After a briefing at the sheriff's department headquarters, Lieutenant Harkins, and I rode to the Hell Hole with Roscoe in his surveillance van. From the outside, the van looked like a piece of junk. The paint was faded, there were splotches of primer all over it, and it sported at least three different styles of wheels. Inside, however, was another matter. The van, a former ambulance with a raised fiberglass roof, was an electronic marvel. The walls were lined with equipment that allowed Roscoe to perform all kinds of surveillance miracles. It was equipped for TV, audio, and had special long-range eavesdropping microphones hanging on racks on the wall. I had no idea what most of the stuff did, but Roscoe was a master at using it. On top of that, the van's engine had been souped up so it was almost as fast as some high-performance cars. He'd also tinkered with the suspension to make sure it could handle the additional power.
"I wish the department had the money to buy something like this," Harkins commented as we rolled down the street. "But we have enough trouble getting money in the budget to buy new cruisers every two years. Friggin' civilians have no idea what we're up against."
"It was like that back when I was on the job, too," I said. "I guess some things never change, do they?"
"Shit no," Harkins snorted. "They just get worse."
Roscoe wheeled the van into the dirt parking lot outside the Hell Hole and parked near some cars and pickups that looked even more decrepit than his van did. Then he joined Harkins and me in back and began flipping switches. A TV screen in the middle of the electronics panel lit up, and an image of the outside of the dilapidated building the Hell Hole occupied filled it.
"Where's the camera?" I asked.
"Up there," Roscoe said, pointing to two compartments on the van's ceiling. "There are two cameras on each side. They shoot through the openings that used to hold the scene lights."
"Very clever," I said.
"Of course," Roscoe replied. "It was my idea."
I looked at Lieutenant Harkins and smiled. "He's so modest, isn't he?" I said.
"Yeah, right," Harkins retorted.
I could hear the distinctive sound of a Harley-Davidson "Hog" motorcycle approaching. "That Moose?" I asked.
"Should be," Roscoe said. "It's about time."
I watched the video screen and saw a huge, bearded man riding a motorcycle that looked like a toy under him roar into the parking lot and up to the sleazy club's front door. He dismounted and stood there, looking around. "Goin' in," I heard a rough voice say.
"Where's the wire?" I asked.
"It's built into the gold chain and medallion he's wearing," Roscoe said. "Best wire I ever saw. He's been searched but nobody's ever tumbled to it. He wears the medallion all the time, so it becomes part of the scenery, you know?"
"That your idea, too?" I asked.
Roscoe shook his head. "Actually, Moose came up with it," he said.
"Hey, Billy-boy, how're they hangin'?" we heard Moose say through the speakers in the van's console.
