She took the package and put it in one of the big pockets of her long tweed topcoat.
Kells asked: “Have you got a gun?”
She nodded, patted her handbag. “I picked up the spick’s — the guy who was with Crotti.”
Kells kissed her. He said: “I’ll get word to you some way, or be back by tomorrow noon. Watch yourself.”
He limped to the door, through it into the other room.
Granquist followed him to the door, stood leaning against the frame; her face was dead white and she held her deep red lower lip between her teeth.
Kells spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Come on.” The driver jumped up and followed him to the outer door. Kells turned at the door, said, “Be seeing you,” to Borg. He did not look at Granquist. He went out and the driver went out after him and closed the door.
On Kenmore near Beverly Boulevard Kells leaned forward and tapped on the glass. The cab swung to the curb and the driver slid the glass. Kells asked: “Are you married?”
The driver looked blank for a moment, then said: “Uh huh — only we don’t get along very well.”
Kells smiled faintly in the darkness. “Maybe you’d get along better if you took her for a little vacation down to Caliente — or Catalina.” He held out four crumpled bills and the driver reached back and took them. He held them in the dim light of the taxi meter and whistled, and then he stuck the bills hurriedly in his pocket and said: “Yes, sir.”