Kells still stood with his shoulders a little together, his eyes almost closed.
Crotti swayed once to the left. His expression was querulous, worried; the revolver fell from his hand, clattered on the floor. One of his legs gave way slowly and he slipped down on one knee, fell slowly heavily forward on his face.
Kells turned his head swiftly, looked up. Borg was grinning down at him from the balcony; the short blunt blue revolver was lisping smoke in his hand. The Filipino was bent over, holding his wrist between his hand and knees. He whirled slowly on one foot — his hat had fallen off and his broad flat face was twisted with pain.
Borg said: “By God! Just like they do in the movies.” Hesse was at the door.
Borg swung the revolver around toward him, said: “Wait a minute.”
MacAlmon hadn’t moved. He was still sitting on the edge of the divan, staring at Crotti. Kells said: “Let’s go.”
They stopped at a drugstore near Sixth and Normandie. Borg pulled up ahead of them in the other cab, and he and the driver transferred Kells’ luggage to the one cab.
Kells said to the driver: “You can call up and report where this cab is if you want to.” He gestured toward the second cab. “The driver is out at the joint we just left — Apartment L.”
Borg said: “Maybe. They’re probably all out of there by now.”
“They wouldn’t take the driver.”