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sidewalk and slamming my face up against the steering wheel. |
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There was a typical, if brief, E.G. Wages response to the mishapa string of unbridled profanity punctuated by frequent checks to see if the old proboscis was splattered all over my face. I'll admit to being a little paranoid about the aforementioned beak simply because it has been battered out of shape so many times over the past half century. |
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The other reflexes were still working, though. I unsnapped my harness, thrust my shoulder into the door and tumbled out onto the damp asphalt surface of the street. Three more shots shattered the stillness, and I started clawing my way toward the curb. In the murky twilight up ahead of me, I could see Madden's four-by-four sitting at a right angle to the street and steaming; one tire was flat. Jake was hovering off to one side, the long-barreled .38 clutched in his ham-sized fist. At this distance I couldn't tell much else about the situation. |
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I was still trying to catch my breath and trying to get a reading on the situation. "What the hell s going on?" I shouted. |
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Jake gave me a shushing motion, finger to the lips, and stared at the front of Palmer's store. |
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At that point I started to inch myself up on the curb next to the steaming Z. The |
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