Detective D. Case by Neal Goldy Page B

wakes?”
              “If he
does, we’ll tell him we saved his life. He was going to fall off that safety guard
right over there.” He pointed out the safety guard shining in the night. It looked
ghostly, Martin remarked, just hovering there like nothing else existed. And nor
will exist.
              “I can’t.”
              “Why the
hell not?” demanded Ray. “It’s not like he has a gun or anything.”
              “Ray, you’re
in this car with me, correct?”
              It took
a second for Ray to digest that. “Okay. So?”
              “How are
you – and I repeat you – supposed to know if that man we just hit has a gun on him
or not?”
              “Whoa,
whoa, whoa, hold it! Since when was it the both of us that jacked up that old man
down the road?”
              “Sorry,
I meant me. But who was the one who thought it a good idea to bring a nice big bottle
of jack with us?”
              “Dodge
suggested it, shithead. I just complied.” He altered his voice into Sweet Ray, a
voice Martin never agreed with. When you heard his voice, it sounded too nice; he
might’ve puffed sugar into his words. “Now, why won’t you be a dear and get out
of this car, walk itty-bitty all the way to where the nice
old man had been knocked from not your car, but from your stupidity, and see if
he’s well or not?”
              Martin
fumed. Steam came out of his ears like in the cartoons Ray used to watch. “For God’s
sake, Ray, aren’t you be the least bit scared that you just ran over someone?”
               A soft
pause came between the two. It could have been part of a trailer for a comedy where,
after the title credit, there would be a pause when the joke would come into
being to take the viewers into watching a poorly-made film.
              “Not really.”
              “You’re
insane.”
              “That’s
fear talking,” Ray said. “You know I’m not insane when I’m not high.”
              “Ha-ha,
now let’s get out of here before someone –”
              Martin’s
faced flashed a bright red. Sirens were flaring but they weren’t coming from an
ambulance or firefighter truck. None of them from this part of the city had red-and-blue
coming out of their sirens.
              Ray didn’t
want to look at Martin before, much less now. The man was practically crying.
              “Oh shit
oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit,” he babbled. He rested his head on the
wheel, sobbing like a goddam two-year-old.
              “Take it
easy, they won’t suspect us. Come to think of it, how did the police find us? Out
of all the places . . .”
              “Who gives
a damn?” Martin’s furious tears continued and they showed no sign of stopping. “We
need to hide, to get out of the car before they –”
              Somebody’s
finger tapped on Martin’s window glass.
              Martin’s
face twisted into a frightful look mixed with pain. He mouthed, “I don’t wanna go
to jail.”
              “If you
don’t want to, then open the window,” Ray said.
              Martin
obeyed. He rolled the window open, his arm cramping the lever as if he had suffered
through five years of child labor. “Good evening, officers.” He would have sounded
all right if he hadn’t repeated it until it wore off. The officer had to tell Martin
to quit it before he did. If only Ray could get in and do the talking . . .
              “Names?”
asked the officer.
              “Uh, well,
okay . . . I’m Martin Shaw and this is . . . this . . . this is uh . . . my friend
. . .  yeah, my friend Ram . . . I meant Ray – yes, Ray – and we were just . . .”
              “Just what were you two doing so early this morning?”
              “Driving,”
Ray said.