The Cadillac turned onto the shore drive.

“How many with him?” the kid asked eagerly.

“Just the driver,” Sanchez said, making the turn smoothly. He checked lights and mirror: everything OK.

“Then maybe we can do it without shooting,” the kid said. “The driver-slug him so he stays slugged. But be careful with Bass. He won’t be carrying a gun. He’s an old man, for Christ’s sake. If the three of us can’t pick off his dough without blowing his head in we ought to go back to school.”

Now that the waiting was over he seemed calmer. He put his comb in his pocket and snapped on an eye-and-nose mask. Pond, in back, was now wearing a fake nose and a fake set of teeth. Sanchez was the only one who was going to be wearing his own face, but what did he care? Nobody knew him around here. He unbuttoned his shirt so he could get to the. 38 in a hurry.

As the drive curved, the Cadillac began to pick up speed. Sanchez kept fifty feet of open space ahead of his front bumper.

“I figured we could handle up to four,” the kid said. “But just Bass and the driver, how can we lose?”

If he didn’t know, Sanchez didn’t intend to tell him. The incendiary canister had been set to go off in three minutes, and surely, he thought, the Cadillac had been in motion longer than that already. There was no sign of smoke or fire.

“Come on, come on,” he said, slapping the steering wheel.

Then a quick plume of smoke gushed out from the Cadillac’s side, seeming to come from directly beneath the driver. The brake lights flared. Sanchez rapidly overtook the other car, veering out to pass. The whole front end of the Cadillac was hidden in thick billows of smoke. The driver burst out of the front seat as the Dodge came abreast. He was a stocky Negro, with a powerful wrestler’s chest, wearing a black suit and a white linen cap.

Sanchez swung over onto the left shoulder and brought the Dodge to a halt.