"Lippy wants to talk to you," a nasal voice snarled.

He looked like any cheap punk. I didn't bother taking an inventory of him. The other one was taller, thinner but no more delicious. But they held the guns in a casually competent manner.

"And who might Lippy be? And put the heaters away. I don't have one."

"After he spoke to you, you went to the cops. Lippy don't like that."

"Let me guess," I said brightly. "Lippy would be Mr. Lipshultz who runs or owns the Agony Club, which is out of the territory of the Poodle Springs cops and the Agony Club is engaged in extralegal operations. Why does he want to see me so badly that he has to send a couple of shnooks after me?"

"On business, big stuff."

"Naturally, I didn't think we were such close friends that he couldn't eat lunch without me."

One of the boys, the taller one, moved around behind the Fleetwood and reached for the right-hand door. It had to be now if it was going to be at all. I pushed down on the accelerator. A cheap car would have stalled, but not the Fleetwood. It shot forward and sent the taller hood reeling. It smashed hard into the rear end of the Roadmaster. I couldn't see what it did to the Fleet-wood. There might be a small scratch or two on the front bumper. In the middle of the crash I yanked the glove compartment open and grabbed the .38 I had carried in Mexico, not that I had ever needed it. But when you are with Linda you don't take chances.

The smaller hood had started running. The other was still on his sitter. I hopped out of the Fleetwood and fired a shot over his head.