Hostage For A Hood by Lionel White Page A

steering wheel and didn't bother to remove the short cigar butt from the corner of his mouth as he talked. His heavy lips were stretched tight across his face and his eyes behind the thick-lensed glasses were hard and cold as he spoke. He never looked at the man at his side.
    "You shouldn't have called me at the apartment," he said. "God damn it, how many times do I have to tell you guys. You wantta get hold of me, call the office. That's where I do business, out of the office."
    Santino moved nervously on the leather seat of the car, shifting so that he seemed to squeeze his small body into the very corner. He too looked straight ahead as he talked. "I had to call you," he said. "It was important. Cribbins said to get hold of you the second I made town. I had to tell you about Mitty."
    "God damn it," the lawyer said, "don't mention no names to me. I don't know no Mitty."
    "Well, I had to let you know the cops got him. Cribbins wants you to get him out."
    Goldman laughed bitterly. "So I should get him out! Are you all crazy? How the hell am I supposed to know that the cops got him, huh? You expect those cops up there to think I'm clairvoyant or something? Cribbins knows better and so should you. Mitty will call me as soon as he gets the chance. I can't call him. And don't worry, Mitty won't talk. Sooner or later he'll contact me. I represented him before so it's only natural."
    "I suppose," Santino said sarcastically, "that the Brookside cops are just going to be real nice and give him a dime and he can call you and you can spring him."
    Goldman shifted the cigar around in his mouth. "You happen to suppose just right," he said. "That's the trouble with all of you punks—you don't know you're alive. Of course the cops will let him call. They'll work him over, but sooner or later they'll let him make a call. After all, this ain't Russia. They'll let him call and when he does my office will get it and one of my boys will go up and get him out. Even Mitty is smart enough to know that."
    "All right," Santino said. "The hell with Mitty. I'm not worrying about Mitty anyway. What I'm worrying about is me. What about me?"
    "Well, what about you?" Goldman said. "What the hell do you expect me to do—drive you up there and hold hands with you? Good God, first you guys muff this whole thing—make a mess out of it and end up knocking off the driver. Then you haven't enough brains to make a clean getaway. What the hell do you want me to do? I'm a lawyer, not a baby-sitter."
    Santino turned and looked at the man beside him with cold, bitter eyes. "Nuts," he said. "Don't con me, mister. I know who you are, and I ain't asking you for nothing. I only called last night because Cribbins told me to call you. And the only reason I'm seeing you today is because you were too cagey to talk over the phone and told me to see you. As far as I'm concerned, you ain't nothing. Nothing at all. But I did think, that knowing what happened, you might arrange a car so Luder and I could get up to the country."
    "Why don't you rent a car?"
    "I don't rent a car because I'm not stupid," Santino said. "For the same reason I don't take no bus nor no train. I was damned lucky I didn't get picked up when I caught that train into town from Brookside. Luder and I talked it over when we met last night and we figured it would be best if you could get us a car of some kind."
    For the first time Goldman took his eyes off the road and turned to glance at the little man next to him.
    "Brother," he said, "you are crazy. I should get you a car yet! And suppose you get picked up on suspicion. The car gets traced right smack back to me. That would be just great, wouldn't it?"
    He hesitated for a minute and then continued. "I guess I got to do your thinking for you. The best thing is to lay low for at least another day. Then if you don't want to rent a car, or steal one, you'll have to borrow one. Borrow it from some friend or a cousin or something. You got a cousin or something,