Schultz shook his head. He was standing very still. Duffy looked again, then stiffened. Schultz was holding a shotgun in his hands; he was pointing it directly at Duffy.
Duffy said with stiff lips, “What’s the idea?”
“Put that dough on the floor,” Schultz said, “then you can skip.”
Duffy said, “The cops are just across the road. You can’t start anything.”
Schultz’s face was white, beads of sweat stood out on the backs of his hands. He said, “Don’t talk. Put the dough down quick.”
Duffy slowly put his hand inside his coat. The Colt-butt felt cold under his touch. Something was forcing him to pull that gun. A hidden instinct to keep what was his. His fingers closed over the butt and he braced himself. Then he jerked at the butt, at the same time he threw himself to one side.
There was a sharp choked roar from the shotgun, and something bit into Duffy’s side, sending him over on the oily concrete. White-hot wires of pain shot to his brain, making him feel sick and dizzy. He couldn’t think of anything, just the jagged pain eating at his chest.
Faintly he heard someone cursing him, and then hands roughly jerked him this way and that. When the blinding light went away from his eyes, he saw Schultz run out of the garage, holding a gun tightly in his hand.
Duffy pulled himself to his feet by holding on to the wing of the Packard. He heard Schultz fire once, then twice. The noise of Schultz’s gun was followed by a sharper report, as the cop in the car began shooting. The other cops were still in the Bronx.
Walking unsteadily over to the Buick, Duffy got in and started the engine. He tasted blood on his tongue, and he began to cough. Hard, tearing cough, that made his brain rattle in his skull. He could feel the blood running down his side, down his leg, into his shoe. Holding hard on to the wheel, he started the engine, slammed in the gear and shot out into the road. Schultz was still firing carefully at the cop from behind a stationary car. As Duffy swept past, both the cop and Schultz fired at him. The bullets made a cobweb on the window, but that was all. In his driving-mirror, he saw Schultz suddenly throw up his hands, and go over, like the felling of a tree. He had no time to see anything else, as the main road was ahead of him.