“Bleeding Jesus!” Roman muttered stupidly, and stepped on the gas.

The Cadillac took off as though it had been spurred in the cylinders.

“Stop!” Sassafras screamed again. “You ain’t done nothing.”

The Cadillac slowed.

“Don’t listen to this woman, fool,” Mister Baron shouted. “You’ll get one to twenty years in jail.”

“Why come?” Sassafras argued in a high keening voice. She had a long, oval face with under-developed features and coal-black skin; and her sloe eyes glittered like glass. “She walked right out in front of him; I’ll swear to it.”

“You’re crazy, woman,” Mister Baron hissed. “He hasn’t got any driver’s license; he hasn’t got any insurance; he hasn’t even got the car registered. They’d put him in jail just for driving it; and, for running over a woman and killing her, they’ll lock him in Sing Sing and throw away the key.”

“Of all the mother-raping luck,” Roman said hoarsely as realization began penetrating his shock. “Here I is, ain’t driven my new car a half hour, and done already ran over some woman and killed her stone dead.”

His forehead knotted in a tight frown and he sounded as though he might cry. But the Cadillac took off again with determination.

“Let’s go back and see,” Sassafras begged. “I didn’t feel no bump.”

“You wouldn’t feel any bump in this car,” Mister Baron said. “It could run over a railroad tie and you wouldn’t feel it.”

“He’s right, honey,” Roman agreed. “Ain’t nothing but to high-tail it now.”

The big black Buick without lights cut in front of the Cadillac and a cop yelled out the open window: “Pull up!”

Roman had a notion to try to cut around the Buick and escape, but Mister Baron shrieked, “Stop-don’t dent the fenders.”

Sassafras gave him a scornful look.

All three cops piled out of the Buick and converged on the Cadillac with drawn pistols. One of the cops was white; he and one of the colored cops swung short-barreled. 38 caliber police specials; the other had a long flat. 38 Colt automatic.