“Act natural. Walk straight ahead.” Marc Laverne “acted natural,” but bore to his left at the first crossing he came to. Straight ahead: as it happened, that was how he was going-straight to Emilio Lopez’ attic. So the forward-march order gave him a strong preference for detours. As he walked he tried to judge the age, corpulence, and possible agility of the policeman. As long as the other man paid no attention to the route and let him go where he wished, Laverne would try to work his way through the narrow streets, into the heart of the clammy maze of high, crooked walls, where a plunge into the dark would have some chance of success.
“No funny business, Laverne. Not with me,” said the man, drawing out his words. His voice was as thick as his body, the powerful outline of which rubbed against Laverne’s shoulder. “You know, I’m disappointed in you,” the man said, tapping him on the elbow with his finger.
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