot, pictures and posters and overflowing cardboard boxes appeared in a frightening outpour. Fogarty counted eight people working together, including the |