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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 29 three huge cars. In better days that was a thirty-five, forty-dollar sale. "N-0 spells nothin' doin'. Now on your way before I hafta call--" Eleven cars back, a sheriff's car coughed and stalled, empty. The cop cursed, kicked the cruiser, and headed for the pumps. He heard the shouting and ran ahead, puzzled, in between the confusing cop loyalties of community and big money. "Uh, any trouble here?" Behind the cop car the honking started. "No trouble, Billie, they was just leavin,' how about it?" "At the sign of the flying horse?" inquired a voice from inside a Cadillac. "This is a Mobilgas station?" "Sir spare me a moment," the agent began excitedly, "the consensus is that this call will interest you." Damn arabs, that's what they are, the owner realized. Well let them call their goddamn embassy. Wasn't for them and their Mickey Mouse army he might be open nights once in a while, maybe sell a tire or a battery. And who in hell was their little manager jawin' away at on their phone, what was Sunbeam and Jihad--? There was a buzz and a feedback noise, maybe they was an airplane-- And then he saw them. Early red sun glinting on the metal of two tankers rolling just off the reef in the Florida Straits. |