“Excuse me,” the Djin drawled, “but didn’t we just get into this whole brawl so you could keep your money?” He needn’t have worried. J.R. recoiled from the gold as if I had offered him poison.
“I didn’t help you for money!” he said through tight lips. “I know you don’t mean . . . Cripes! All you rich guys are the same. You think your money . . . Look! I work for my money, see! I ain’t no bum lookin’ for a handout!”
With that he spun on his heel and marched away, leaving me with an outstretched hand full of gold. It would have been a beautiful exit, if the alley hadn’t suddenly been blocked by a vehicle pulling in . . . a vehicle with blue and red flashing lights on top.
Chapter Thirteen:
“Who? Me, Officer?”
—J. DILLINGER
“I STILL DON’T see why we should be detained.” It seemed like hours that we had been at the police station, we being myself, J.R., and, of course, Kalvin, though the police seemed unaware of the latter’s existence and I, in turn, was disinclined to tell them. Despite our protests, we had been transported here shortly after the police had arrived. The thugs had been revived and placed in a separate vehicle, though I noticed they were handled far less gently than we were. Still, it was small consolation to being held against our will.
“You don’t? Well, then we’ll have to go over it all again slowly and see if you can get a hint.”
This was spoken by the individual who had been conducting our interrogation since we arrived. From the deferential way the other policemen treated him, I assumed he was a ranking officer of some sort. He possessed bad breath, a foul disposition, and what seemed to be an endless tolerance for repetition. As he launched into his oration, I fought an impulse to chant along with the now-familiar words. “We could charge you with Being Drunk in Public.”