Free Night Squad by David Goodis Page B

city hall? What were you doing in city hall?”
      “They took me in for questioning.”
      “About what?”
      “Them hoods,” Corey said. “The ones we handled tonight at the Hangout.”
      Macy turned to Lattimore. “Whaddya say?”
      “I'm satisfied,” Lattimore said.
      “Same here,” Macy muttered. He smiled at Corey, a tinge of apology in his tone as he said, “You understand, don't you? It's part of the business. We gotta check all the moves.”
      “I understand.”
      “Good boy,” Macy said, and went on smiling at him and patted him on the shoulder. Then Macy turned away.
      “See you later, Corey,” Lattimore said.
      “Later,” Corey said. And just when he wasn't expecting the move, it came. It had all of Lattimore's talent and experience behind it, the timing perfect, the gauging accurate, and no wasted motion. Lattimore's hands held Corey's wrists, Corey's right arm pulled up high, bent behind his back, his left arm stretched out to the side. Lattimore forced him to his knees as Macy pivoted with the move and came in fast for the frisking. Corey told himself to accept it, there was nothing to do but accept it. He felt Macy's hand going under his shirt, saw Macy's hand coming out with the police pistol. Macy looked at the police pistol, then looked at Corey and smiled. The smile widened as Macy's other hand hit Corey's trousers pocket and then went in and came out with the badge and the card. Macy's smile was very wide as he looked at the card. He held it up for Lattimore to see. The parked car's glowing headlights seemed to spotlight the card, to focus directly on the words stamped slantwise: “Night Squad.”
      “Let him up,” Macy said.
      Lattimore released Corey's wrists. Corey, his knees on the pavement, now lifted himself slowly, grimacing slightly as he rubbed his right arm. He wondered if some of the ligaments were torn. From his shoulder to his elbow it felt as though white-hot wires were twisted and knotted along the inside of his arm.
      Macy continued to smile at him. The three of them stood there for a long moment, Lattimore behind Corey. Then Macy said to Lattimore, “Put a rod on him. Let him feel it.”
      Corey sighed, looking down at the pavement and shaking his head slowly. He felt the muzzle of the gun pressing against his back, a little to the side of his spine. “Let's move it,” Lattimore said, and they walked toward the car.
      In the car, Macy took the wheel, Corey and Lattimore sat in the back. Lattimore was sitting sideways, displaying the gun and holding it aimed at Corey's chest. They sat at opposite sides of the seat, and Corey was slumped forward with his hands loose in his lap. The car moved slowly along the narrow street.
      Nothing you can do , Corey told himself. You had a chance to do something and you let it slide past. I mean you coulda got rid of the badge and the card and the police pistol before you climbed outta the taxi. But you didn't figure on a frisk, and it's a cinch you didn't figure it was Grogan's people. Grogan said the deal was just him and yourself and the way he said it you were sure he meant it. And the weird thing is, you still believe that he meant it. Or maybe that's just confusion in your head. Maybe if you'd straighten out your thinking you could add this up and see it for what it is.
      The car made a left hand turn. Corey looked up and he frowned slightly. He knew it ought to be a right-hand turn if they were going to Grogan's. Some moments later the car made another turn and he told himself it didn't look as though they were going to Grogan's.
      He said, “Where you takin' me?”
      They didn't reply.
      “At least you can tell me.” He put a whine into his voice.
      “Tell him,” Macy said, and looked over his shoulder at Lattimore. “Go on, tell