Olaf, who was getting bored with this conversation, said, “Do you fellas think the Dixie Kid would make a show against O’Hara? I gotta chance to match him, but I’m not sure it would be much of a fight.”
For the next fifteen minutes we argued back and forth about the Dixie Kid’s merits, then looking at the clock above the bar I saw it was time I got moving.
“I’ll have to leave you guys,” I said, and slid off the stool. “I’ll be around at the gym one of these days. See you then.”
Olaf said he would be glad to see me any time, and would I give his best respects to Paula.
Hughson said to tell Paula he dreamed of her most nights. I left them buying more whisky.
As I crossed the room to the exit I spotted the Wop with the dirty shirt cuffs sitting at a table near the door, still engrossed in his newspaper, and as I pushed open the double swing doors, he casually folded the paper, shoved it into his pocket and got to his feet.
I walked swiftly to where I had parked the Buick, got in, started the engine and drove down the dark alley. From somewhere in the rear another car engine roared into life and a set of parking lights swam into my driving-mirror.
I drove along Princess Street, keeping my eye on the driving-mirror. The car following me was a Lincoln. The blue, anti-dazzle windshield prevented me from seeing the driver, but I guessed who it was.
At the bottom of Princess Street I turned right into Felman Street. The traffic was thinning out, and I drove fast, but the Lincoln had no trouble in sitting on my tail. Ahead of me I could see the red neon sign of the cafe where J had arranged to meet John Stevens. Just before I reached the cafe I pulled sharply into the kerb and braked hard. The Lincoln was following me too closely to do anything but drive straight on. It went past, slowing down.
I nipped out of the Buick and dodged into a dark shop doorway. The Lincoln had pulled into the kerb fifty yards ahead. The Wop got out and looked down the street without attempting to conceal his actions. He was quick enough to spot I had left the Buick, and he walked towards my parked car, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.