Something had just occurred to him. What if the Cadillac exploded? Nobody had mentioned that as a possibility. He was already out, brandishing a portable fire extinguisher and shouting incoherently to the Negro. He ran around the front of the Dodge, reaching the Cadillac as the Negro released the hood catch and the hood sprang up. A tongue of flame licked out through the smoke at them.

The extinguisher Sanchez was waving was a small spray can, designed for use against less serious fires than this one. “Where’s it coming from?” he shouted.

Shielding his face with one arm, he pressed the button on the top of the can and directed a powerful stream of carbon tetrachloride into the smoke. When the Negro leaned forward over the radiator, Sanchez brought the can up and around, keeping the button depressed, and sent the stream into the man’s eyes.

The Negro screamed thinly and staggered back. Sanchez stepped around him and clubbed him at the base of the skull with the short barrel of his. 38. The screaming stopped. Sanchez slapped him hard with the side of the gun as he went down.

The smoke gushed upward, as though escaping under pressure, and there was a strong smell of burning oil and metal. The kid and Pond had had plenty of time to close in on Bass, but the gambler must have moved fast, starting the instant the other car pulled around him. As Sanchez started for the sidewalk, stepping over the unconscious Negro, a suitcase flew over the stone wall at the edge of the golf course. A bald-headed man in a Madras sports jacket scrambled after it, moving fast. Pond grabbed for his leg. From the top of the wall, Bass kicked out savagely, crushing Pond’s false nose against his real one. Pond spat out a mouthful of phony teeth, and went up and over. The kid was right behind him. He had his gun out. So there wasn’t going to be any shooting, Sanchez thought bitterly.