cooperate. I sank back and thought, “The hell with it.”
Banana fingers came out of the big one’s pocket and the walking fruit salad threw something in my lap. “This is a warning,” he said. “Consider it a warning.”
“A warning,” the driver repeated, in case I had periodic sieges of deafness.
“Stay away from the Alhambra,” the top banana said. “Forget about Longretti.”
“Larchmont,” I said. “Two and two makes Larchmont. The Larchmonts sent you. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Another car came around the corner and paused while the big pineapple corrected me with an open-palmed slap to my forehead. I rolled back. The car took over, made it around the mess by going up on the sidewalk, and rolled away. The two pineapples were in no hurry.
“See a doctor,” the bigger one said. “You hit your head when you fell out of the car.”
“I didn’t fall,” I reminded him. “You shot me out the door. You have a goddamn short memory. Think back. There I was, driving peacefully down the street, when you two decided to turn me into scrap metal.”
They looked at each other again. Rapid thought was not, their greatest strength.
“You are trying to be funny?” the smaller one asked.
I looked around for a more appreciative audience, maybe a cop, but none was around. Irony is useless when you have no audience.
“This is very serious business here, Peters,” the big one said, leaning down to talk to me.
“Very serious,” agreed the other one.
Theirs was not a class act.
“Don’t I look serious enough for you?” I tried.
“You should be frightened.”
“I’m frightened,” I conceded, though I wasn’t, at least not anymore. They probably weren’t going to kill me, though they might kick me once or twice for good luck. Kick a private eye and make a wish.
They had exhausted their repertoire, at least the verbal one, and were deciding what to do next when a police siren called from not too far away.
After exchanging looks the big one said, “No Alhambra.”
They walked slowly around my car to the tune of the siren, got in their slightly battered Chrysler, and drove away. My right hand touched the wad the big guy had thrown in my lap. It felt like money. My eyes tried to focus on the paper. It looked like money. I had just finished counting the $400 in $50 bills when the siren, attached to a black-and-white police car, screamed into my ear. I looked over at my former Ford. The trunk had held and Vance was safely tucked inside. Two uniformed cops I didn’t recognize came out and walked over to me even more slowly than the pineapples. Both cops were in their middle forties and in need of a rigid diet. I didn’t think now was the time to advise them on the diet.
I pocketed the money and tried to grin.
“What the hell is going on here?” cop one said.
These two didn’t promise to be any more alert than the pair who had just left. I had the dim hope, however, that the ones in the blue uniforms might be on my side, or at least not against me. I was proved wrong.
“Hit-and-run,” I explained. “Two guys dressed in pineapple shirts driving a Chrysler plowed into me and then came back and did it again. I’m lucky to be alive.”
“We’re all lucky to be alive,” said the second cop, who wore glasses. I looked up, shading my eyes from the sun with my hand. This one had the makings of a street-corner philosopher.
“I don’t buy it,” the other one said, looking down at me with suspicion. “Why would two guys plow into you? What’s the motive?”
“Lust,” I tried. “Or greed. How the hell do I know? Maybe they’re German spies disrupting normal life by random acts of terror against innocent citizens.”
“Citizen,” the first cop said. “I think you’ve been doing some afternoon drinking and plowed your vehicle into the wall is what I think you did.”
I gave him a long withering look and then tried to stand up. The cop with the glasses pushed me back
Banana fingers came out of the big one’s pocket and the walking fruit salad threw something in my lap. “This is a warning,” he said. “Consider it a warning.”
“A warning,” the driver repeated, in case I had periodic sieges of deafness.
“Stay away from the Alhambra,” the top banana said. “Forget about Longretti.”
“Larchmont,” I said. “Two and two makes Larchmont. The Larchmonts sent you. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Another car came around the corner and paused while the big pineapple corrected me with an open-palmed slap to my forehead. I rolled back. The car took over, made it around the mess by going up on the sidewalk, and rolled away. The two pineapples were in no hurry.
“See a doctor,” the bigger one said. “You hit your head when you fell out of the car.”
“I didn’t fall,” I reminded him. “You shot me out the door. You have a goddamn short memory. Think back. There I was, driving peacefully down the street, when you two decided to turn me into scrap metal.”
They looked at each other again. Rapid thought was not, their greatest strength.
“You are trying to be funny?” the smaller one asked.
I looked around for a more appreciative audience, maybe a cop, but none was around. Irony is useless when you have no audience.
“This is very serious business here, Peters,” the big one said, leaning down to talk to me.
“Very serious,” agreed the other one.
Theirs was not a class act.
“Don’t I look serious enough for you?” I tried.
“You should be frightened.”
“I’m frightened,” I conceded, though I wasn’t, at least not anymore. They probably weren’t going to kill me, though they might kick me once or twice for good luck. Kick a private eye and make a wish.
They had exhausted their repertoire, at least the verbal one, and were deciding what to do next when a police siren called from not too far away.
After exchanging looks the big one said, “No Alhambra.”
They walked slowly around my car to the tune of the siren, got in their slightly battered Chrysler, and drove away. My right hand touched the wad the big guy had thrown in my lap. It felt like money. My eyes tried to focus on the paper. It looked like money. I had just finished counting the $400 in $50 bills when the siren, attached to a black-and-white police car, screamed into my ear. I looked over at my former Ford. The trunk had held and Vance was safely tucked inside. Two uniformed cops I didn’t recognize came out and walked over to me even more slowly than the pineapples. Both cops were in their middle forties and in need of a rigid diet. I didn’t think now was the time to advise them on the diet.
I pocketed the money and tried to grin.
“What the hell is going on here?” cop one said.
These two didn’t promise to be any more alert than the pair who had just left. I had the dim hope, however, that the ones in the blue uniforms might be on my side, or at least not against me. I was proved wrong.
“Hit-and-run,” I explained. “Two guys dressed in pineapple shirts driving a Chrysler plowed into me and then came back and did it again. I’m lucky to be alive.”
“We’re all lucky to be alive,” said the second cop, who wore glasses. I looked up, shading my eyes from the sun with my hand. This one had the makings of a street-corner philosopher.
“I don’t buy it,” the other one said, looking down at me with suspicion. “Why would two guys plow into you? What’s the motive?”
“Lust,” I tried. “Or greed. How the hell do I know? Maybe they’re German spies disrupting normal life by random acts of terror against innocent citizens.”
“Citizen,” the first cop said. “I think you’ve been doing some afternoon drinking and plowed your vehicle into the wall is what I think you did.”
I gave him a long withering look and then tried to stand up. The cop with the glasses pushed me back
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