Thoughts of milkshakes quickly faded two blocks from the Dairy Queen. The same headlights that had shown in Wade’s rear view mirror for the last six blocks were still there.
He slowed down, allowing the tail to come closer. The vehicle didn’t pull around him, but instead backed off when it got within a car’s length of Wade’s rear bumper.
It approached close enough for Wade to get four digits of the license plate number as they showed in reverse in his rear view mirror. Wade wrote the numbers down in the proper sequence on his hand with a ball point pen. By the number sequence, Wade knew his follower was not an unmarked police patrol car.
Wade pulled forward again, resuming normal speed. He made a left turn, and then followed it with a right turn at the next block. The tail was still following. Wade slowed down again. The car behind pulled closer and then fell back as it approached his vehicle.
He repeated the same pattern several more times. Wade slowed again, trying to get a better look at the passengers. The two men inside were middle-aged, wearing dark suits. They looked like mob enforcers. When the trailing car backed off this time, Wade down-shifted the four-speed floor transmission into second gear just before releasing the clutch and slamming the accelerator to the floor.
The two four-barrel carburetors sitting atop the Corvette manifold made a deep whooshing sound like air sucking through an industrial vacuum. The high-performance 283-cubic-inch Corvette engine screamed like a wild pig. Tire rubber squealed, and white smoke enveloped the rear fenders of Wade’s `55 Chevy. The acceleration pushed him back against the bench seat as he grabbed a tighter hold on the steering wheel, trying to control the beast.
Residents of the serene Garden District had either gone to bed or were watching the last late-night program on TV. Restful Garden District or not, Wade had no choice but to lose his followers before they got to him.
A click of the under-seat button with his left hand brought the bottom of his hidden dash compartment down. The handle of his old 1911 semi-automatic Colt .45 ACP popped out like a welcome friend who had come to join the party. Wade put his companion on the front seat next to him to enjoy the ride.
The black sedan following picked up speed, but the sound told Wade his followers had a smaller engine and was no match for what he had under the hood. And there would be no stopping to ask, Why are you following me? If these men got close enough to Wade, he’d be showered with bullets. If he stopped to engage them in a gun fight, the two probably had more fire power than a small army — with more men waiting nearby to jump in for help.
He was alone in this chase, and while Wade loved his ’55 Chevy, he didn’t want it to become his coffin. His only option was to lose or outrun his tail. As he picked up speed, his mind raced, trying to identify both the tail and the route he’d take.
He thought of old adversaries from the race track, gang members or Coletta’s old mob. These were older men, though. Could they be Lugassi’s men? Regardless of who’d sent them, this was no time to stick around and find out.
Approaching a red light, Wade quickly checked for oncoming traffic and down-shifted into third gear. The wheels squealed again as he blew past the red light doing sixty mph. He suddenly slowed back down to forty to make a left turn.
The black sedan was still following several blocks behind. He confirmed that they’d pursued him around the last turn. They weren’t particularly fast, but they were persistent, staying the course at a reasonable three-block distance. Wade’s frequent turns and ability to accelerate didn’t seem to bother them. They just kept coming.
Notwithstanding the docile neighborhood, Wade decided he had to go for it. He made several more left and right turns at high speeds. He thought: If nothing else, a high-speed chase in an upscale residential neighborhood should prompt someone to call the police.
He laughed out loud at his own thought. Here I am, wishing someone would call the police for my own protection. Wow, what a concept. If these were Lugassi’s men, by the time the police got there, he’d be dead. He pressed the pedal to the floor again, trying to create greater distance from his adversaries before the next turn.
Wade took the sharp left on Melpomene Street. He was now headed toward the comfort of St. Charles Avenue. The avenue was a tourist attraction, with a large neutral ground where the trolleys ran. It offered a greater hope of seeing patrol cars and more public witnesses. His followers couldn’t possibly want public attention, or better yet, to literally run into a police car. As they approached St. Charles Avenue his followers would soon be on public display. Let’s see if they blink.
The wheels of his ’55 squealed when Wade took the sharp right turn on the avenue headed toward Lee Circle and downtown. It was 11:30 in the evening. The avenue was quieter than Wade expected. Where the hell are all the tourists? Streetcars were no longer running for the evening. His hope for police protection and an avenue full of tourists quickly faded.
Wade considered driving down the neutral ground between the trolley tracks to draw more attention. He changed his mind when he suddenly saw an opening in the avenue that allowed him to make better time.
He gunned the engine, knowing the elevated statue of a stoic General Lee would soon come into view. Checking the rear view mirror, he could see that his pursuers were still there but had become inhibited by a double-parked car on the avenue. He could see men in each car honking and yelling out the window at each other. The delay allowed Wade to gain three more car lengths as he approached his next crossroads.
It afforded him a few more seconds to think about his options. Lee Circle was approaching. He didn’t like the idea of going around the General’s circle — too many uncertainties with approaching traffic.
He knew his best overall option was to get to Jake Pisano’s police building in the Quarter, but that was still a long way away. If he could get close to the police precinct building, his followers would drop the chase. The goal still seemed out of reach, and he was out of time and options.
Approaching Robert E. Lee atop his column at this speed might even cause the General to turn his head. The General had been surrounded by enemy soldiers many times before, after all. Wade just wanted a nod from him that he was making the right decision.
He checked the rear view mirror again. He now had a five-car lead. Lee Circle approached more quickly than he expected. Considered judgment could wait for another day. There was no more time to consider options; he had to rely on instinct.
Instinct indeed took over when he pulled down hard on the steering wheel under General Lee’s statue. Wheels squealed as he took a sharp right on Andrew Higgins Avenue at high speed. The old Confederate Museum on his left passed in a blurry flash.
The force of the turn made the left side of the car feel like it was coming off the ground. There was no more time to think. No sooner had he navigated the right turn then he made a hard left, in part to counterbalance the car. Dazed, the second turn put him on Camp Street facing Canal Street and his ultimate downtown destination.
Before readjusting from his turn on Camp Street, a large yellow light appeared as a square across the street. It was as though someone had painted a bright yellow direction sign for his benefit, and instinct alone told Wade to follow that light.
He pulled the wheel hard left again, not understanding where the light was coming from. Wade hit his brakes hard after making the turn to avoid the side of the building. Everything was happening so fast that his surroundings were a blur. When the car stopped, he was parked under the source of light. He had somehow landed in a commercial building that happened to have a roll-up door open at midnight while a crew unloaded a truck.