Free Night Squad by David Goodis

nothing on him. He's listed as a solid citizen, honest taxpayer and respected member of the community and so forth. He's got money, he's got connections, he's got a lot of people scared. The ones he couldn't scare, you don't see around no more. You don't see them because they're in boxes; buried.”
      Corey stiffened slightly.
      “What we need is evidence,” McDermott said. “We need tangible proof that he's a lawbreaker. And I don't mean jaywalking. It's gotta be something big and it's gotta be airtight and—what's the matter?”
      Corey was shaking his head.
      “What's the matter?” McDermott said. “You backing out? You don't wanna know who he is? You afraid to know?”
      That just about says it , Corey told himself.
      The detective-sergeant spoke very softly. “You got the jitters, there's no use talking further. We'll call it off and you can walk out.”
      Corey moved his hand toward the trousers pocket where he'd put the badge and the card. His hand went in and he told himself to take out the badge and the card and toss them onto the desk and go for the door. Do it , he begged himself. Get out while the getting is good. Like that fly got out. That fly who didn't hafta be told twice.
      His hand moved deeper into his pocket and came in contact with the metal of the badge. In that instant he felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin.
      He grimaced. He took his hand from his pocket and there was nothing in his hand. He heard himself saying, “All right, I'll go to work on it. Who is he?”
      “I'm trusting you with this,” McDermott said. “You come in on this, you're in all the way. You're under oath—”
      “All right, all right,” Corey cut in irritably, impatiently. “Lemme have it. Who is he?”
      McDermott said quietly, matter-of-factly, “His name is Walter Grogan.”
       

5

          It was ten minutes later and Corey sat in the rear of a taxi headed toward the Swamp. He asked the driver what time it was and the driver said twenty after four. Then the driver yawned. The taxi was moving very slowly and the driver steered with one hand, his free arm resting languidly across the top of the backrest. Ahead a signal light showed green and the driver made no effort to get through it before it flashed red. But when it was red the taxi went past it. A milk truck was crossing the intersection and the truck and the taxi almost collided. The driver of the truck leaned out and yelled, “You louse!” and the taxi driver waved wearily and said, “Go shove it—” and then let out another yawn.
      “You sleepy?” Corey asked the taxi driver.
      The driver didn't answer. The taxi was crawling, doing less than twenty miles per hour.
      “You wanna sleep, do it in bed,” Corey said.
      The driver turned and looked at him.
      “You heard me,” Corey said.
      Facing the windshield, the driver muttered, “I like when they tell me how to drive.”
      “You call this driving?”
      The driver gave him another look. “Why don't you relax?”
      “All right,” Corey smiled dimly. “Let's both relax.”
      The taxi made a turn. Corey saw two tiny points of light sliding across the rearview mirror, then vanishing. Some moments later the points of light showed again in the rearview mirror. The taxi made another turn and it happened again.
      The driver said, “I'm not hard to get along with. I'm just tired, that's all.”
      “Look, I'm not pushing you,” Corey said mildly. “Just get me there, all right?”
      “Sure.” The driver sat up straighter and steered with both hands. The taxi picked up to thirty miles per hour. The rearview mirror showed two tiny points of light. The taxi made a turn; the points of light faded from view. Corey waited to see it again and it showed