Borg said slowly: “I thought south — I guess I’m a lousy guesser.”
“I told the cab driver who turned us in, north — they’ll probably figure us for south — the Border.” Kells spoke hoarsely, with a curious halting lisp. He leaned forward and began coughing again.
Granquist swung the car right, around another corner. Borg was looking back. After a couple of blocks, he said: “I think we’ve lost ’em.”
Kells sat up again as Granquist turned east on Sunset Boulevard. He said: “The other way, baby — the other way.”
“We’re going to a doctor’s.” She was almost crying. Kells put his two hands forward and pulled the emergency brake back hard. The car skidded, turned half around, stopped.
Kells said, “Drive, Fat,” wearily. He looked down at Granquist, went on patiently: “Listen. We’ve got one chance in a hundred of getting away. Every police car and highway patrol in the county is looking for us by now...”
Borg had opened the door, jumped-out. He ran around the car and opened the other door and climbed in. Granquist and Kells moved over to make room for him.
Then, before Borg could close the door, a car bore down on them on Borg’s side — a car without lights. Yellow-orange flame spurted from its side as it swerved sharply to avoid hitting them — Borg sank slowly forward over the wheel, sank slowly sideways, fell outline door into the street. The car was going too fast to stop suddenly — it went on toward the next corner, slowing. Flame spurted from its rear window; the windshield shattered, showered Kells and Granquist with glass.
Kells moved very swiftly. He crawled across Granquist, slammed the door shut, had flipped off the emergency and was headed west, in second, before the other car had turned around. He shifted to high, pressed the throttle to the floor. Granquist was slumped low in the seat. Kells glanced at her, asked: “You all right, baby?”
“Uh huh.” She pressed close against him.