This other car tried to cut in front of the judge’s car, but the judge kept moving and wouldn’t let him in. So the other car sped off down toward the head of the exit line, down by the gate, the man in a big hurry. There was a lot of horns blowing. The cars down there wouldn’t let the other car in either. People going home after giving their money at the windows, they weren’t giving away nothing else.

It looked like the other car tried to edge in again right as the judge’s car came to the gate to go out on Dequindre. There was a crash. Bam!

The valet parking attendant, Everett Livingston, said he looked down there, but didn’t see anybody get out of the cars. It looked like the judge’s car had run into the front fender of the other car as it tried to nose in. Then the judge’s car backed up some and went around the other car and out the gate, going south on Dequindre toward Nine Mile. The other car must have stalled. A few more cars went past it. Then the other car made it out and that was the last the valet parking attendant saw or thought of them until he read about the judge in the paper.

Leaving the track, all Clement wanted to do was keep Sandy and the Albanian in sight.

Forget the silver Mark VI.

Follow the black Cadillac, the Albanian stiff-arming the wheel like a student driver taking his road test, hugging the inside lane in the night traffic. It should’ve been easy.

Except the Mark kept getting in Clement’s way.

The ding in the fender didn’t bother Clement. It wasn’t his car. Realizing the guy in the Mark was a jig with a white girl didn’t bother him either, too much. He decided the guy was in numbers or dope and if that’s what the girl wanted, some spade with a little fag mustache, fine. Since coming to Detroit, Clement had seen all kinds of jigs with white girls. He didn’t stare at them the way he used to.