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“The name is Phil Dunlop,” said the Hooded voice. “121 Desplaines Street, Gurney. Own the Studebaker Sales at 16 Gurney Avenue. It’s all there if you can read.”
Willy Crenshaw creased his forehead and inched his eyesight along the words.
“Hey, mister,” I said. “This is real neat!”
“Shut up, son.” The policeman ground his boot on the running board. “What you up to?”
I stood arching my feet, peering over the officer’s shoulder as he hesitated to write up a ticket or jail a crook.
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“What you up to?” Willy Crenshaw repeated.
“Right now,” said the Hooded voice, “I’d like a place to stay overnight so I can prowl your town a few days.”
Willy Crenshaw leaned forward. “What kind of prowling?”
“In this car, as you see, making people sit up and notice.”
“They done that,” the policeman admitted, looking at the crowd that had accumulated behind Thomas Quincy Riley, me.
“Is it a big crowd, boy?” said the man under the Hood.
I didn’t realize he was addressing me, then I quickened up. “Sockdolager!” I said.
“You think if I drove around town twenty-four hours dressed like this, people might listen for one minute and hear what I say?”
“All ears,” I said.
“There you have it, Officer,” said the Hood, staring straight ahead, or what seemed like. “I’ll stay on, ‘cause the boy says. Boy,” said the voice, “you know a good place for me to shave my unseen face and rest my feet?”
“My grandma, she—”
“Sounds good. Boy—”
“Name’s Thomas Quincy Riley.”
“Call you Quint?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Quint, jump in, show the way. But don’t try to peek under my cover-up.”
“No, sir!”
And I was around the car and in the front seat, my heart pure jackrabbit.
“Excuse us, Officer. Any questions, I’ll be sequestered at this child’s place.”
“Six one nine Washington Street—” I began.
“I know, I know!” cried the officer. “Damnation.”
“You’ll let me go in this boy’s custody?”
“Hell!” The policeman jerked his boot off the running board which let the car bang away.
“Quint?” said the voice under the dark Hood, steering. “What’s my name?”
