Just like that. Duffy sighed and groped for a cigarette. “Let’s not fight,” he said, “we’ve got enough on our hands.”
“I’m not fighting,” was all she said.
They rode the next three blocks in silence, then Duffy said, “You turn right here.”
She swung the wheel. Duffy thought she handled the big Cadillac as if she were part of it. She judged distance to the closeness of the paint on her fender and the car threaded its way through the traffic without losing speed at any time. By uncanny anticipation she beat the lights most times. The Cadillac had plenty under the hood, and a touch on the pedal was enough to make it sweep forward like an arrow.
They came upon the burial ground as the clocks were striking two. Duffy leant forward. “Take it easy,” he said, “this is a lonely burg, but someone may be here.”
She stopped the car by the iron gates. Duffy opened the off door and got out. There were no lights to be seen in the burial ground; it was a pretty dark night.
Duffy was glad he wasn’t Irish. The place was creepy. He turned to the car. “You wait here,” he said. “I’m just going to take a look round.”
She opened the door and stepped into the road. “I’m not staying here alone,” she said.
Duffy wasn’t surprised. He walked to the iron gates and pushed, they yielded, and swung open.
“Suppose you back the bus in,” he suggested, “then we’ll be off the road.”