As Time Goes By Read Online Free Page A
..."
Steered and braked expertly by Sam, the Buick re volved a full 360 degrees in a controlled skid, returning to its original direction at the exact moment the Mer cedes caught up with them.
"...three!"
The Mercedes was right beside them. Rick caught a glimpse of the amazed face of the driver.
"Laissez le bon temps rouler," said Sam. :
"Now, Sach'," shouted Rick.
The Russian and the American opened up on the Germans. Sacha's shot put out the window on the driv er's side. Rick's shot put out the driver's left eye.
Rick caught a glimpse of the gunman in the backseat as the crippled Mercedes veered sharply to the right and headed for the trees. The Nazi managed to get off a couple of wild shots before they smashed into a grove of mangoes.
The explosion sent an orange ball of flame into the sky, scorching the fronds as it billowed. Sam slammed on the brakes so they could survey their handiwork.
"Piece of cake, boss," he said as he backed up the Buick.
The fireball was consuming most of the big Mer cedes by the time they got there. Over each headlight was a small flag bearing the emblem of the swastika, now burning merrily. Rick could see that the car had three occupants, but it was too late to help any of them.
"Nice shooting, boss," complimented Sacha.
"Fish in a barrel," said Rick.
"I never see fish in a barrel, boss." Sacha threw his arms around Rick's neck. "Can I kiss you?"
"Get away from me, you crazy Russian," said Rick.
The fire burned for what seemed like an eternity. Pri vately Renault wondered why they didn't drive on, but Rick seemed disinclined to leave. He sat, head bowed, lips moving, but no sound emerging. Was he praying? Rick Blaine was full of surprises this evening.
"Come on, let's go," Rick said abruptly. "We've got a plane to catch."
The Buick pulled back onto the road.
The glare from the burning Mercedes receded rap idly in Sam's rearview mirror, which made him happy. Sam disliked violence, even when it was necessary. He'd seen enough of it.
"Very impressive, Ricky," said Renault. "And here all this time I thought you were a simple saloon keeper. Still waters indeed."
"That's just what I plan to be again someday," said Rick, popping open his flask and taking another drink. "As soon as this war is over."
"Somehow, my friend," said Renault, "I don't think fate is going to let you. You are destined for greater things."
"Don't count on it," said Rick.
Renault settled back into his seat. Now that the ex citement was over, his mind was free to concentrate on more important tilings. America attacked! He knew that Rick was stunned. He had long suspected that Rick's c'est la vie attitude was only a pose, a carapace that covered a soft heart. Rick might have left his coun try years before—why, he still had no idea—and seemed loath to return, but he remembered the way Rick had stared down the boastful Major Strasser and the fawning consul Heinze when he'd advised them not to try to invade certain sections of New York. As one whose country had already fallen to the Nazis, Renault sympathized, and his heart went out to his friend.
What did this mean for him? Since his first trip to the gaming tables in Deauville—which, as luck would have it, coincided with his discovery of la difference at age twelve—Louis Renault had believed that gambling was a profession, not a pastime, and he regarded his police duties as the unfortunately necessary surety that enabled him to pursue a higher calling. Still, he much preferred a fixed roulette wheel to actual games of honest chance. He had spent most of his adult life calculat ing odds and acting on them, and up until a few hours ago he'd been quite happy leaving his chips on the Nazis' number and watching his winnings add up. Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Which, he supposed, was one of the reasons he was in this car instead of back in Casablanca, enjoying the favors of some delec table young lady whose lust for freedom coincided with his
Steered and braked expertly by Sam, the Buick re volved a full 360 degrees in a controlled skid, returning to its original direction at the exact moment the Mer cedes caught up with them.
"...three!"
The Mercedes was right beside them. Rick caught a glimpse of the amazed face of the driver.
"Laissez le bon temps rouler," said Sam. :
"Now, Sach'," shouted Rick.
The Russian and the American opened up on the Germans. Sacha's shot put out the window on the driv er's side. Rick's shot put out the driver's left eye.
Rick caught a glimpse of the gunman in the backseat as the crippled Mercedes veered sharply to the right and headed for the trees. The Nazi managed to get off a couple of wild shots before they smashed into a grove of mangoes.
The explosion sent an orange ball of flame into the sky, scorching the fronds as it billowed. Sam slammed on the brakes so they could survey their handiwork.
"Piece of cake, boss," he said as he backed up the Buick.
The fireball was consuming most of the big Mer cedes by the time they got there. Over each headlight was a small flag bearing the emblem of the swastika, now burning merrily. Rick could see that the car had three occupants, but it was too late to help any of them.
"Nice shooting, boss," complimented Sacha.
"Fish in a barrel," said Rick.
"I never see fish in a barrel, boss." Sacha threw his arms around Rick's neck. "Can I kiss you?"
"Get away from me, you crazy Russian," said Rick.
The fire burned for what seemed like an eternity. Pri vately Renault wondered why they didn't drive on, but Rick seemed disinclined to leave. He sat, head bowed, lips moving, but no sound emerging. Was he praying? Rick Blaine was full of surprises this evening.
"Come on, let's go," Rick said abruptly. "We've got a plane to catch."
The Buick pulled back onto the road.
The glare from the burning Mercedes receded rap idly in Sam's rearview mirror, which made him happy. Sam disliked violence, even when it was necessary. He'd seen enough of it.
"Very impressive, Ricky," said Renault. "And here all this time I thought you were a simple saloon keeper. Still waters indeed."
"That's just what I plan to be again someday," said Rick, popping open his flask and taking another drink. "As soon as this war is over."
"Somehow, my friend," said Renault, "I don't think fate is going to let you. You are destined for greater things."
"Don't count on it," said Rick.
Renault settled back into his seat. Now that the ex citement was over, his mind was free to concentrate on more important tilings. America attacked! He knew that Rick was stunned. He had long suspected that Rick's c'est la vie attitude was only a pose, a carapace that covered a soft heart. Rick might have left his coun try years before—why, he still had no idea—and seemed loath to return, but he remembered the way Rick had stared down the boastful Major Strasser and the fawning consul Heinze when he'd advised them not to try to invade certain sections of New York. As one whose country had already fallen to the Nazis, Renault sympathized, and his heart went out to his friend.
What did this mean for him? Since his first trip to the gaming tables in Deauville—which, as luck would have it, coincided with his discovery of la difference at age twelve—Louis Renault had believed that gambling was a profession, not a pastime, and he regarded his police duties as the unfortunately necessary surety that enabled him to pursue a higher calling. Still, he much preferred a fixed roulette wheel to actual games of honest chance. He had spent most of his adult life calculat ing odds and acting on them, and up until a few hours ago he'd been quite happy leaving his chips on the Nazis' number and watching his winnings add up. Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Which, he supposed, was one of the reasons he was in this car instead of back in Casablanca, enjoying the favors of some delec table young lady whose lust for freedom coincided with his
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