There was a sudden clattering sound from the other end of the lot. It was the electric gate shutting again. I lifted myself up onto my knees and carefully looked around. I couldn’t see anyone. I closed the front grip on the Beretta and switched back to automatic fire. Crouching low, I dived into the Jensen, rammed the ignition key in, and prayed it would start. Its hefty V8 turned slowly and lazily over, once, twice — come on — three times — come on, come on — then on the fifth turnover all eight cylinders burbled into life, the rev counter whipped up to 1,500, the exhaust gave off an even powerful throbbing. I pulled the gearshift into drive and the car surged forward several inches; I released the handbrake and gently eased out into the aisle.
The car felt deliciously powerful — the slatted hood rising out ahead of me; the precise, firm, leather-bound wheel; the rich smell of Connelly hide rising up all around me from the seats and the panelling. She exuded a sensation of pent-up power waiting to be unleashed.
I was scanning every shape, every shadow; there were two more aisles to go before the gate. Suddenly a beam of light flooded in through the pedestrian entrance by the gate and two figures darted through. They stopped as they saw me and levelled pistols at me in unison. I dived below the dash just as darts of flame shot out of both the barrels. One bullet scored noisily along the roof, the other bored a neat hole in the passenger side of the windshield then bounced around inside the car, striking me on the ear like a wasp sting on about the sixth bounce.
Switching back to automatic fire, I opened the door, stuck my arm out and loosed off three shots in their general direction. I had little chance of hitting them but I wanted to gain myself a few seconds’ breathing space. Another bullet whanged into the body of the car just behind me; there was a third gunman. He must have come in the same door by the elevator that his punctured friend had used. The only option open to me was to get the hell out of there.
Still crouched below the dash level, I yanked the gear shift into low and booted the gas pedal down onto the floorboards. I stuck my head up above the dash just long enough to get the hang of the general directions. The engine gave a massive growl, the tyres screeched down the concrete for 50 feet as they clawed away at it for a grip. I wrenched at the wheel as the tail snaked this way then that, trying to keep her pointing in a straight line; then the rubber took, the car flattened its rear springs, the nose lifted up, my stomach was thrust into the seat back, and we catapulted forward. I stamped on the brakes as we howled round the right-hander to the exit ramp. Bullets cracked and clanged and blew out chunks of glass. Then I booted the car for all she was worth, bracing myself against the shock of hitting the ramp. The front wheels passed over the rubber bar for the automatic gate but the gate scarcely had time to lift more than a few inches before we smashed into it and through it with a terrible racket of tearing metal, the nose of the car tossing it aside as though it were cardboard; we came up to the top of the ramp doing close on 70 miles an hour. I stamped on the brakes as hard as I possibly could but we parted company with the ground, travelled several feet through the air, and came down with a thumping crash to find the goons’ Chrysler, which I’d seen earlier parked outside the main entrance to the block, had been backed up and was now broadside across my exit path. There was one luckless goon sitting in it and he had a full tenth of a second to realise his luck was out before we slammed straight into the passenger section of the car.
It caved in, like a tin hit with a karate chop, almost certainly killing him instantly; then, in a continuous movement on from this, the car was lifted a few feet up in the air, came down on its side, and started rolling over and over across to the other side of the road, where it flattened a mail box, slammed up against a wall and burst into flames. I was still heading towards it at a good 50 miles an hour. I spun the steering wheel as hard as I could round to the right and pulled on the handbrake with all my strength. The tail of the car came howling round; a car coming down the road swerved onto the pavement to avoid me. and I just clipped his wing. I threw the handbrake off and flattened the gas pedal again; the rev counter whipped into the red as we rocketed down the road. I flicked the gear shift out of low and we surged forward even more. We crossed the first intersection at 80, the second at over 100, then I slammed the brakes on and power-slid us into a quieter street.
I slowed down, not wanting to attract too much attention to myself, particularly not any passing cop car since bullet holes would require more than a cursory explanation. Sumpy was not going to be too happy with me when she saw the car — she was madly in love with it — but I couldn’t think about that now. I came out down the other end of the side street into 2nd Avenue and turned into the maze of lights of Manhattan’s fast-building Sunday traffic. I passed two or three blocks, then saw a very dark street and turned into it.
The street was deserted. I slid the Jensen in between two parked cars, got out and walked away from it as quickly as I could. I walked on down the street and emerged into the bright of 3rd Avenue. All the time I walked I looked carefully behind me. I didn’t think I was being tailed but I wasn’t going to take any chances.
I hailed a cab and climbed in. ‘Plaza Hotel.’ The driver cranked his meter lever, scribbled down the destination and we tramp-tramped off. The cab was filthy even by New York standards and the interior gave the impression that when it wasn’t being used to ferry passengers it was loaned out to Central Park Zoo as a monkey house.
After five blocks I spoke. ‘I’ll get out here.’
‘Nowhere near the Plaza, buddy.’ Then the driver turned to look at me and the expression on his face told me that, in spite of the fact that the interior needed a good hosing down, he was only too glad that the dripping wet wreck of humanity in the back was getting out. ‘Dollar forty.’
I shoved two sopping dollar bills into his hand. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Hey, what I meant to do with this — put ’em on the washing line?’
‘No. Buy a new cab with them.’
He drove off angrily, muttering a string of expletives peculiar to the idiom of the New York cab-driving fraternity.
I walked a block and hailed another cab going the opposite direction. I took another careful look around me and got in. ‘Travelodge, Kennedy.’ I relaxed deep into the seat, and in half an hour was standing inside the room of Mr and Mrs Webb.
Sumpy was angry, really angry. I’d never seen her angry before. ‘You’re crazy, that’s what you are. Fucking crazy. Or you’re a criminal on the run. Personally I think you’re just fucking crazy.’
I decided that now was probably not the best time to break the news to her about the car. ‘Calm down,’ I said.
‘Calm down? Calm down? You expect me to fucking calm down?’
There was a thick and very heavy telephone directory near where she was standing. It was neatly bound in simulated leather and had ‘Travelodge’ printed in gold letters on the outside. Sumpy flung it at me. There were also two glass ashtrays with ‘Travelodge’ printed on them. She flung those at me. ‘Fucking madman.’ There was a waste bin. It was in white plastic. It didn’t have ‘Travelodge’ on it. She flung that at me. Then she flung her handbag at me. I’d managed to duck everything else but the handbag got me in the stomach and a shower of keys, loose tampax, a diary, address book, lipstick, mirror, powder, roll-on deodorant, a clutch of parking tickets, and a mousetrap flew out.