3
I lay under the rug on the floor of Davis’s battered Ford and sweated. Davis sweated too, at least, he said he was sweating. “Gawd!” he exclaimed, “the place is lousy with cops. Any second now they’ll start shooting.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “They’re not likely to hit me. I’m too well protected down here.”
“But I’m not,” Davis grunted. He braked sharply. “That’s torn it. They’re signalling to me.”
“Keep your shirt on,” I said, feeling for my gun. “Maybe they want to ask the time. You know what coppers are.”
“Quiet!” he hissed dramatically
I relaxed, waited.
Voices came out of the night. Feet scraped on the road. What the hell are you doing out here?” a voice growled into the car.
“Hello, Macey,” Davis said. “I’m just passing through. How’s the battle coming? You caught him yet?”
“We will,” the voice said. “Where are you going?”