Marlowe grows cold at that, aware of the exchange.  He writhes his way up to a sitting position and watches, waiting.  He stares down the guard before him, not looking at the sidearm.  The motor's roar, jostling and bumps become the only sound, and he watches the officer's eyes.  He notes his preferred hand, guesses the poundage on the pistol's trigger to be about 3 kilograms of pressure before a round is discharged... he studies the man's stance, mind racing for any way of making a move without eating a bullet.<br/><br/>After a few minutes, he speaks in a low, gravely tone.  "You know..." he leans back against the corner and beginning to carefully, delicately, try to worm his hand through one half of the plastic cuffs, knowing that the slightest pressure at the wrong angle will tighten them up more, "I was in the army for a couple of years..."  he lied.  "I knew a bloke what shot his head off, riding with his safety off... he didn't have his finger on the trigger, even... his rifle aimed skywards... the driver hit a curb or something, and the jostle tipped him back and his hand forward, and--"  his eyes widened very slightly, "--like that."  He guised his efforts at the cuffs with a wriggle of discomfort.  "He lived alright, but he watches cartoons all day now, and dribbles when he smiles."<br/><br/>"How'd you get this job, then?  Just grow up and say, 'Nah, the army's pussy.  I'm going to go where I can get away with Anythin'."