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get a chance to hit on us. No roller fuckin’ with us is gonna get anything but offed.”
    Roscoe smiled weakly and mumbled, “I’m together, brother. You dudes are Warriors? Ain’t that a bitch?”
    A half mile from the safety of the Zone the Pontiac suddenly started to lose and regain speed in alarming heavings and jerks.
    Ivory Jones looked back at the pinpoint headlamps of the blue Plymouth and commanded, “Lotsa, take the next corner and cut into the first alley and kill your lights. Drop, get out the muscle.”
    Dew Drop leaned forward and rapidly punched at the car’s radio pushbutton selectors, which if done in a precisely coded release pattern would pop up the top of the dashboard. This top was really the lid for a long, shallow steel box which contained several preloaded Magnum pistols, a high-powered automatic rifle, a sawed-off shotgun, grenades, and ammunition in the miniarsenal.
    The lid did not pop up! Dew Drop twice again carefully punched the pushbuttons as Lotsa Black turned a corner and drove a half block north down an alley and snuffed the Pontiac’s lights and ailing engine.
    The alley was dark and quiet except for the profane voice of an uptight stud in a distant flat.
    Ivory Jones said harshly, “Drop, the guns, pass out the goddamn guns!”
    Dew Drop stopped fumbling with the radio buttons. He turned his face toward the rear of the car and opened his mouth to speak. But no sound came out. His blue eyes stared through the rear window as if he was hypnotized.
    He pointed and said in a hoarse whisper, “Ivory, the release gizmo, the switch to open the box, must be out. I can’t get to the guns, and I think I see them rollers coming down the alley with lights out.”
    Everybody in the Pontiac looked out the rear window. There was the dark hump of a car outlined against the glow of street lamps at the mouth of the alley.
    Ivory flung open the heavy door next to him. He leaped to thealley floor and shouted, “Drop, get under the wheel and talk shit to them. Lotsa, get out and fade with me until we can maneuver from the rear and bust those rollers’ heads with a brick or something.”
    Lotsa Black had gotten one gigantic leg out of the Pontiac when the Pontiac and Ivory were blasted by a bright white light.
    â€œPolice!” a bass voice shouted. “Nigger, put your hands on the top of the car or get your head blown off.”
    Ivory spat in the direction of the voice and slowly placed his palms on the roof of the Pontiac. Roscoe’s knee beat a frantic tattoo against Bumpy’s thigh inside the Pontiac.
    The tires on the blue Plymouth hissed like tomcats against the gritty alley floor as the eye of the spotlight moved forward to stop two feet behind the Pontiac. Two hard-faced men sprang from the Plymouth. The slim one stood at the rear of the Pontiac. He switched and aimed a shotgun at Ivory Jones and the frozen figures inside the Pontiac.
    Slim commanded Ivory, “Now, you bad motherfucker, raise your arms high. Back up past this shotgun and put your hands on the top of the car at the rear.”
    Ivory followed the order, but spat again as he backed past the shotgun.
    Thick Set went past Ivory to the driver’s side with a thirty-eight snub-nose pointed at Lotsa Black’s head and said, in a soft, almost sweet, voice, “Alright, nigger, haul that fat ass out here slowly and stand beside that bastard at the rear with your hands on the top.”
    Lotsa Black slid his bulk slowly from the car seat. He took a step and a half toward the rear before he bellowed, whirled, and lunged for the snub-nose. The thirty-eight exploded, and a tiny bolt of orange lightning leaped from the muzzle. The Pontiac rocked as Lotsa Black smashed back against it and fell.
    Ivory shouted, “You’re gonna be iced, you faggot nigger, if you waste him. We’re Warriors, motherfuckers.”
    Slim moved quickly and shoved the muzzle of