“Okay. At the side entrance, sir.”
“Take him,” Bardin said to Conrad with a gesture of disgust. “And don’t forget, when you’re through with him, we want him back.”
“You’ll get him,” Conrad said. He looked at Pete. “Come on, Weiner.”
Pete crossed the room. He felt as if he were walking through a forest of menacing giants as he weaved his way around the big detectives who made no attempt to move out of his way and who watched him with hot, intent eyes.
A heavy steel-walled wagon stood at the side entrance in a big enclosed yard. Police stood around with riot guns at the ready. Six speed cops sat astride their motor-cycles, their engines ticking over, their hard, sun-burned faces watchful.
Pete climbed into the wagon and Conrad followed him. The steel door slammed shut and’Conrad pushed home two massive bolts.
“Sit down,” he said curtly.
Pete sat down. He heard the motor-cycle engines roar, and then the wagon jogged into life and began its guarded run to the City Hall.
Conrad took out a pack of cigarettes, shook out two, handed one to Pete, lit it and then lit his own.
“What are you going to do when a bondsman posts boil for you, Weiner?” he asked quietly.