Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (28 page)

Willie nodded and left me in Adair's seemingly capable hands.

"So you're going to handle the Berkeley market?"

"Yes."

"It's different from Marin." He motioned at the crowd of
people, mainly dressed in jeans and T-shirts, that drifted by.
"Berkeley's eccentric. Marin's basically conservative."

I raised my eyebrows as a woman who appeared to have wrapped
herself in a madras bedspread came up and began to root through a box
full of books.

"Oh, some of them dress strangely. Marin County has a
reputation for being in the forefront of social change. They feel
they have to live up to it. But underneath they're conservative as
they come. They care a lot about money. Houses. Cars."

A second woman came up. "You've got a rocker over there
marked fifteen dollars. I'll give you ten."

"Sorry. Prices as marked."

The woman frowned and walked off.

"She'll be back," Adair said. "She can afford the
fifteen. Those were designer jeans she had on." He turned to me.
"That's one thing you have to remember, Sharon. You don't owe
these people a thing. They're all out to screw you. Take my advice
and screw them first."

The woman was circling the rocker, her eyes narrowed.

"This is a tough business," Adair went on. "Everybody
wants something for nothing. I turn a good profit here by keeping
prices firm. There's money in this county, and I get my share of it."

The woman gave the rocker a final appraising glance, then came
back, rummaging in her purse. She handed Adair three crumpled
five-dollar bills and said, "I'll be back for it in half an
hour."

He took the bills without a thank-you and went to attach a "sold"
tag to the chair. "Always tag things you're holding for a buyer.
It's good psychology. Tells people your goods are moving."

"You're certainly giving me an education." I sat down on
a folding chair.

"I'll give you another pointer. Not for today; you're not
really working. But when you are, never sit down. It gives the
impression you don't care if you make a deal."

"You should write a how-to book on this."

"Why? It would only help the competition." He smiled,
but his eyes were dark brown stones.

"How long have you been at this?"

"Five years."

"Longer than Willie's other runners, then?"

"No, about the same. What made you think that?"

"They don't seem nearly as expert."

"They're not. Beck's basically a truck driver. Strong but
stupid. Sam Thomas—have you met him?"

"Yes."

"Then you know." He paused, lighting a cigarette. "You
could make something of that Berkeley market, Sharon."

"I hope to."

"You been over there yet?"

"No."

"It's in the parking lot of the Ashby Avenue BART station.
They don't charge to get in. You're ahead right there. The
customers—a lot of blacks. Berkeley oddballs. College students.
Hangers-on. You know how Berkeley is."

"Actually I do. I went to school there."

"When?"

"Oh, around ten years ago."

"You get in on all that Communist ruckus?"

"The war protests? Some. I was too late for the Free Speech
Movement."

"Do any protesting yourself?"

"Good Lord, no. I was too busy working so I could stay in
school." I'd often marveled at how I could have gotten through
four years at Cal without so much as heaving a bottle or a rock, but
the years had passed in a steady rhythm of classes, work, more
classes, and more work. Oh, I'd participated in the usual heated
discussions over coffee or cheap wine. I'd signed petitions and
watched the body count with growing horror and wept when a high
school friend had died in shelling at Cam Rahn Bay. But sometimes I
wondered if I shouldn't have done more. Would it, in some small way,
have helped… ?

"Working at what?" Adair asked.

"Odd jobs." Actually I'd been a security guard, but he
didn't need to know that.

"And now what do you do?"

"I'm a messenger for a bunch of lawyers."

"Does it pay well?"

"No."

"Then remember what I said. You can make something of this
business if you try."

"I will. Thanks for all the advice." I could see Willie
ambling down the aisle, occasionally stopping to examine merchandise
or talk to a vendor. He came up, looking from Adair to me with a
curious expression that I couldn't read.

"You two have a nice talk?"

"Very good," I said. "Monty's a real fund of
information."

"That he is." Willie smiled mechanically at Adair. "I
never have to tell him a thing. He knows just what to do to turn a
tidy profit."

Adair returned the smile, just as mechanically. Under their polite
manner, I sensed a coldness between the two men, more subtle than the
antagonism between Willie and Roger Beck. Why? I wondered.

There was silence for a moment, and then Willie turned to me. "You
ready to go see my home base, the Saltflats?"

I stood up, relieved to be going. "I sure am."

As we walked down the aisle toward the entrance, I looked back at
Adair. He was closing in on a youth who was practice-swinging a new
metal tennis racket. The boy turned and smiled. Adair's answering
grin was predatory, his white teeth gleaming like a shark's.

When we drove into the Saltflats Flea Market, a man with an
iron-gray crewcut came out of the shack that served as an office and
started toward the truck.

"Mack Marchetti," Willie said. "Runs the place."
Marchetti was a big man and, even though he had to be in his
mid-fifties, his body was trim and well-conditioned. I guess he was a
former athlete who had kept in shape; in his creased slacks and
alligator shirt, he certainly resembled the retired sports figures
you see in commercials for savings-and-loans or insurance companies.

"Does he own this land?" I asked, mentally computing the
value of what had to be highly desirable acreage.

"No. Leases it from the owners. That'll end next year, when
they build an office park to go with the marina." Willie
motioned down the frontage road, where there was a new man-made
lagoon and the rudiments of docks and slips. "And then there'll
be one less free thing for folks to do on a Sunday afternoon."

Marchetti came up and leaned on the driver's side window. "Willie,
where the hell have you been?"

"Checking my people at the other markets. I'm breaking in a
new runner, so it took longer than usual. Why?"

"Because I been holding your space, and not without a lot of
trouble. Got a new kid with a load of automotive supplies, can't
understand why I've stuck him in this little bitty space where
there's acres of room to his right. Seems he never heard of the king
of the flea markets, who can show up any time he damn well pleases."
Marchetti smiled, nastily.

"You fill him in about me?" Willie's voice had the same
cold edge as when he'd spoken with Roger Beck. Marchetti was
obviously another person the normally easygoing fence didn't care
for.

"Oh, sure. Got to keep the legend alive, even if you never do
show up until two."

"I'm paying for that space, Marchetti."

"Yeah. See you continue to." The flea market operator
turned and stalked back to the shack.

I said, "He reminds me of a football coach, chewing out a
player who's late for practice."

"Funny you should say so; that's what old Mack did up until a
few years ago—coached high school football."

Willie put the truck in gear and we rolled slowly down the aisles
to the place where I'd found him the day before. As Marchetti had
said, the next space over was stacked with cartons of motor oil,
filters, batteries, and other parts. The skinny young fellow perched
on a folding chair glared at us as we pulled up.

The commodities displayed over there were obviously hot. I said to
Willie, "I've heard Marchetti has a reputation for letting a lot
more illicit dealing go on here than they do at the other flea
markets. Is that true?"

"Mack's pretty loose about it, yes. I'll unload things here
that it might be risky to sell at San Jose, for instance. That's one
reason I stopped going to the San Francisco market, over by the Cow
Palace. Mack makes everything nice and easy."

We got out of the truck and Willie off-loaded the two worn
Oriental rugs. I helped him spread them on the ground, then began
removing smaller objects and placed them around, while Willie dragged
out the heavier things. As we worked, I glanced at the other stalls
and passersby, hoping to glimpse the man Willie claimed had been
following him. All I saw were the usual buyers and sellers. When the
stall was set up, we sat down on the tailgate of the truck and I
said, "So where do we go from here? Are there people I should
meet?"

"They'll be by. Like Marchetti said, I'm king of the flea
market. I'll just sit here and hold court."

As if to prove his point, a plump young woman with dark hair piled
high on her head materialized from behind the truck. She was carrying
a sackful of dried banana chips, which she tossed to Willie.

"For you," she said. Her accent was Spanish, and
pronounced.

"Sharon, this here's Selena Gonzalez. She sells dried fruit
and nuts, plus olives and some mighty fine houseplants. Selena,
Sharon's my new runner."

She turned to me. "Welcome to the world of the flea market."

"Thank you."

"How's it going today?" Willie popped a handful of
banana chips into his mouth and offered the bag to me.

"So-so. I sell some of this, some of that, but the people are
not willing to part with very much money. I think it is because of
that
bastardo
in the White House." She sat down on the
ground, arranging her voluminous red peasant skirt over her knees.
"Willie… you have not had any more visitors?"

"No." He looked at me. "She's noticed the man I
told you about."

"I see."

"He worries me," she said. "The way he watches,
always staring with those little eyes. He is evil."

"Selena likes to exaggerate," Willie said. "It's
partly her culture, and partly the fact she sees an Immigration man
behind every tree,"

"You would too if you were in my delicate position."

"She means she's an illegal alien."

"And what of it? Don't I have the right to go where I
please?"

"As they explained the last time they threw you out, there
are such things as national boundaries."

"Boundaries. Pooh. What are boundaries? Imaginary lines made
up by people like that
bastardo
—"

"Selena's also very opinionated politically—especially
for a non-citizen."

"You would do well to take more interest yourself. It is
people like you that allow things like this trouble in Latin America
to happen. You allow maniacs to be elected—"

"Stop!" Willie held up a hand. "I'm guilty; I admit
it. Just don't lecture."

"Lecturing is good for you." Selena looked at me. "Do
not take him too seriously. He is a child, like most men." She
stood, smoothing her red skirt. "Come and see me, if you want a
plant, or just to talk. I am down the aisle to the right."

"Thanks. I will." I watched her go, then said to Willie,
"Did Immigration really throw her out?"

"Twice. But she always comes back. God knows how she does it,
but she's as persistent as a bad case of the
turista
."

A young couple came up and began poking around the player piano. A
gleam in his eye, Willie got up and went over to them. I sat, feeling
the sun beat down on my head. Today I had remembered to dress coolly,
but I should have thought to bring a hat. Down the aisle, I could see
the knife vendor sitting behind his cases of wicked-looking weapons,
the small striped umbrella over his head and a smile on his face.

Willie came back and slumped dejectedly against the tailgate.
"Damn! I swear I'm never going to get rid of that white
elephant."

"Why'd you buy it, anyway?"

"Pure weakness. My lady friend, Alida Edwards, makes the
jewelry she sells. There was a guy with a nice selection of agate;
she really wanted it, but she was short on cash. So I traded some
tape decks for the stones, but that wasn't enough for him. The
asshole knows me, and he knows Alida, and that means he knows I'm a
fool for the woman. So he held out on the deal until I said I'd take
the piano too. And I've been carting it around for a month now."

"Does it work?"

"Sure. There're even some rolls for it, although where
they've got to I don't know. My garage is so full, I'm not sure what
I've got in there these days. Speaking of Alida, I want to run over
to her stall for a minute. Can you handle things here?"

"Sure."

"Be back shortly."

He wandered off and I sat waiting for customers. People drifted in
and out, mostly to look at the player piano and try to get the parrot
to talk, but no one wanted to buy anything. The people in the aisles
moved listlessly, and most of the sellers sat back, not even
bothering to hawk their wares. A somnolent mid-afternoon feeling
descended on the market, and I slouched against the side of the
pickup's bed. My eyes moved lazily to the popcorn stand across the
way, where a man in a dark suit stood…

He was eating from a bag of popcorn as he stared fixedly at the
truck. If the popcorn was supposed to be protective coloration, it
didn't work. No one could look more out of place at a flea market; in
fact, the
yarmulke
, dark suit, and shiny black shoes
suggested that he'd probably wandered in by mistake while looking for
the synagogue.

I forced myself to remain slouched, studying him from under
drooping eyelids. He was slight, not more than my own five foot six,
had a narrow ascetic face, and couldn't have been more than
twenty-five. Again I wondered why Willie had not approached him
himself. Surely it would not have caused a scene; the man looked as
if he would jump right out of those shiny black shoes if anyone so
much as said boo to him.