WE were forty blocks east on Pennsylvania Avenue, tuned in to an Orioles game, heading through the far eastern reaches of D.C., when Chuck Appleton slapped his hand to his forehead, said, "I need to get some things," and pulled up in front of a Su-perfresh market with half the bulbs burned out in its overhead sign.
"Wanna come in with me?"
"I'll wait."
Two black kids were leaning against the plate-glass window, eyeing us, undoubtedly trying to figure out what a couple of dead-on white guys were doing in their native terrain.
"Yeah, you better stay with the car," Appleton said. "It's a-"
"Questionable neighborhood?"
He nodded, closed the driver's-side door carefully behind him, and disappeared into the store. The O's had men on first and third, none out. Appleton had left the engine running so I could listen to the radio without
draining the battery and fill him in on what happened. For the a/c, too. He was nothing but thoughtful. The shopping list was short, but I knew he would be a while. Appleton was the kind of guy who did comparison shopping even when he was on an expense account.
I gave him maybe three minutes, then got out of the car. Our two watchers hadn't moved a muscle.
"Yo, lost?" It was the shorter one, maybe all of thirteen, his warm-up pants two-thirds of the way down his butt.
"Either of you know how to drive?"
"Shit, yeah. What's it to you?"
"Want to take this baby for a spin?"
"It's a fucking Ford, man. Like ten years old. My granddaddy's grand-daddy's car!"
I went around to the driver's side, flipped down the visor, and pulled the government credit card out of the pocket on the back. Behind the kids, I could see my FBI keeper in the express lane. He was picking a deck of cards off a rack. Gin rummy till the cows came home.
"Your granddaddy's car come with its own credit card?"
The kids seemed to fly across the sidewalk into the front seat. Fortunately, the taller one took the driver's side. His spindly legs actually could reach the pedals.
"Wait a minute," I said to them.
"Wha?"
"The light." I leaned in and put the gyro on the dash and flicked it on. "You got to go in style."
I took a half dozen quick steps back into the shadows and worked my way along the wall into the alley beside the store. The kids were a block down Pennsylvania Avenue, the light flashing, laying down rubber every inch of the way, when Appleton walked out of the Superfresh.
"Shit," I could hear him saying. "Shit. Shit. Shit."
If the kids could just keep from ramming the Ford into the side of a Metrobus, the FBI would be chasing me through the worst parts of D.C. all night long.