In the driver’s-side window appeared the torso of a police uniform, asking if Al was aware he had himself a bum brake light? No biggie. Still needed a peek at his license and registration and—a sniff. A ruddy face lowered into view, its nose pruny. A second sniff, a click, and then a flashlight beam was scampering over them, the dashboard, the backseat.

“Whyn’t you step out for a quick sec. And pop the trunk while you’re at it.”

“Sure thing, officer,” Al said. Then, to Henry, he hissed, “Run.” In as much time as it’d taken Al to throw open and lunge out the door, he’d tripped and skidded across the asphalt. The cop dove and drove a knee into Al’s back. Beside Henry, a pistol and a second cop had materialized, yelling, “Hands—hands where I can see them!”