He was no fool. I guess he saw I was getting ready to start something, so he dug his gun into me. “Pipe down,” he said curtly.
The big car flashed through the empty streets with hardly a roll. In the faint light from the dashboard I could make out the outline of Gus’s head. He kept his eyes on the road and drove hard.
“Where the hell do you think you’re takin’ us?” I asked for something to say.
The fat guy said, “Did you hear that, Gus? He wants to know where we’re goin’.”
Gus shrugged, but didn’t say anything.
I wanted to keep the fat guy’s mind off Mardi, so I kept talking. “What’s your name?” I asked. “I get kind of embarrassed callin you ‘greaseball’.”
He turned a little. I could see he was getting mad. “You won’t get anywhere with that stuff,” he said evenly. “Suppose you keep your trap shut; I’m gettin’ tired of hearing your yappin’.”
Mardi hadn’t said a word the whole time. I couldn’t see much of her, and when I leant forward the fat guy gave me a hard one in the chest with his elbow.
I thought when the time came for a show-down, I was certainly going to give this punk the works.
I suddenly recognised the sound of a ship’s siren. So we were going back to Wensdy Wharf again. Sure enough, in a few minutes, the car turned into the wharf and pulled up outside the same house.