I pressed some money on him and walked myself out of the store. Shutting the door, I saw that the copy of Doctor Zhivago had been replaced by Gone With the Wind.
The street was full of wooden-paneled station wagons, blunt little roadsters with canvas tops, swept-back, tailless sedans. Only one dark, tailed, over-thyroided car moved through the traffic. It had a light on the roof.
I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric postal truck and ran for that light, leaving a trail of gaudy air battles checkering the street behind me.
I grabbed the handle on the door, opened it and threw myself into the back seat.
"Madison Avenue," I said from my diaphragm, without any breath behind it.
Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?"
"This isn't a taxicab?" I asked blankly.
"Park Police."
I sat there while we drove on for a few minutes.