Free The Damned by John D. MacDonald Page A

that it couldn’t get close enough to shore. They were propping long heavy planks from the end of the ferry to the shore, blocking them up.
    He stood in the road and stared at the ferry. Suddenly he heard a loud frightening roar behind him. He looked quickly back over his shoulder, and then made a wild sprawling leap for the side of the road. The front left fender of the big black sedan didn’t miss him by more than six inches as the horn blared insolently.
    Phil sprawled in the dust. A sharp rock cut his scrawny bare knee. He got up, grunting with anger. He inspected the knee, and then marched down to where the black sedan had stopped. There were two identical sedans.
    Phil marched to the driver of the first one. He didn’t stop to notice that the man was Mexican or that he was in uniform. Phil planted his feet and yelled, “You tryn a kill me, hah? You nuts or something?”
    The driver didn’t even turn his head to look at Phil. Two men got out of the other side of the car and came around to him. Phil turned on them and said, “Tell your pointy-headed driver that I got a notion to…” His voice dwindled off as he noticed that both these men were Mexican, that they both had broad faces, broad shoulders, annoyed expressions, and guns on their hips.
    “All I’m trying to say,” Phil said more gently, “is that it looked to me as though that jerk behind the wheel was…”
    A big hand was placed flat against Phil’s chest. He went sharply backward and sat on the seat of his pants some six feet away. It was not only an indignity. It hurt like hell. He felt as though he had hit hard enough to fracture something. The hefty men turned their backs on him. Others got out—of the same type. He was ignored. They chatted. In the back seat of the lead sedan sat a massive man, white hat brim exactly level above sleepy eyes, ponderous belly resting on his thighs.
    Riki and Niki helped him up, one on each side.
    “Darling, he hurt you!”
    “I don’t exactly feel kissed. What the hell’s going on?”
    He saw some of them turn and stare at him, supported on either side by a tall blonde. They looked amused. His restless mind started to twist the situation into a possible visual gag. If anything could amuse those gorillas, it must have a slant.
    He felt tenderly of his poorly padded posterior and arched his back. “Unhand me, gals. Those kids don’t play, do they? Hey, look at all those Mexicans coming around to goop at the big boy in the back seat. Who is he, anyhow? The Mexican Gary Cooper?”
    The boards had been blocked and the first car of the two aboard the ferry began to inch its way gingerly down.
    Phil noticed that all of the men seemed to be armed. He noticed the low numbers of the licenses on the black sedans. Light dawned.
    “Gals,” he said firmly, “that guy is a politician. Remember the one who came into the club? Yessir. A local Mr. Big.”

 
Chapter Six
     
    BILL DANTON, the lanky Texan, saw the two black sedans come roaring down the road, saw the horn blast the sparrowy little man in the red pants into the ditch, he had a sinking feeling that seemed to be centered around his heart.
    He saw the little man object, saw him knocked down, saw the flamboyant twins pick him up. Then Bill moved to where he could look into the lead car, see the face of the man on the back seat. And he knew that there had been nothing wrong with his hunch. The fat sleepy man would no more wait a turn in line than he would try to fly like a zopilote, one of the big circling buzzards.
    Bill drew back into the natural manner of any Mexican when confronted with a powerful and unscrupulous fellow citizen. He gave all of his attention to the cigarette he was smoking.
    John Gerrold jumped down and came around to the front of the truck. His eyes looked a little wild. “What’s all this about? Why didn’t they stop at the end of the line? What are they doing down here?” His pale-haired wife appeared beside him. She too was looking