I thought she was going to explode.
“My good man,” she said, after a tense pause. “I am Lydia Hamilton, the Goldfield Production star.”
I had never heard of her, but then I seldom went to the movies. Bones apparently had, because he sucked his teeth and goggled at her.
“I don’t care if you’re George Washington’s grandmother or even Abe Lincoln’s aunt, you’re pinched,” the cop said. “The charge, if it interests you, is being drunk while in charge of a car. Now come on, we’ll all take a trip to the station.”
I thought the girl was going to strike the cop; so did he, because he took a quick step back. But she controlled herself, said, “You’ll be sorry you started this,” walked to the Cadillac.
“Hey, you ain’t fit to drive,” the cop said. He looked at me. “Take her over to the station, pal. You’ll be wanted as a witness, anyway. Better send the dinge over too.”
I didn’t want to go, but there was nothing else I could do. I told Clair I’d be right back, asked Bradley to keep an eye on the station, and went over to the Cadillac.
“I’m not having that rat drive me,” the girl said.
“Look, sister,” the cop said in a bored voice, “I’ll send for the waggon if you like. You’re under arrest, and you can come to the station any way you like, but you’ll come.”
She hesitated, then got into the Cadillac. She threw the ignition keys at me, hitting me in the face. I picked them off the floor, got in beside her, shifted the gear lever from bottom to neutral, trod on the starter.