“The main street of Bolinas, Brighton wound around the point of the peninsula and dead-ended at the ocean. ‘Point out the house,’ said Hammett. It was a plain white Victorian in midblock; the gas lamp on the corner gave just enough illumination to show them the porch pillars. The yard was overgrown with weeds; the house was still and dark. A black flivver was parked in the driveway beyond a white picket fence that needed paint. ‘Right on by,’ said Hammett, before Harry had a chance to slow the b...ig car. ‘Park on the other side of the street facing back this way.’ Animation entered the lisping voice. ‘You won’t hurt my baby . . .’ ‘He’s the one with the shotgun.’ ‘He ain’t but seventeen.’ ‘The girl was eleven when you sold her to the cathouse in Illinois.’ Heloise did not respond. Harry stopped the car. He started to get out, but Hammett forestalled him. ‘Streets and houses, Harry. My kind of hunting. Remember?’ Harry made a face and nodded. They had planned their strategy after Heloise had given them the layout of the house, but the big South African still felt his role was too passive.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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