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whipping around a corner, and out of his way.
The typical L.A. traffic helped to slow the red car. Remo came abreast of it
before it had cleared the block.
"Pull over!" Remo called, flashing an ID badge. It didn't matter which. The
guy wouldn't be able to read it from this distance anyway.
The driver refused to stop. He floored the pedal, and shot out in front of a
cab as it came around the corner. The cab driver hit the brakes, spun out of
control, and bounced up on the sidewalk.
Remo got out of his way just in time. The driver banged his face on the inside
of his windshield. When he took his face out of his hands, Remo saw it was as
red as a candied apple.
Angrily, the driver threw the cab into reverse, spun around, and raced off
after the red convertible. Remo raced after the taxi. He drew up behind it,
his feet seeming to float along the street. When he was in perfect sync with
the cab, Remo gave a graceful leap.
The leap looked weak. To a bystander, the cab should have outdistanced Remo
easily. Instead, Remo's right foot touched the cab's trunk. His left kept
going and found the roof. The other joined it.
Arms wide, bending at the waist like a surfer, Remo kept his balance as the
taxi accelerated. He called down, "Don't lose him!"
"Who the fuck are you?" the cabby yelled up.
"A creative passenger," Remo shot back.
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"What's your beef with that guy?"
"Tell you when we catch up."
"Well, I want that guy's ass!"
"I won't need that part," Remo said. "It's yours."
The red convertible screeched through an intersection. The cab driver took the
right-hand turn before it. Remo leaned into the turn, keeping his balance.
The cabby called up. "You still there, buddy?"
"So far."
The taxi driver knew his streets. He ran the cab up a side street and across,
getting in front of the convertible. He slammed on the brakes so hard Remo's
body was thrown forward. But his feet stuck to the taxi roof as if
Krazy-glued.
There was almost a collision. The red convertible J-turned, burned rubber
backing up, and sped back the way it had come. In reverse.
The cabby screeched after him.
"This is a one-way street," Remo warned.
"Tell that to the other guy," the cabby snarled.
"You pull this off, and there's twenty bucks in it."
"Don't worry. The meter's running."
Squinting into the airstream, Remo saw the convertible closing in on the
oncoming traffic. It would have to slow down soon, or dart up a side street.
If the driver could stop in time, which Remo doubted. The maniac was doing
sixty, the wrong way on a busy downtown street.
Whether the convertible would have braked in time to cut down a side street
will never be known. As it passed one intersection, it ran a red light.
Coming in from the north was a Backgammon Pizza delivery truck, running a
yellow.
The person who had ordered the pizza collected a free Pepperoni Supreme later
that day. The next of kin of the deliveryman received a sixty-thousand-dollar
death benefit, and collected one-point-three million in a wrongful-death suit
from the company.
The driver of the red convertible got a pauper's grave, because he was mangled
beyond recognition at the moment of impact, then incinerated to a blackened
twist of meat when his gas tank ignited.
The smell of burning pizza and human flesh was not long in coming.
The taxi slowed to a stop and Remo hopped off the cab roof. The cabby came out
from behind the wheel, his mouth slack in horror and his eyes sick.
Remo reached the twisted, burning mass of metal, and saw the flames shrivel
and blacken the driver of the red convertible. When the flames reached the
backseat, and the mailing tube, it began jumping and making popcorn sounds. A
bullet whined up through the bubbling paint of the roof and knocked out an
overhead streetlight.
Remo pulled the cab driver back. "Bullets," he warned.
"You a cop?" the shaken driver croaked.
Remo ignored the question. "So, what's the fare?" he asked.
"How can you think of money at a time like this?"
"Good point," Remo said cheerfully. "Can I keep the tip, too?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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