Girls in Pink by Bob Bickford

Author:Bob Bickford [Bickford, Bob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Taylor & Seale, LLC
Published: 2016-11-25T00:00:00+00:00

-Eighteen-

I pulled her through the swinging doors into the kitchen. On our through this time, the cooks were suddenly a lot busier than they had been earlier, and the sound of our hurried steps on the tile floor got lost in the clatter of pots and pans. No one looked up.

“It might be too late,” Annie called from behind me. “He threw a spell.”

“I don't care about spells,” I called back. “I care about bullets.”

We burst outside into the parking lot. The night air was warm and dry after the air-conditioned chill inside the lounge. I glanced at the big Buick as we passed, as black and empty as it had been. I caught Annie's hand with mine. “I figure we've got about thirty seconds before they come through that door,” I said. “Can you run?”

“Faster than you.”

She was as good as her word. And gone. I went after her. She ran, fleet as a deer. She kicked out a delicate spray of gravel as she flew around the back corner of the lounge and made for the parking lot in front with me following about fifty feet behind.

We made it into the blue neon glow. We were headed across the parking area to the dark line of scrub and grass that separated the Star-lite from the hotel next door when the headlights caught us from behind.

“Don't look!” I yelled as Annie slowed and turned.

I heard the eight cylinders wind up into a howl. We sprinted for the trees and bushes at the parking area's edge. I felt dry grass under my feet and followed Annie's slender whiteness into the brief shelter of darkness and then tires shrieked as the Buick slid to a stop.

There was a pause, and then a gun discharged. I recognized the sound as a shotgun. The air pressure changed as pellets flew over us. Branches shredded over our heads, and then we were through into the hotel parking lot and running for the Mercury.

“Who's driving?” I yelled at Annie.

“Are you kidding me?” she answered without slowing down.

I could hear the laughter in her voice, and wondered if she was hysterical. The Mercury sat by itself, a bare outline against faint yellow lights from the hotel. We ran faster and it seemed to stay just as far away. Out of sight, somewhere behind us, I heard the Buick's big voice, raised angrily.

Finally, we reached Annie's car and I yanked at the passenger door. She was already in the driver's seat, calmly working out the ignition key. I had the absurd wish that there was time to raise the convertible roof, as if the canvas would offer some protection from what was coming.

The Flathead engine cranked and ground and didn't want to start. I watched the distant hotel entrance. Cleveland's men couldn't bring the Buick through the trees. They would have to come through on foot the way we had, and I didn't think they'd leave the car. We were going to meet them on the frontage road.

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