Redheads Die Quickly — Gil Brewer

Caffery was tired. He was beat. There were a lot of ragged years strung out behind him, and they all amounted to nothing. There was only the one way left to make it, and he was worn out trying. It was a rough program; a caper that had frayed the last of his nerves, ruined what was left of his digestion, weakened his heart, and helped bring back the old migraine of his youthful mob days until sometimes he thought he would flip his curly auburn-wigged lid.

Only eight hundred thousand dollars was worth any kind of trouble. That, my friend, was a lot of moo. It was a lettuce patch worth fighting for.