Phil and I had enjoyed the baseball game. The Senators had lost again. They lost quite often in those days, but Frank Howard had blasted a monumental home run into the upper deck of what was then D.C. Stadium, and that made the night worthwhile. Our week nights usually started with a ball game. Following that, we began our job in earnest. It was our job that brought us to this neighborhood tonight.

The dark blue, 1968 Ford sedan crept further down the street as we looked for the object of our hunt. Occasionally a passer-by would look our way and then move off into the darkness. For the most part, however, the street was deserted.

Most people who came into contact with me through my job later said that they didn’t like me. I’m a nice enough guy, alright, but the nature of my job was not a pleasant one and making friends was not part of it. Therefore, people who saw me moving through the night, or had to deal with me the following day, never found my presence particularly joyful. This evening nothing would be different. Phil and I wouldn’t make any new friends.

We reached the end of the first street and turned left onto a new one. This one proved to be as unproductive as the first, and at the end we turned left again. We had circled the project in the manner we were now so used to. Several times in the past weeks we had done this ritual only to be disappointed.

“Let’s try that one more time,” I said to Phil. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.” We swung back around the front of the apartment development and started through again. Phil looked at his watch, “It’s’ 1:15.” Again the first street proved unproductive, but as we started up the second, something caught my eye. “Look at that,” I said suddenly. “Damn!” Phil exclaimed. “That could be it!” He tossed his cigarette out the driver side window, and both of us leaned toward the passenger side as we inched nearer to the car that we had spotted. Our eyes squinted and darted trying to make out the license plate. “That’s it!” we both said at the same time. From that moment on, we would move on instinct. No words would be spoken.

Phil stopped the sedan directly in front of the 1968 Torino Cobra. We jumped out, and using a coat hanger, I had the driver’s door open in a flash. Phil meanwhile was watching for potential trouble. I moved to the hood and popped it open. My alligator clips were on in a second and with a screwdriver, I by-passed the ignition switch. The 428 cubic inches of engine roared to life instantly. As I climbed into the driver’s seat, I realized that I had burned my arm on the exhaust. The car was still hot.

I tested the gas pedal, nodded to Phil, and he dropped the hood. He slid across the seat of the sedan, closing the passenger door behind him. As he moved his car, I went by him in a cloud of dust, tires squealing. The speed and power of the Torino Cobra were tremendous, but it was the speed and skill with which Phil and I worked that was key. Our life depended on our teamwork; for we were repossessors. One error in timing, and an irate, delinquent owner would put bullet holes in either of us, our car, or his own car. Tonight all had gone well, though, and the “Snatch Man” had snatched another car. Tomorrow was a whole new ball game.