Tiny said to him, “You the driver?”
“The best,” Murch said, matter-of-factly.
“It was a driver got me sent up my last stretch,” Tiny said. “Took back roads around a roadblock, made a wrong turn, come up behind the roadblock, thought he was still in front of it. We blasted our way through, back into the search area.”
Murch looked sympathetic. “That’s tough,” he said.
“Fella named Sigmond. You know him?”
“I don’t believe so,” Murch said.
“Looked a little like you,” Tiny said.
“Is that right?”
“Before we got outa the car, when the cops surrounded us, I broke his neck. We all said it was whiplash from the sudden stop.”
Another little silence fell. Stan Murch sipped thoughtfully at his beer. Dortmunder took a mouthful of bourbon. Tiny Bulcher slugged down the rest of his vodka-and-red-wine. Then Murch nodded, slowly, as though coming to a conclusion about something. “Whiplash,” he commented. “Yeah, whiplash. That can be pretty mean.”
“So can I,” said Tiny, and the door opened again . . .
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