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Show 218 He was little more than a novice at listening to jazz himself, Robbie admitted. "But sometimes," he said, "a horn seems to tell me something. I don't know. That I'm a new man somehow. That there's never been anyone around like me." He paused, concentrating on the road ahead. "No man in history, I guess, quite like me. Yeah, that's what it tells me! And somehow," he laughed, embarrassed at his emotion, but then giving in to it, "it says I'm pretty cool." But yes, Sharon agreed, that was how she felt. Something like that. A white Cadillac carrying a half dozen blacks passed them, seeming to float like a boat on its wide ballon tires as it went around. All of the passengers were males, perhaps in their mid-twenties, or younger, in short brim hats and dark suits. Where could they be going this Christmas Day, dressed as they were? Church? The traffic had picked up now, she glanced around at the other cars, the station wagons and sedans, all flowing down the highway together. There was a hidden rhythmn to their movement, with an occasional variation, an improvisation in the lane changes, integrated into that overall, ongoing harmonious flux. She began humming, the sharp sound of the horn from last night in her mind. And then the day turned sour. They had just passed through Downey, the off ramps leading to downtown, when she heard the sirens behind them. She told Robbie, he glanced in the rearview mirror and pulled over, slowing; the cars around them began to shift also, all to the right, clearing the fast lane to the left. The police car-a black and white California Highway Patrol-was coming very fast, siren at full tilt, red lights wildly flashing. |
