One thing the guys in Vince's group never quite figured out: Anything one of them had—a new switchblade knife, a nifty pair of warm gloves, a sexy new girlfriend—if Vince admired it, before long the item was his. He didn't steal it, or sneak behind anybody's back; he didn't have to. The guy who had it would give it up willingly, and then wonder afterward how it had happened. Even asking Vince wouldn't have gotten you anywhere: He didn't know himself. People just seemed to let him have whatever he wanted.