She muttered something unintelligible and lay down on her side across the back seat.
They turned swiftly down Cherokee and a spurt of name came out of a parked, close curtained limousine to meet them, lead thudded, bit into the side of the car. Borg stepped on the throttle, they plunged forward, past.
Kells looked back at Granquist. She was lying with her eyes tightly closed and her face was very white. He put one arm back toward her and she rose suddenly to her knees, put her hands on his shoulder.
He smiled. “We’re all right, baby,” he said softly. “They build these cars in Detroit — that’s machine-gun country.”
Borg was crouched over the wheel. He spoke out of the side of his mouth: “Are they coming?”
Kells was looking back, shook his head. “They’re turning around — they were parked the wrong way.” Granquist slid back to the seat.
They turned west on Yucca to Highland, jogged up Highland to Franklin, turned west on Franklin. They stopped between Sycamore and La Brea a little while and watched through the glass oval in the back of the car; the limousine had evidently been lost.
Borg got out and looked at the side of the car.
“It must have jammed,” he said. “Four little holes, and a nick on one of the headlights. One of ’em missed the carburetor by about an inch — that was a break.”
Kells said: “Let’s go over and see how Faber is making out.”