Excelsior Maximum is anonymous, his helmet a blank mask split by streamlines, crouched over his Henderson Custom like a ski-jumper or some brazen rocketeer. Squealing police cars smash to a stop at the base of the Chrysler building.
Excelsior Maximum escapes.
“Damn him! Damn you all!” swears Chief Kilkenny, stomping his hat as the black rider dwindles.
“Why do we always chase him?” grunts the rookie, self-extricating. “What did the man do?”
“It’s 1978,” snaps Bogard. “We outlawed motorcycles fifty years ago!”
But can one outlaw the impossible? wonders the rookie, following black tread straight up the building’s façade.