32 Cadillacs (24 page)

Calling himself Wells … be here tomorrow …

Kearny put his roll away and shook her hand heartily, a good loser. E. Dana Straub had a warm sweaty palm. Out in the smog-browned
sunlight, he thought that the Gyppo had to be very good indeed to con that stainless-steel lady into nothing down, pay at
the end of the week—when both he and his hustled TV sets would be gone and she’d be stuck with her remodel.

*   *   *

It had been a lousy day for Ephrem Poteet on the Universal Tour shuttle buses. Every woman he sized up had her purse zipped,
every man had his wallet in his front pants pocket instead of on his hip, and none of the kids was bratty enough to give the
natural diversions he needed while he made his dip.

A lousy day. Less than a hundred bucks in seven hours.

The trouble’d begun when he’d donned the maintenance uniform and lifted all those wallets that one afternoon. So much extra
security as a result of it that he was reduced to working only two days a week; even then he’d had a couple of close calls
and been saved only by his disguises. He’d given his big score to the ponies, and now was barely making the rent. Kearny’s
$100 a car was suddenly looking damned good.

*   *   *

As he thought that, Dan Kearny went into the Universal City Post Office across Lankershim from the studio to check through
the semi-opaque window of Poteet’s P.O. box. Not even junk mail. Already picked up today? Still, worth a shot now he was here;
it was the only place he could make physical contact with his man.

Behind the counter was a strikingly handsome black man in postal uniform, likely an actor waiting to be discovered. Kearny
gave him the used red window envelope with its canceled stamp. Inside was his blank sheet of letterhead, now with five $20
bills folded into it and Poteet’s handwritten box address showing through the window.

“This was lying under the bank of boxes. Guy must have dropped it when he picked up his mail.”

“Sure. Thanks. I’ll put it right back.”

Kearny went back outside and, sheltered from the hot sun by an overhanging tree, sat in the Cutlass to keep observation on
the P.O. boxes through the big plate-glass window. If Poteet did come in to check his, being a Gypsy he would be sure to spot
anyone hanging around in the post office lobby itself.

*   *   *

Leaving the special-effects demo without scoring yet again, Poteet felt sudden rage roil up inside. Tomeshti driving around
in a new Caddy, him riding the stinking bus. Well, he had a line on three other cars besides the Seville, and over the next
weeks he would feed them to DKA, hundred bucks a pop, getting even with goddam Yana for making all this necessary …

He left Universal through the Main Gate, just in case someone was lying in wait for him at the Studio Tour gate. Maybe he
would get drunk tonight, get in a fight. Get the bastard on the ground, knee-drop him—you could crush a guy’s ribs that way,
even kill him. Yeah! Grrr! Everybody said the Gypsies were conmen, nonviolent—but he’d done a hard deuce at Walla Walla during
which he’d learned a thing or two. He’d show ’em.

Goddam bus was just pulling away when he got out to the street. It figured. Another half-hour wait.

May as well check the P.O. box again even though he’d checked it this morning—Kearny might have sent his $100 same-day delivery
or something.

*   *   *

To pass the time, Kearny was playing the guessing game about those entering the post office. Three beautiful women in their
20s—easy, actresses from Universal. An older woman with white hair and the bearing of a queen—director, perhaps? A white-haired
southern colonel limping along with his gold-headed ebony cane—aging character actor in a TV mellerdrama. A couple of suits—had
to be execs from the Black Tower.

But no Ephrem Poteet, Gypsy. Not coming tonight. Kearny’d hang on for another hour just to …

Flash of red! The envelope, please. Never would have taken the old Kentucky colonel for Poteet, must be running a scam. Looking
quickly around the lobby—Kearny was glad he was outside in his car—then ripping open the red envelope. Taking out the sheet
of letterhead, staring at the $100 folded inside … Pocketing it, quickly caning his way out of the building.

Kearny already had slid down in his seat so he was not visible over the dashboard. This guy was jumpy as a cat. Watched the
angled rearview until the Gyppo’s retreating back came into it. Shifted around, staying low in the seat until the bus came
and Poteet boarded it.

Tailing a bus is not as easy as it might seem, not during rush hour. You can get blocked off by other cars, lose your man
when he debarks. But Kearny was an old hand at it, so he was driving by when Poteet walked into a run-down residence hotel
on North Main not far from the old Union Station, was parked in a meter space across the street when Poteet emerged minus
his disguise thirty minutes later.

He was sipping a draft three stools down when Poteet got into an argument over liar’s dice and got 86’d from the first of
several bars he visited that evening. After the third, Kearny dropped out to buy a cheap camera and film and find a motel
for the night. He settled on the Sherman Oaks Inn on Ventura. He still didn’t know what Poteet’s scam was, didn’t have any
leverage on him yet. Which meant a busy day tomorrow.

He didn’t bother to call the office. Nothing to report.

Yet.

W
ith Kearny gone off somewhere, Giselle had been stuck behind her desk all day. Now, 7:00
P.M.
, the after-school girls had abandoned the automatic typewriters, the skeleton night staff had arrived—and Giselle was
still
here. And cranky.

The limo outfit in L.A. hadn’t called back. Dan Kearny hadn’t called in, no idea where the big bum was. Ballard was probably
playing footsie with his red-hot Gypsy mama and getting all sorts of hot leads, while Giselle hadn’t even time to ask any
hotels if they had an Angelo Grimaldi registered, or to check out who Theodore Winston White III in Marin might happen to
be.

And on top of everything else, she still hadn’t found a new cleaning service whose work she’d trust, and the scrap paper was
piling up and… oh, to heck with it for tonight. She reached for her purse. Field men were in and out all night, but when she
worked the office she liked to be gone before seven. As she stood up, her personal phone that didn’t go through the switchboard
rang. Kearny. Finally. She picked up.

“Dammit, Dan, where are—”

“Yeah, where the hell is he?” Stan Groner. Pissed.

“Stan!” She put delight and surprise in her voice. “You’re working late. You want to talk with Dan? He just—”

“Don’t try to con me, Giselle. He missed a ten o’clock this morning, and Jane said he’s out of town. Now, where is—”

“Hot lead on the Gyppos,” she ventured promptly.

“Hot?” he asked in a slightly mollified voice, then turned hard again. As hard as Stan could get. “It better be hot. I’m getting
a lot of heat myself, from the president of the bank.”

“Hey, we got three of them already, Stan. What do—”

“Three out of thirty-one.” He became his old querulous self. “What’d you guys do to that one Ballard got, Giselle?”

Since the Sonia Lovari lead had been dug up by Ballard, he had been credited with the Allante.

“We… he got it in front of an Indian bar, Stan,” she said over the clatter of auto typewriters in the big echoing room.

“
Indian
bar? The Gyppo sold it to an Indian?”

“No, no—her street scam is posing as an Indian. Collects for nonexistent Native American charities and keeps the money.”

“Jesus!” Giselle could almost see him shaking his head. “If they’d put that much energy into working they’d be—”

“Yeah. Rich. But would they have so much fun?”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“The side with the big bucks.”

“Right answer,” he chuckled. “Listen, I want to see Kearny here tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. I mean it, woman.”

Giselle grimaced. She had put down her purse and gotten a cigarette lit while they had been talking.

“I’m not sure he’ll make it, Stan. To tell the truth, we’re not in communication with him right now. Will I do?”

“I wasn’t a married man, I’d take that as a proposition.”

“Sure you would,” she said, and laughed.

Giselle liked Stan, a lot, and knew he would back them as far as he could with the other bank officials. In the midst of her
warm thoughts about him, he ruined her evening.

“Remember that old black gal, Maybelle Pernod?”

“Sure, I repo’d her car and she redeemed and—”

“Pick it up again.”

“What?” Giselle was shocked. She had sympathized with May-belle on some deep level not available to her conscious mind. “As
I remember it, Stan, the next payment isn’t due until—”

“The bank’s declaring the contract null and void. They want it picked up for charges. Repo on sight.” He added almost defensively,
“Dan told me she’s living out of the darned thing, Giselle, hooking at night, for God’s sake!”

“I know, I know, but I really like that old woman.”

“You know? Why didn’t I know? Repo on sight.”

Giselle heaved a sad sigh as she dug out Maybelle’s file and typed up a new
REPO ON SIGHT
for her. Legally, if a conditional auto sales contract had late or repo charges pending, it could be declared null and void
and the car picked up. She stapled copies of all previous field and skip-tracing reports face-out to the back of the assignment
sheet, then handwrote and stuck a yellow Post-it note on the sheet that Maybelle had been last seen walking the dog around
Divisadero and Turk.

Giselle sighed, “Oh…
dammit
, anyway!” as she put the assignment into the deadly Ken Warren’s In box.

*   *   *

Fat black Maybelle Pernod parked in the shadows near her usual fireplug on Turk Street, and, as usual, had herself a good
despairing cry. Then she dried her tears and heaved her hefty body, sausaged into its red sequined dress, out of the car.

If she could turn just three tricks tonight on the front seat of the Lincoln, what with the piecework at the dry-cleaning
plant and all, she’d have enough for the April 30 car note and wouldn’t have to do no more whoring again until mid-May.

She hated it, but what choice did she have? Times was hard, she didn’t have no skills, she was 61 years old, she couldn’t
lose her car, no place to sleep if she did, and no money to buy another one…

She took up her stroll in front of Red Hot Ribs. The gal on nights, Edwina, didn’t never drop no dime on her to get her busted
for soliciting. Back and forth through the puddle of muddy-yellow light, tempting smell of scorching meat and barbecue sauce
from inside, light, voices, laughter, people in and out. Black people, her people, she didn’t get much trade from them—look
at her, look away. White boys, mostly. Lookin fo Mama.

*   *   *

Several hours after the office had closed for the night, Ken Warren arrived to rifle his In box for new assignments, closeouts,
memos, and skip-trace reports on current cases. He went through them quickly, stopping at the new
REPO ON SIGHT
assignment on
MAYBELLE PERNOD
, res add unknown.

“Oh, hndammit, nhanywhay!” he exclaimed aloud when he saw her name on the case sheet.

*   *   *

Lord, Lord, nuthin ever seem to work out the way you want it to. Maybelle sang in a soft rich contralto:

“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,

Nobody knows but Jesus…”

No action, none at all on the street tonight. The ribs joint had closed hours ago, she was all souls alone out here, her varicose
veins hurt, and not a single trick to show for all the hours, not one, not even gas money. And no chance of any now. Not much
traffic on the street, let alone pedestrians.

Time to drive down and park in her usual spot under the freeway off Alameda where a lot of other homeless gave safety in numbers.
Get her shower in the morning at the cleaning plant…

A long-bed pickup pulled over to the curb and stopped. It had a camper on back and three white guys in the cab. The window
was open.

“Hey, lookit the nigger cow,” exclaimed a cracker voice right out of south Georgia.

She didn’t turn her head, just quickened her pace for the corner of Turk. These men wasn’t no tricks, she wouldn’t get no
money from them, just trouble. Just a few more steps… But the truck backed up to keep pace with her, rolling slowly, motor
mumbling, exhaust rising in white puffs on the chilly night air.

“Hey, Mama, how about you do us right here on the street?”

She turned the corner. They were behind her now. But the pickup backed around the corner into Turk and kept on coming. For
the first time since she had started hooking, she wished a cop would cruise by. Wanted to run but she was too old, too fat,
too scared. Besides, it was when the deer ran that the feral dogs chased it and dragged it down, any country gal knew that.

Squeerg
of brakes. Creak of doors. Hurried heavy feet on the sidewalk. She speeded up. Get to her Connie, jump in sudden, they wouldn’t
expect that, slam the door, hit the automatic door lock… Safe then. Just a few more steps…

The three men were upon her, surrounding her. Tall men, two bulky, the third lean and athletic. Maybe she could still make
it turn out right. Maybe they’d be satisfied with some head, specially she didn’t charge. She found a pathetic simper.

“Ah… you gemp’men lookin’ for a little fun?”

“Lookin’ at you, Mama, I’d say a
lotta
fun!”

He wore a soiled white cowboy hat and a soiled expression on a heavy red face with burst capillaries in nose and cheeks. Probably
weighed 250. He hefted one of her massive mammy breasts with one hand. His fingers had black hairs on the backs of them.

“Dug of the month!” he exclaimed.

He ripped her dress down off her shoulder, half baring one breast.