Laplattanier was driving, with Mickey Mississippi seated by the door, scratching himself, plucking at himself, patting himself, an unending paroxysm of nervous gestures. Suddenly, Bomps had lunged at the door, jerked down the handle, and then shoved at the screaming Mississippi, pushing him out the opening. The Hook, as Bomps had hoped, instinctively had thrust forward, leaning out over the seat, trying to grab at both Bomps and his victim, but, a bare instant before the slug came tearing up at him, he saw the pistol gleaming in Bomps’s hand. He’d flung himself back into his seat, the .38 ready, flame flashing out in the darkness as he’d pumped one, two, three bullets into the upholstery in front of him, and then another flush into Bomps’s face. Mississippi was already twenty-five yards behind them, screaming out in the street, when Bomps finally pitched over, like the end product of a Chicago packing house. Lockwood jammed the .38 into the back of Laplattanier’s neck.
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