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Officer Lewis removed his booklet of citations from his hip pocket.
"May I see your driver's license and registration, please, sir? I' m afraid that I will have to issue a citation."
"We're moving, we're moving," Mr. Cassandra said as he rolled up the window and put the car in gear.
"Just drive around the block," Mr. Rosselli said.
"Arrogant fucking nigger-put them in a uniform and they really think they're hot shit."
"That was abig nigger. Did you see the size of that son of a bitch?"
"I didn't want to have Mr. S. coming out of the place and finding jumbo Sambo standing there. If there's anything he hates worse than a nigger, it's a nigger cop."
There was more fucking trouble with the fucking cops going around the block. There was something wrong with the sewer or something, and there was a cop standing in the middle of the street with his hand up. And they couldn't back up and go around, either, because another car, an old Jaguar convertible, was behind them. They took five minutes minimum, and the result was that when they went all the way around the block, Mr. S. was standing on the curb looking nervous. He didn't like to wait around on curbs.
"Sorry, Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro said. "We had trouble with a cop."
"What kind of trouble with a cop?"
"Fresh nigger cop, just proving he had a badge," Mr. Cassandro said.
"I don't like trouble with cops," Mr. Savarese said.
"It wasn't his fault, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said.
"I don't want to hear about it. I don't like trouble with cops."
Mr. Savarese's Lincoln turned south on South Broad Street.
Mr. Cassandra became aware that the car behind, the stupid bastard, had his bright lights on. He reached up and flicked the little lever under the mirror, which deflected the beam of light, and he could see the car behind him.
"There's a fucking cop behind us," Mr. Cassandro said.
"I don't like trouble with cops," Mr. Savarese said. "Don't give him any excuse for anything."
"Maybe he's just there, like coincidental," Mr. Rosselli said.
"Yeah, probably," Mr. Cassandro said.
Six blocks down South Broad Street, the police car was still behind the Lincoln, which was now traveling thirty-two miles per hour in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone.
"Is the cop still back there?" Mr. Savarese asked.
"Yeah, he is, Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro said.
"I wonder what the fuck he wants," Mr. Rosselli asked.
"I don't like trouble with cops," Mr. Savarese said. "Have we got a bad taillight or something?"
"I don't think so, Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro said.
Three blocks farther south, the flashing lights on the roof of the police car turned on, and there was the whoop of its siren.
"Shit," Mr. Cassandro said.
"You must have done something wrong," Mr. Savarese said.
"I been going thirty-two miles an hour," Mr. Cassandro said.
