Whiskeytown
At half-past one Reno turned from answering a phone call to say:
“Let’s take a ride.”
He went upstairs. When he came down he carried a black valise. Most of the men had gone out the kitchen door by then.
Reno gave me the black valise, saying:
“Don’t wrastle it around too much.”
It was heavy.
The seven of us left in the house went out the front door and got into a curtained touring car that O’Marra had just driven up to the curb. Reno sat beside O’Marra. I was squeezed in between men in the back seat, with the valise squeezed between my legs.
Another car came out of the first cross street to run ahead of us. A third followed us. Our speed hung around forty, fast enough to get us somewhere, not fast enough to get us a lot of attention.
We had nearly finished the trip before we were bothered.
The action started in a block of one-story houses of the shack type, down in the southern end of the city.
A man put his head out of a door, put his fingers in his mouth, and whistled shrilly.
Somebody in the car behind us shot him down.