We certainly didn’t want anybody to call out to that guy in the automobile.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered in Poetry’s ear, and didn’t need to have asked, on account of I heard a hissing noise coming from that left back tire.
“The crazy goof!” I said to Poetry, “He’s letting air out of his tire!”
And he was... “Sssssss!” It made me feel creepy, ’cause if a man who wanted to get away quick was foolish enough to let air out of his tires, he must be insane.
In another jiffy, the tire had stopped hissing and the guy, still grunting and mumbling to himself, like he was terribly mad, and also maybe a little scared, was down on his knees beside the other back tire and right away there was another hissing noise.
And right that second, the man stood up, and made a dive for the front seat again, zipped in and stepped on the starter, and started to rock the car again, then he backed up, and started forward again, and the wheels started spinning and—
“Hey!” Poetry and I hissed to each other at the same time, “The car is moving! He’s getting away!”
Poetry flashed his flashlight on the back of the car to get the license number, and it was 324–179, and was a Minnesota license. My mind took a picture of it quick, and I knew I’d never forget it, but just to make sure, I kept saying it to myself “324–179, 324–179, 324–179...”
Say, the second that car which was a black newish car was out of that sandy place, it shot down that road like a bullet.
There wasn’t a thing we could do, not a thing, I thought, and wondered if the girl was maybe in the back seat and why on earth didn’t we try to rescue her, if she was there?