The other hood stopped dead, six feet away.

"Look, darlings," I said, "if Lappy wants to talk to me, he can't do it with me full of lead. And never show a gun unless you are prepared to use it. I am. You're not."

The tall boy climbed to his feet and put his gun away sullenly. After an instant the other did the same. They went to look at their car. I backed the Fleetwood clear and swung it level with the Headmaster.

'Til go see Lippy," I said. "He needs some advice about his staff."

"You got a pretty wife," the little hood said nastily.

"And any punk that lays a hand on her is already half cremated. So long, putrid. See you in the boneyard."

I gave the Fleetwood the gun and was out of sight. I turned into our street which like all the streets in that section was a dead end between high hills bordering the mountains. I pulled up in front of the house and looked at the front of the Fleetwood. It was bent a little-not much, but too much for a lady like Linda to drive it. I went into the house and found her in the bedroom staring at dresses.

"You've been loafing," I said. "You haven't rearranged the furniture yet."

"Darling!" She threw herself at me like a medium fast pitch, high and inside. "What have you been doing?"

"I bumped your car into the back of another one. You'd better telephone for a few more Fleetwoods."

"What on earth happened? You're not a sloppy driver."

"I did it on purpose. A man named Lapshultz who runs the Agony Club braced me as I came out of a realtor's office. He wanted to talk business, but I didn't have the time then. So on my way home he had a couple of morons with guns try to persuade me to do it now. I bashed them."

"Of course you did, darling. Quite right, too. What is a realtor?"

"A real estate man with a carnation. You didn't ask me how badly damaged your car is."