Free Night Squad by David Goodis Page A

again. Now the taxi was nearing the bridge that connected the city with the Swamp. In the rearview mirror the twin lights were the eyes of a goblin saying, peek-a-boo, I see you. And then, crossing the bridge, the interior of the taxi was slashed with the ribboned reflections of the bridge lights and it interfered with the pattern in the mirror. Corey turned and looked through the rear window and saw the headlights far behind. The taxi was doing thirty-five. He said to the driver, “Slow down just a little.”
      “What's the matter now?”
      “Just slow down. Not too much.”
      The taxi continued across the bridge at a little over twenty-five miles per hour. Corey looked back at the headlights of the other car. The distance between the two cars remained the same.
      Then the taxi came off the bridge and onto Addison Avenue and Corey said, “Make a turn. That next little street.”
      “You said Fourth and—”
      “Forget that,” Corey said. “Just make the turn.”
      “Left or right?”
      “Either way.”
      As the taxi made the turn onto the narrow side street, the driver said, “What's happening here? What the hell's happening?”
      “Don't worry about it,” Corey said. Just then he saw the headlights of the other car showing in the rearview mirror. Against his side he could feel the pressure of the police pistol, issued to him just before he'd walked out of Room 529 in city hall. The pistol was loaded and for a moment he allowed his fingers to glide along the leather of the holster under his shirt. The taxi was slightly more than halfway down the narrow street and he looked at the meter and saw it read a dollar-twenty. He said to the driver, “Stop here.”
      The taxi came to a stop. Corey gave the driver two dollars and got out of the taxi, slowly, not looking backward. The driver started to hand him the change and he said, “That's all right.”
      “Thanks.” The driver looked as if he was caught between worry and curiosity. Then it was only worry, and he was in a hurry to get away. He faced forward, his grip tight on the steering wheel. The taxi moved off.
      There were no lampposts and no lit windows along the narrow street. The only glow was the light from the headlights of the car which came slowly toward Corey as he walked near the curb. His back was to the car. It's like a shell-game , he thought. You pick up the wrong shell, you're done. And the odds are always two-to-one against you. At least two-to-one, that is. In this case it's more like fifty-to-one. But that's the gamble you gotta take. There just ain't no other way to play this deal.
      He kept walking along, near the curb. He heard the engine of the car coming closer. The glare of the headlights splashed onto him but he still kept his back to the car. Then the car moved up alongside Corey and came to a stop. A voice said, “Hello, Corey.”
      He turned and looked. There were two men in the car. He recognized them, members of Grogan's outfit. Earlier tonight they'd been in the poker game in the backroom of the Hangout.
      “Hello,” he said, and started to walk on.
      “Wait, Corey. We wanna talk to you.”
      He stopped. They got out of the car and came toward him. One of them was medium-sized and long-jawed, an ex-con in his middle thirties named Macy. The other was tall and close to fifty, also an ex-con and a former minor league ball player who still kept himself in shape. His name was Lattimore. They were both specialists in strong-arm and liquidation and they took their occupation very seriously. These ain't the ordinary hoodlums , Corey thought. These are the experts.
      They were standing very close to him. Lattimore said, “We seen you gettin' out of a taxi. Where were you comin' from?”
      “City hall.”
      Macy leaned in toward him. “How come