The boys were driving back to the South Side, each lost in thought. The police cruiser's lights and siren split the black, snowy Chicago night.
"Oh, fuck," mumbled Lip, knowing the Porsche Cayenne was stolen.
"What'd ya do? Were you speeding?" Ian questioned his brother, but Lip just shrugged.
Lip pulled the car into a vacant parking lot and stopped. He rolled the window down and got his wallet ready. If he'd been a praying man, now would've been the time, he thought somberly. Maybe… luck would be on their side tonight.
After ten minutes and two other cop cars arriving on the scene, it was clear to Lip that luck was a bitch.
An officer approached the side of the vehicle slowly and commanded, "Driver, show me your hands."
"Jesus, Lip! What did you do?" Ian croaked.
"Uh, the car…may…be stolen."
"What the fuck, man," his younger red-headed brother growled.
"Step out of the car," barked the officer.
Lip looked at Ian quizzically. Then he called through the window, "How?"
"Get out of the car, now!" repeated the officer, hand ready to pull his weapon.
"Yeah, but how can I show you my hands and get out of the car?" asked Lip.
"Boy," shouted the cop, "do you have any weapons on you? Does your passenger?"
"Nope, except for my razor-sharp wit," called the seventeen-year-old boy.
"Please shoot him," Ian hollered.
The officer rolled his eyes and stomped over to the driver's side door, where Lip still had his hands on display. He yanked the door open and pulled the boy out.
"You, too: Out," the older man glowered at Ian, who nodded pushing his door open. Once he stepped out of the car, another cop grabbed his arm and pushed him up against the car.
After a quick pat down, both brothers were seated on the curb with their hands cuffed behind them.