“He was in a slow sweat from the crown of his burr head to the white soles of his black feet. Worrying about Imabelle, wondering if that woman of his was safe, worrying about her trunk full of gold ore, hoping nothing would go wrong now that he had rescued it from those thugs. He was steering with one hand, crossing himself with the other. One moment he was praying, “Lord, don’t quit me now.” The next he was moaning the lowdown blues: If trouble was moneyI’d be a millionaire.… A patrol car passe...d him, headed toward the precinct station, going like a bat out of hell. It went by so fast he didn’t see Imabelle in the back seat. He thought they were taking some thug to jail. He hoped it was that bastard Slim. An ambulance shot past. He skinned his eyes, his sweat turning cold, trying to see who was riding in it, and almost rammed into a taxi ahead. He caught a glimpse of the silhouette of a man and was relieved. Weren’t Imabelle, whoever it was. He wondered where that woman of his could be.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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