“Oh, yes. If we’re hit, this old tank has to be prettied up, that’s all. But I should not have to tell them. Rockford isn’t so bad; he’s just a Syndicate punk, an enforcer who took a fall. But Charlie—the one riding Shotgun—is mean. An XYZ. Committed his first murder at eleven. He—” Steel shutters slid up around them and covered the bulletproof glass. “We must be entering the A.A.”
Inside lights came on as shutters darkened windows.
Mrs. Branca said, “You make it sound as if we were in more danger from your mobiles than we are from the bad zone.”
He shook his head. “Not at all, my dear. Oh, I concede that any rational society would have liquidated them—but since we don’t have capital punishment I make use of their flaws. Both are on probation paroled to me, and they like their jobs. Plus some other safe-” The rap-rap-rap! of an automatic weapon stitched the length of the car.
In that closed space the din was ear-splitting. Mrs. Branca gasped and clutched at her host. A single explosion, still louder, went POUNGK! She buried her face in his shoulder, clung harder. “Got ‘im!” a voice yelped. The lights went out.
“They got us?” she asked, her voice muffled by the ruffles of his shirt.
“No, no.” He patted her and put his right arm firmly around her. “Charlie got them. Or thinks he did. That last was our turret gun. You’re safe, dear.”
“But the lights went out.”
“Sometimes happens. The concussion. I’ll find the switch for the emergency lights.” He started to take his arms from around her.
“Oh, no! Just hold me, please—I don’t mind the dark. Feel safer in it—if you hold me.”
“As you wish, my dear.” He settled himself more comfortably, and closer.
Presently he said softly, “My goodness, what a snuggly baby you are.”
“You’re pretty snuggly yourself. . . Mr. Salomon.”
“Can’t you say ‘Jake’? Try it.”
“‘Jake.’ Yes, Jake. Your arms are so strong. How old are you, Jake?”
“Seventy-one.”
“I can’t believe it. You seem ever so much younger.”
“Old enough to be your grandfather, little snuggle puppy.
I simply look younger. . . in the dark. But one year into borrowed time according to the Bible.”
“I won’t let you talk that way; you’re young! Let’s not talk at all, Jake. Dear Jake.”
“Sweet Eunice.”
Some minutes later the driver’s voice announced, “All clear, sir,” as the shutters started sliding down—and Mrs. Branca hastily disentangled herself from her host.
She giggled nervously. “My goodness!”
“Don’t fret. It’s one-way glass.”
“That’s a comfort. Just the same, that light is like a dash of cold water.”
“Um, yes. Breaks the mood. Just when I was feeling young.”
“But you are young—Mr. Salomon.”
“Jake.”
“’Jake.’ Years don’t count, Jake. Goodness me, I got skin paint all over your shirt ruffles.”
“Fair enough, I mussed your hair.”
“My hair I can comb. But what will your wife say when she sees that shirt?”
“She’ll ask why I didn’t take it off. Eunice dear, I have no wife. Years ago she turned me in on a newer model.”
“A woman of poor taste. You’re a classic, Jake—and classics improve with age. Does my hair look better now?”
“Lovely. Perfect.”
“I’m almost tempted to ask to have us driven back into that bad zone so you can muss it again.”
“I’m more than ‘almost tempted.’ But I had better take you home—unless you want to go with me over into Canada? Back by midnight, probably.”
“I want to and I can’t, really I can’t. So take me home.
But let me sit close, and put your arm around me but don’t muss my hair this time.”
“I shall be careful.” He gave his driver the coordinates of Mrs. Branca’s flat, then added, “And get there without going through any more Abandoned Areas, you trigger-happy bandits!”
“Very good, Mr. Salomon.”
They rode in silence; then Mrs. Branca said, “Jake, you were feeling quite young, just before we were interrupted.”
“I’m sure you know it.”
“Yes. I was ready to let you, and you know that, too. Jake? Would you like a skin pic of me? A good one, not one taken by that snoopy character who charges so much.”