Duffy ran forward again, keeping to the wall, hugging the dark shadows. Schultz from a doorway pulled him into the shelter.
He said, “I’ve got to get out of here quick. The bulls know me.”
Duffy said, “Gilroy’s dead.” He spoke as if he had been running a long way. “The cops can’t touch you. I’ve got protection.”
Schultz snarled in the darkness. “My rod’s hot,” he said.
Duffy held out his hand. “Change,” he said. “They won’t look at mine.”
Schultz passed his over, and took Duffy’s. They heard the wail of a siren, and a fast, closed car came swinging round the corner. Duffy stepped out into the street and waved. The car skidded to a standstill.
Four beefy faces looked at him from the car, suspiciously. He felt the hidden menace of guns, unseen in the dark, threatening him. He stood quite still.
Then one of them said, “It’s okay. I know this guy.”
Duffy stepped up to the car. “Morgan’s gang’ve just knocked Gilroy off,” he said slowly, putting his foot on the step. “I was there. You’ve come along at the right time.”
Hesitatingly, three of the cops got out of the car and stood undecided in the rain, then they turned and walked over to the Bronx.