MacMan’s arm to keep him from getting his gun out.
“Take me to—” McCloor was saying to the frightened driver when he saw us. He came around to my side and pulled the door open, holding the gun on us.
He had no hat. His hair was wet, plastered to his head. Little streams of water trickled down from it. His clothes were dripping wet.
He looked surprised at us and ordered:
“Get out.”
As we got out he growled at the driver:
“What the hell you got your flag up for if you had fares?”
The driver wasn’t there. He had hopped out the other side and was scooting away down the street. McCloor cursed him and poked his gun at me, growling:
“Go on, beat it.”
Apparently he hadn’t recognized me. The light here wasn’t good, and I had a hat on now. He had seen me for only a few seconds in Wales’s room.
I stepped aside. MacMan moved to the other side.
McCloor took a backward step to keep us from getting him between us and started an angry word.
MacMan threw himself on McCloor’s gun arm.
I socked McCloor’s jaw with my fist. I might just as well have hit somebody else for all it seemed to bother him.