Part 50 (2/2)
Officer Lewis removed his booklet of citations from his hip pocket.
”May I see your driver's license and registration, please, sir? I'm afraid that I will have to issue a citation.”
”We're moving, we're moving,” Mr. Ca.s.sandra said as he rolled up the window and put the car in gear.
”Just drive around the block,” Mr. Rosselli said.
”Arrogant f.u.c.king n.i.g.g.e.r-put them in a uniform and they really think they're hot s.h.i.+t.”
”That was a big n.i.g.g.e.r. Did you see the size of that son of a b.i.t.c.h?”
”I didn't want to have Mr. S. coming out of the place and finding jumbo Sambo standing there. If there's anything he hates worse than a n.i.g.g.e.r, it's a n.i.g.g.e.r cop.”
There was more f.u.c.king trouble with the f.u.c.king cops going around the block. There was something wrong with the sewer or something, and there was a cop standing in the middle of the street with his hand up. And they couldn't back up and go around, either, because another car, an old Jaguar convertible, was behind them. They took five minutes minimum, and the result was that when they went all the way around the block, Mr. S. was standing on the curb looking nervous. He didn't like to wait around on curbs.
”Sorry, Mr. S.,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said. ”We had trouble with a cop.”
”What kind of trouble with a cop?''
”Fresh n.i.g.g.e.r cop, just proving he had a badge,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
”I don't like trouble with cops,” Mr. Savarese said.
”It wasn't his fault, Mr. S.,” Mr. Rosselli said.
”I don't want to hear about it. I don't like trouble with cops.”
Mr. Savarese's Lincoln turned south on South Broad Street.
Mr. Ca.s.sandra became aware that the car behind, the stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d, had his bright lights on. He reached up and flicked the little lever under the mirror, which deflected the beam of light, and he could see the car behind him.
”There's a f.u.c.king cop behind us,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
”I don't like trouble with cops,” Mr. Savarese said. ”Don't give him any excuse for anything.”
”Maybe he's just there, like coincidental,” Mr. Rosselli said.
”Yeah, probably,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
Six blocks down South Broad Street, the police car was still behind the Lincoln, which was now traveling thirty-two miles per hour in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone.
”Is the cop still back there?” Mr. Savarese asked.
”Yeah, he is, Mr. S.,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
”I wonder what the f.u.c.k he wants,” Mr. Rosselli asked.
”I don't like trouble with cops,” Mr. Savarese said. ”Have we got a bad taillight or something?”
”I don't think so, Mr. S.,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
Three blocks farther south, the flas.h.i.+ng lights on the roof of the police car turned on, and there was the whoop of its siren.
”s.h.i.+t,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
”You must have done something wrong,” Mr. Savarese said.
”I been going thirty-two miles an hour,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
”You sure it's a cop?” Mr. Savarese said as they pulled up to the curb.
”It's that gigantic n.i.g.g.e.r that gave us the trouble before,” Mr. Rosselli said.
”Jesus,” Mr. Savarese said.
Officer Lewis walked up to the car and flashed his flashlight at Mr. Ca.s.sandro, Mr. Rosselli, and Mr. Savarese in turn.
”Is something wrong, Officer?” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
”May I have your driver's license and registration, please?” Tiny Lewis asked.
”Yeah, sure. You gonna tell me what I did wrong?”
”You were weaving as you drove down the street,” Officer Lewis said.
”No I wasn't!” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said.
”Have you been drinking, sir?”
”Not a G.o.dd.a.m.n drop,” Mr. Ca.s.sandro said. ”What is this s.h.i.+t?”
”Shut your mouth,” Mr. Savarese said sharply to Mr. Ca.s.sandro.
Officer Lewis flashed his light at Mr. Savarese.
”Oh, you're Mr. Savarese, aren't you?”
After a discernible pause Mr. Savarese said, ”Yes, my name is Savarese.”
”You left something behind you in the restaurant, Mr. Savarese,” Officer Lewis said.
”I did? I don't recall-”
”Here it is, sir,” Tiny Lewis said, and handed Mr. Savarese a large manila envelope.
”Please try to drive in a straight line,” Tiny Lewis said. ”Good night.”
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