The little man came forward, took the bills and examined them. One was a hundred, the other a fifty. “Do I have to tell it in court?” he asked.
Kells smiled, shook his head. “You probably won’t have to tell it anywhere.”
The driver said: “Thank you very much, sir.” He went to the door and put on his hat.
Kells said: “Wait a minute.” He spoke to Cullen: “Can I use your heap, Willie?”
Cullen nodded without enthusiasm, without turning his head.
Kells turned to the driver. “All right, Paddy. You’d better stall for an hour or so. Then if anyone asks you anything, you can tell ’em you picked me up here — on this last trip — and hauled me down to Malibu. No house number — just the gas station, or something.”
The driver said, “Right,” went out.
“Our high-pressure police department finally got around to Stella.” Kells went back to his chair, sat down on the edge of it and grinned cheerfully at Cullen. “How much cash have you got, Willie?”
Cullen gazed tragically at the ceiling.
“It was too late to catch the bank,” Kells went on, “and it’s a cinch I can’t get within a mile of it in the morning. They’ll have it loaded.”