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, Her—Now. If he—she—is not speeding now, he—she—will be in the next ten minutes,”
“That’s terrible,” Mommy said.
“Unfortunately, it’s probably true,” Susan said.
“Would you like some more broil, Matt?” Daddy asked.
“No, thank you, sir. I’ve really had enough. And Susie’s right. I really should be on my way.”
“Well, remember what I taught you. Four minutes, flip, three and a half minutes, and then let it stand for five.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Mommy and Daddy came out onto the verandah with them. Susan went to the garage for her car.
Mommy gave Matt her cheek to kiss, and said she hoped to see him again soon. And then she said she had something she had forgotten to tell Susie, and ran toward the garage after her.
Daddy shook Matt’s hand and said he was sure Matt knew Susie had to be at work early.
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“I’m going to call the club now, so they’ll expect you. I want you to feel free to use it. The food’s good.”
“Maybe Susie would go to dinner with me there,” Matt said.
“All she can say is no. But I think she’d like that.”
The garage door opened and Susan’s Porsche emerged.
Matt shook Daddy’s hand again and got into his Plymouth.
Susan drove off down the driveway so fast that Matt wondered for a moment if she was trying to lose him. On reflection, under the circumstances, that didn’t seem likely.
Five minutes later, by which time Matt had decided Princess Susie had a really heavy foot, the red and blue lights of a bubble-gum machine appeared in his rear window.
Shit! That’s all I need!
He flicked on the turn signal, slowed, and moved to the shoulder of the road.
The patrol car—there was a reflective HARRISBURG POLICE sign on the trunk—went by him without slowing. Matt pulled back onto the pavement and saw, five hundred yards or so down the road, that the uniform had pulled the Porsche over.
He drove the five hundred yards and pulled in behind the patrol car. He took his ID folder from his jacket pocket and got from behind the wheel, holding the ID so the badge would be visible.
The uniform looked concerned. When he walked toward Matt, he had his right hand where it could quickly un-holster his pistol.
Susan, Matt saw, had not gotten out of her Porsche.
Matt held out the ID so the uniform could see it.
“What can I do for you?” the uniform—a football-tackle type, with a ruddy complexion—asked after he had given the ID and Matt a good look.
“Philadelphia, huh?” the uniform said, then looked back at Matt’s car and added, “Blue Plymouth. We got the word on you.”
“What word is that?”
“That you’re up here looking for some money some dirty cop in Philadelphia’s trying to hide up here, and we should leave you alone.”
“Guilty.”
