“Let... let me see your badge,” he said bravely.
“Let me see your license,” the man insisted.
“Let me see your badge,” Artie insisted back, pinned to the gasoline pump, and then, apparently realizing the folly of his insistence, he moved one hand up toward his inside jacket pocket, moving to reach his wallet and his license.
The man’s hand dropped from Artie’s collar instantly. It moved so fast that Artie didn’t know what was happening for a moment, and then it snapped into view again, and the fingers were curled around the butt of a .38 Police Special.
Artie’s eyes almost popped out of his head.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Jesus, what... I was only going for my license... I was only...”
“Let’s have it,” the man said, holding the gun at an angle so that it was pointed up at Artie’s head.
Artie took out his wallet, flipped it open, and handed it to the man.
“Take out the license,” the man said.
“Are... are you a cop?”
“What the hell do you think I am?” The man reached into one of his pockets with his free hand, Hipped open a wallet, and showed Artie a quick glimpse of a silver shield.
“I’m... I’m sorry, officer,” Artie said. “I didn’t realize... I thought...”
The cop took the extended license, and sitting in the back seat Andy felt first a wave of relief, and then a wave of terror. He was carrying a cracked Benzedrine inhaler in his jacket! Suppose he was searched... suppose...
The cop examined the license and then bellowed, “All light, everybody out of the car.” Tack Tacconi came out of the car first, and the cop on his side frisked him quickly and then told him to stand over near the gas pump with Artie. They put Jonesy through the same routine, and then Andy came off the back seat, and one of the cops ran his hands over Andy’s pockets quickly, and he prayed the cop would not feel the inhaler, and he felt the sweat pop out on his brow.
“Whose car is this?” the first cop asked.
“M... mmm... mine,” Artie said.
“You got the registration?”
“In the glove compartment.”
“Check that, Fred,” the first detective said, and the cop on the other side of the car climbed in and thumbed open the glove compartment. He found the registration and handed it to the first cop, and then he began tossing everything out of the glove compartment, letters, a flashlight, a couple of road maps, a tire repair kit, even a tube of June Tambeau’s lipstick.
“Nothing here,” he said, colossally understating the amount of garbage he’d taken from the compartment.
“Open the trunk,” the first cop told Artie.
“The... the trunk?”
“You heard me.”
Artie went back to the trunk and opened it. The cops all gathered around him like betters in a floating crap game. The first cop pointed into the trunk.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“What’s... what’s what?” Artie asked.
“That,” the cop said, still pointing.
“My... my radio, officer.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“I... I bought it. Naturally.”
“You bought it, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
The cop named Fred was in the back seat now. He put the bass drum out of the car, shoved the seat onto the floor, and then felt under the seat, probing with a flashlight.
“Whose drum is this?” he asked.
“Mine,” Tack answered.
“Wh... what are you looking for, officers?” Artie asked politely.
“What the hell were you doing barreling down the avenue at sixty miles an hour?” the first cop asked.
“We just wanted to get home. We’re musicians.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Better shake them down once more,” the first cop said.
Standing near the rear wheel of the car, Andy felt the terror stab deep within him once again. He reached into his jacket pocket casually, his fingers tightening around the cracked inhaler. If I just get out of this, he vowed, if you just get me out of this one, I’ll never do it again. I swear, never again.
He slid his hand out of his pocket, his fingers sweating. Fred was making a methodical search of Tack’s pockets now, turning them inside out. The other cops were giving Jonesy and Artie the same treatment. Andy could feel his heart thudding against his rib case. He wet his lips, and he felt a sour taste in his mouth, and he hoped he wouldn’t get sick. He put his hand against his trouser leg, and then he opened the fingers slowly, and he felt the inhaler slip free, and he realized it would clatter when it hit the pavement, and so he began coughing wildly, moving away from the rear wheel, covering the sound of the inhaler hitting. He did not look down at the ground. He moved away from the wheel, and Fred barked, “Where the hell you going, kid?”
Somehow he found his voice. “Just... just stretching my legs,” he said tightly.
“Come here,” Fred said.
Andy went to him, and the cop began going through his pockets methodically, finding nothing. Andy still did not look back to where he’d dropped the inhaler.
“All right,” the first cop said, “where the hell were you headed, doing sixty miles an hour?”
“I didn’t know we were going that fast, officer,” Artie said. His father had taught him that the only way to handle a cop was to butter him up, calling him “officer” and “sir” at every turn of the conversation.
“You were going that fast,” the cop said. “Where the hell were you going?”
“Just to get some gas, sir, and then home.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At four in the morning?”
“We’re musicians, officer. We’re just coming home from a wedding job in the Bronx.” He paused. “An Irish wedding,” he added shrewdly.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mmmm,” the cop said.
“I guess they’re clean,” Fred said.
“I’ll give you some information,” the first cop said to Artie, “and I hope you listen to it. In the first place, speed limits are in force twenty-four hours a day. I don’t give a damn what time you’re coming home, the speed limit applies, you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when a cop asks you for your license, you give it to him damn fast, you understand that?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t know you were an officer, sir.”
“What the hell did you think I was?”
“I thought you were a holdup man, sir.”