Having missed the collision, Sellers slammed on his brakes and we skidded to a stop when a road patrol car flashed out of line and the man at the wheel shouted, “I’ll get him!”
“Throw the book at him!” Sellers yelled. “Give him the works on five counts.”
The officer nodded.
Sellers stepped on the throttle once more, saying, “Guys like that should be locked up and kept locked up.”
“That’s right,” I told him. “Here you are tearing out on a matter of life and death and…”
He flashed me a sidelong glance. “Better save your sarcasm. You may need it later on.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll save it. I probably will need it.”
Another three minutes, and I knew where he was taking me. I braced myself for what was bound to happen and sat tight. The KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT seemed drab and shoddy by daylight. At night, the neon signs in front had been arranged so that it gave a certain colourful glamour to the front. The motorist could see the sweep of the curved gravel driveway, the red and green lights, the cottages arranged in neat, orderly rows, with lights illuminating only the white stucco fronts and showing the neat whiteness of the gravel. But by daylight the backs of the cottages were apparent and the white stucco showed that it was badly in need of paint and repair, chipped here and there, grimy with dirt.
Sergeant Sellers swung the car into the driveway. “Come on in, Lam,” he invited.
I followed him in.