Kells said: “You’d better drive, Jake. I haven’t got a license.”
Rose said he didn’t have a license either.
Rose drove. They went up Grand to Tenth, over Tenth to Main. When they turned into Main, headed south, Kells twisted around in the seat until he was almost facing Rose. Kells’ hands were lying idly in his lap. He said: “Who shot Doc?”
Rose turned his head for a second, smiled a little. “President Roosevelt.”
Kells licked his lips. “Who shot Doc, Jakie?”
Rose kept his eyes straight ahead. He turned his long chin a fraction of an inch towards Kells, spoke gently, barely moving his mouth: “Perry and the DA and all the papers say you did. That’s good enough for me.”
Kells chuckled. He said: “Step on it. Your chum from Kansas City won’t stay kicked up forever.” He watched the needle of the speedometer quiver from twenty-five to thirty-five. “That’ll do.”
They went out Main to Slauson, east to Truck Boulevard, south.
Kells said: “You’re a swell driver, Jakie — you should’ve stayed in the hack racket back in Brooklyn.” He looked at the slowly darkening sky, went on, as if to himself: “There must be a very tricky inside on this play. The rake-off on all the boats together wouldn’t be worth all his finaygling — shootings and pineapples and what have you.” He turned slowly, soft-eyed toward Rose. “What’s it all about?”
Rose was silent. He twisted his lips up at the corners. As they neared the P & O wharf where the Joanna motor launches tied up, Kells said: “You look a lot more comfortable now that you’re getting near the home grounds. But remember, Jakie — one word out of turn, one wrong move, and you get it right in the belly. I’m just dippy enough to do it. I get mad when a goose tries to run out on me.”