Between them they were dragging a small, young woman! Tears were pouring out of her eyes. She was fighting like a wild thing.

“Let me go! You God (bleeped) (bleepards)!” she was shouting. “Let me go!”

The cops sent her hurtling forward. She collided with a vinyl chair. One of the cops was at her at once, spinning her about and making her sit down.

The other cop got a battered suitcase out of the police car, sent it skidding across the floor at the girl and it hit her in the legs. Then he walked over to the ticket wicket, shouting, “Open this up, you black (bleepard)!”

The cop hulking over the girl had her pinned to the chair.

“You got no right to do this!” she was yelling at him.

“We gaht all the raht in the worl’!” said the cop. “If’n the chief says Horsey Mary Schmeck goes aht of town tonight, then aht of town goes Horsey Mary Schmeck and heah you is!”

Tears were cascading down her cheeks. Perspiration beaded her forehead. She was probably only about twenty-five but she looked thirty-five — deep bags under her eyes. Except for that, she was not unpretty. Her brown hair was over part of her face and she swept it away. She was trying to get up.

She renewed the verbal attack. “Your (bleeped) chief wasn’t talking that way when he got out of my bed last week! He said I could work this town as long as I wanted.”

“Tha’ was las’ week,” said the cop, pinning her down to the chair again. “This’s this week!”

She tried to claw at his face. “You (bleeped) two-bit (bleepard)! You yourself sold me a nickel bag last Monday!”

“Tha’ was las’ Monday,” said the cop. He had her pinned. “You know an’ Ah know what this is all about. Tha’ God (bleeped) new Fed narco moved in on th’ dis-tric’. Nobody knew it’d been changed. Nobody give him his split so he’s cleanin’ the whole place up. And y’all is the kind of trash tha’s bein’ swept out.”

She was crying again. “Oh, Joe. Please sell me a nickel bag. Look, I’ll go. I’ll get on the bus. But I got to have a fix, Joe. Please! I can’t take it, Joe! Just one little fix and I’ll go!”

The other cop had come back from the ticket window. “Shut up, Mary. You ’n all of us know the distric’ is total empty of big H now. Joe, did th’ chief give you bus fare fo’ this (bleepch)?”

The girl was collapsed. Tears streamed from red eyes. Sweat beaded her head. I knew what was wrong. She was a dope addict that was moving into the withdrawal symptoms. It would get worse before it got any better. As she scrubbed at her eyes, one could see the needle scars inside her arm. A girl trying to keep up with the expensive habit by selling her body. Ordinary situation. And they were moving her out of town. Ordinary handling. But maybe she’d infected the chief with something. Venereal disease goes right along with drugs and prostitution. It was such a common scene that I had no hope Heller would get himself in trouble over it.

“Well, Ah ain’ forkin’ ovah none of mah own cash t’ get her aht o’ town,” said the cop who had gone to the ticket wicket.

Joe grabbed the girl’s purse. She made a frantic effort to retain it and got a punch in the jaw in return. She fell to the floor, crying.

The two cops went over to the ticket window. Joe began to rummage through the purse. “Hey, would you look at this!” he said. He pulled out a roll of bills and started counting. “A hunnad an’ thutty-two dallahs!”

“That’ll buy a lot of white mule!” said the other cop.

They both laughed. They split the roll and put it into their pockets.

Suddenly the two cops and the wicket were huge in my screen!

“Give th’ lady back her money,” said Heller.

They stared at him blankly. Then their faces went hard.

“Kid,” said Joe, hefting his nightstick, “Ah think you need a lesson!”

Joe raised his club to strike.

Heller’s hand was a blur.

Joe’s arm broke with a snap just above the elbow!

Heller danced back. The other cop was drawing his gun, bracing himself, two hands on the butt. His eyes were savage with the joy of being able to kill something.

Ordinary cop reaction. I thought, well, Heller, it was nice knowing you.

The blur of a hand. The cop’s gun moved back and then up and flew away.

Heller’s left hand chopped in against the cop’s neck. The eyes went glazed.

Heller danced back and kicked the cop in the stomach before the body had even begun to slump. The cop sailed back and hit a trash can.

With a whirl, Heller was onto Joe again. Joe was trying to draw his gun with his left hand. Heller’s foot smashed the fingers against the gun butt.

Heller’s other foot rose and caught Joe on the button. The snap of bones followed the impact instantly.

Backing up, Heller looked at them. They were very sprawled. Heller, one after the other, took their guns and sent them spinning out through the front door of the bus station. There was a crash of glass as one of them broke a window in the police car.

The girl had come forward, staring down at the two unconscious cops. “Serves you right, you (bleepards)!”

Heller scooped the money out of their pockets and put it in her purse. He handed it to her.

She looked a little confused. Then she rallied. “Honey, we got to get the hell out of here! The chief will go bananas! That Joe is his son!”

She was hauling hard at Heller, trying to get him to the door.

“Come on!” she was shouting. “I know where we can get a car! Come on, quick! We got to make dust!”

Heller gave her her suitcase. He picked up his own and followed her out. He glanced back once.

The black man was looking down at the smashed cops. “An’ Ah jus’ cleaned the flooah,” he said sadly.

They were heading to the north of the town. The streets were deserted and dark. Heller was limping along. Soon it became apparent that the girl could not keep up. She sagged down panting, on her suitcase.

“It’s my heart,” she was gasping. “I got a bad ticker… I’ll be all right in a minute… I got to be… They’ll be tearing this town apart… to find us.”

Heller scooped her up under one arm and put her suitcase under his other, picked up his own and proceeded.

“You’re… you’re an all right kid. Turn over to the right there — it takes us to the state highway.”

Soon, she directed him up the state highway to the edge of town. There was a glare of lights there. It was a filling station and used-car lot combined. The signs said it sold Octopus Gasoline and a big octopus logo was dripping gas at each tentacle. There were colored plastic whirlers around the place, idle from the lack of wind. Then Heller’s attention was directed to the back. A sign there, above the used-car lot run apparently in conjunction with the station, said:

The place was really run down: the filling station at this time of night was closed, half the twirlers were bent and a third of the light bulbs out.

A man had been standing up on the cab of an old truck, looking off in the direction of the courthouse fire. He saw them and climbed down.

Heller had put Horsey Mary Schmeck down and she sat on her suitcase, tears running down her cheeks. She was perspiring and her nose was running. She let out a huge yawn, one of the symptoms.

The man came up, looking at them. He was plump but big. He was about thirty. He had a weak, flabby face. “Mary?” He wasn’t glad to see her. He looked at Heller. “Hey, what you doin’, Mary? Robbin’ th’ cradle?”

“Harv, you’ve got to get me a fix! Even a nickel bag, Harv. Please, Harv.”

“Aw, Mary, you know that new Fed narco dried up this district. And he says he’ll keep it dry until he gets fifty percent of ever’body’s traffic. There ain’t no stuff to be had!”