As he got straightened out he floored it down John R, beneath an arc of streetlights and past neon signs, came up behind the lumbering Mark and laid on his horn. The chicken-fat jig’s head turned to his rear-view mirror. Clement pulled out, glanced over as he passed the Mark and saw the jig’s face and his middle finger raised to the side window.

My oh my, Clement thought. I’ll play a tune on your head, Mr. Jig, you get smart with me.

Except he had to be alert now. The next light was Eight Mile, the Detroit city limits. Sandy and the Albanian could turn either way or make a little jog and pick up 75 if they were headed downtown. If they made the light Clement would have to make it too. Else he’d lose them and have to start all over setting up the Albanian.

The Eight Mile light showed green. Clement gave the car some gas. He glanced over, surprised, feeling a car passing him on the right-the Mark, the silver boat gliding by, then drifting in front of him as Clement tried to speed up, seeing the light turn to amber. There was still time for both of them to skin through; but the chicken-fat jig braked at the intersection and Clement had to jam his foot down hard, felt his rear-end break loose and heard his tires scream and saw that big silver deck right in front of him as he nailed his car to a stop.

Sandy and the Albanian were gone. Nowhere in sight.

The chicken-fat jig had his head cocked, staring at his rear-view mirror.

Clement said, Well, I got time for you now, Mr. Jig, you want to play…

The girl turned half around and had to squint into the bright headlights.

“I think it’s the same one.”

“Sure it is,” Alvin Guy said. “Same wise-ass. You see his license number?”

“He’s too close.”

“When I start up, take a look. If he follows us pick up the phone, tell the operator it’s a nine-eleven.”