32 Cadillacs

by Joe Gores

  She stopped dead at sight of the shiny black limo, a flush mantling her cheeks; Larry must have followed her to the St. Mark on Saturday, so he must know she had just left Rudolph snoring on his king-size bed in oyster-depleted sleep.

  “Bastard!” she hissed in her embarrassment.

  As he thought, She spent the whole weekend banging that Gyppo fuck, and then she gave him Yana’s pink Cadillac besides!

  “Slut!” he snapped in his hurt and confusion.

  It was war.

  * * *

  Not for O’Bannon. He had arrived in Hawaii midday Saturday following the trail of a Rudolph clan member named Ral Wanko who had shipped a long sleek white De Ville to Honolulu, his home base, the day after the big Cadillac grab. That was all O’B had, so Kearny had lined up a P.I. contact for him on Oahu.

  “Little Jap guy named Shinji Ueda. I met him on Maui during the P.I. convention at the Kaanapali Beach Resort last year,” he explained. “Size of your thumb, but smart—he’ll probably have Wanko picking you up at the airport in the De Ville.”

  Not quite. But Mr. Ueda was there himself, holding up a big neatly lettered O’BANNON sign on a wooden stick. Ueda was short indeed, about five-two, and a crow among peacocks. Instead of the usual aloha shirt and shorts and zori, he wore a three-piece dark suit, a dark tie, and highly polished black oxfords.

  He bowed. “O’Bannon-san. Shinji Ueda.”

  O’B returned it. “Make that O’B-san, Ueda-san.”

  Ueda had a round head and crinkly cheeks and narrow bright inquisitive eyes. Driving the Ala Moana Highway from the airport to Waikiki, he cast O’B a long worried sideways look.

  “I have made certain inquiries.”

  O’B had his window down so warm moist air delightfully heavy with flowers could ruffle his russet hair. “And?”

  “Is very dangerous. Ral Wanko is a very bad man indeed, with very bad friends. They steal very nice cars to order. Repaint, or take apart to use parts for other cars—”

  “Chop shop,” said O’B.

  A short bow behind the wheel. “Even so.” A pause. “They move auto-altering establishment many times a year. Hard to find.” Ueda drove with his hands at ten and two in the proper manner. He bowed again, slightly. “But I go find for you.”

  O’B took him at his word. He dug his toes into dazzling white sand in front of his high-rise hotel, swam in the ocean, drank at the beachside bar, saw the Banyan Tree, and at sunset wandered along the Ala Wai Promenade watching the sailboats ghost by. After dark he went downtown, barely avoided a fight in a poolhall, rejected the advances of a truly stunning hapa-haole hooker, and went to bed alone feeling sober and virtuous and that he hadn’t had so much fun since his Army days.

  That was Saturday.

  * * *

  On Sunday, Mr. Ueda took him up to the incredible verdant freefall of the Pali, where many brave warriors had gone to their death, then out to the rich exclusive streets off Kahala Avenue. Not a word of business. Mr. Ueda had his golf clubs in the backseat and was one of the peacocks today, wearing a short-sleeved flowered shirt that showed a chest and arms suggesting he spent a lot of hours in the dojo breaking bricks with his bare hands.

  They came around a sweep of drive to a stunning view out to the Pacific past the shoulder of decayed volcano known as Diamond Head. Blue-edged fluffy clouds dreamed on the distant horizon. Ueda gestured at a long sleek red Jaguar XJ6 parked at the curb.

  “That one,” he said. “Tonight.”

  O’B craned around at it. “That one what tonight?”

  “They steal. You follow to chop shop. De Ville be there.”

  They had rounded the Diamond Head crater, were entering Kapiolani Park. In the moist heavy air, the lush vegetation rang with the squawks and shrieks of the zoo’s exotic harsh-voiced tropical birds.

  “How do you know all this stuff about ’em?” asked O’B.

  Ueda laughed, hee-hee-hee, “Call in lotta favors. Sam Spade, huh?” He slapped O’B’s knee in almost shocking intimacy. “I give you car to drive, you stake out Jaguar, you catch ’em, be big hero with Five-O.” Another hee-hee-hee, a punch on the arm. “Book ’em, Dano!”

  The car stopped under the frangipani bushes flanking the hotel parking lot. Heat bounced off the sun-softened blacktop. The hotel balconies were a white ladder climbing a blue heaven. They could have been in Dallas. O’B cleared his throat.

  “Ah, Shinji, maybe you’d like to, ah, come along tonight, share in the glory with Five-O.” He gestured. “I bet you know judo, karate, kung fu, aikido, all that martial-arts stuff…”

  Alarm passed across Mr. Ueda’s face. “Oh no no no no. No know martial arts. Know golf.” His seamed face split into a huge grin. “Low eighties.”

  That was Sunday.

  * * *

  After midnight, thus technically Monday, O’B was parked under the shadows of some anonymous estate’s tall hibiscus border when he heard the almost silent rush of a bicycle-built-for-two manned by two massive figures in aloha shirts. Far down the wide curving expensive street, the one riding behind slid off to dart over to the Jag XJ6. His partner kept pedaling.

  Pretty slick. No wonder no one ever heard the thieves.

  Motor. Lights. Red wink of taillights, one marred by the “X” of black electrician’s tape O’B had put over it earlier. This helped him track the Jag through still-heavy Sunday night freeway traffic to the Pali Highway Interchange, over to Ward Avenue, and into the industrial district.

  There O’B had to drop back so far that he lost it, but going by an abandoned-looking warehouse he saw double doors sending out a widening wedge of light. When the Jaguar entered and the doors closed again, O’B’s vague silhouette slid through the final sliver of light behind it. Inside, he crouched beside a BMW, panting with excitement and perhaps even terror.

  The two huge men both looked Hawaiian. But as one got out of the Jag, the other said, “Any trouble, Ral?”

  So the hulking driver was the Gypsy, Ral Wanko. Who shook his head and said, “Like silk,” then stopped to stare at the tape on the taillight. “Hey, bruddah, whadda hell’s this?”

  “Who cares? We got da kine work to do.”

  Their upper halves disappeared beneath the Jag’s hood. Beyond the midnight mechanics was the De Ville O’B was after, and beyond that, through another set of wide-open double doors, an enclosed parking area and an alley. By merely going around the block, O’B could have snuck up on the De Ville and grabbed it.

  But now he was trapped. Closed automatic doors behind him, the two midnight mechanics between him and the De Ville and the safety of the open doors beyond it. Huge midnight mechanics. He couldn’t go back, through, or around.

  But could he go over?

  The peaked tin roof was held up by two-by-six beams bolted together in rectangular patterns, supported by angled crisscross two-by-fours bolted to other beams above. If he could get up there, could he hump his way along one of those horizontal beams to the far wall where a rough ladder of two-by-fours waited?

  O’B crept back to the similar ladder fastened to the wall behind him. Ten agonizing minutes, one rung at a time, a fly on the wall in plain sight, freezing each time one of the car choppers emerged from beneath the hood.

  Just as he straddled a beam far above them, Ral Wanko laid down his wrench and wiped his hands on a greasy red rag.

  “Gotta go take a dump.”

  One gone. Do it now. Grip the beam ahead with both hands. Lean forward, weight on arms, slide butt forward eight or ten inches. Again. Again again again. And yet again. He was almost directly over the Jaguar now…

  “Hey, bruddah, you one dead man.”

  Whirling, O’B lost his balance, saved himself only by grabbing one of the angled two-by-four support struts. Wanko was directly behind him on the beam, grinning ferociously, a short-handled sledge for beating out fenders upraised in a hand that made it look like a doctor’s reflex hammer.

  O’B should have remembered Wanko was a Gypsy, o
ne of the world’s ultimate survivors, which meant one of the world’s ultimate paranoiacs. That “X” of tape had sent him into ambush to see if some unwary quarry would break cover. Unwary O’B had.

  “Listen,” O’B said in a voice that wobbled with earnestness and bonhomie, “I’m not the cops and I’m not here to—”

  Wanko swung the sledge. O’B ducked, it splintered his two-by-four support, he went off the beam sideways, arms windmilling wildly to no avail, struck the roof of the Jaguar feet-first. They went from under him, he shot off the slick curved surface to land on the floor just as the massive Hawaiian charged him.

  O’B jinked, his attacker smashed headfirst into the side of the Jag. Wanko couldn’t get off the beam quickly without rupture, so O’B walked across the goal line for the score. He gave them a digit salute while burning rubber out of the garage.

  By noon Monday the De Ville was in bonded storage waiting shipment back to the mainland, Five-O had a copy of the report, and Mr. Ueda was driving a lei-laden O’B to Honolulu International for the long hop to Florida, where Yana’s info had sort of pinpointed another Gyppo Cadillac.

  O’B hadn’t had this much fun even in the Army.

  * * *

  That same morning in Seattle, Bart Heslip, seeking some fun of his own, parked his rental car half a mile from BIG JOHN’S BIG BUNGALOWS. He left the keys on top of the left rear tire and the completed paperwork in the glove box; he would call Avis with directions where to pick it up if he was successful.

  The paved streets of Big John’s subdivision were black and smooth and gleaming in the muted light that managed to get through an angry cloud cover. Bart hunkered down behind the signboard and thought, Hot damn, it looks like rain any minute.

  When the rain began, that was when the fun would begin.

  * * *

  A two-year-old Chrysler Imperial pulled up in front of the sales office. Big John and Little Johnny got out. Big John was carrying a satchel. Little Johnny looked at the gleaming streets of the subdivision and got inordinately excited.

  “Pa, those streets look fantastic! People come out here, drive around, they’ll just start laying their money down!”

  “Yeah, but where’s that nigger gonna take Adams down? ”

  Little Johnny looked a little scared. “Pa, you sure you wanta… uh… This Joe Adams looks pretty… tough…”

  “Ain’t us going to do anything, son,” said Big John. “It’s just the man from the State of Washington gonna do his duty.”

  Just then Josef Adamo’s Seville turned in from the highway. The fat Gypsy grunted his way out from behind the wheel and came around the back of the car, leaving his keys in the ignition. With a look of great self-satisfaction he waved his arm at the ribbons of tar laid over the flattened landscape.

  “What I tell you? You ever see a better job than that?”

  “It’s terrific!” enthused Little Johnny.

  Big John had $30,000 in the satchel; it was a hell of a job at the price, but it would be a hell of a lot better job if the price was zero, nothing at all. Stall ’til the nigger got there.

  “It looks okay, but that’s what we’re paying you for.”

  “Speaking of getting paid…”

  “Yeah, well, you were promising written guarantees…”

  “I got ’em right here in the car.”

  So Big John was able to stall him twenty minutes, reading things he didn’t give a damn about anyway, all he needed was the roads laid—they were—and the nigger there—he wasn’t—but then just a few little drops of rain started falling and Joe Adams got impatient and uptight and almost abusive.

  “What the fuck you waiting for, Charleston? I laid your goddam streets, now gimme my money!”

  Big John reluctantly handed over the satchel, buying more time because Joe Adams had to count his money. But then the rain started to come down in earnest—and still no nigger—and Adams was abruptly and surprisingly satisfied. He shook hands, tossed the satchel into the Seville, and started to get in himself only to be arrested by a sharp voice at his back.

  “Are you Joseph Adams?”

  Adamo backed out awkwardly and looked around. A compact very wide-shouldered black man had materialized out of the rain.

  “Who the hell wants to know?”

  “Would you step away from the car, please?”

  Adamo got a confused look. “You a cop? This a roust?”

  The black man totally ignored the rain that was really pelting down now, sparkling in his tightly curled black hair, running down his face in rivulets.

  “He’s from the state licensing bureau!” burst out Little Johnny in gleeful triumph. “He’s going to get you!”

  “Please. Step away from… thank you.”

  The black man moved forward as Adamo shuffled awkwardly aside.

  Big John felt wonderful under his rain slicker and hood. It was going to work out; even his kid showed promise. “Sir,” he said respectfully to the black man, “I had no idea he was going to illegally blacktop my roads without the proper permits…”

  He stopped because the most extraordinary thing happened. The black man from the state stepped right by Joe Adams and into the Seville and slammed the door. The automatic door locks clicked shut. The car moved away around the traffic circle back toward the main highway. Everyone woke up at once.

  Adamo started running after the still-slow-moving vehicle.

  “MY CAR!” he bellowed. “MY CAR!”

  Big John, yellow rain slicker flapping, suddenly ran too.

  “MY MONEY!” he shouted. “MY MONEY!”

  Little Johnny was staring at the beautiful blacktop roads.

  “OUR STREETS!” he yelled. “PA! OUR STREETS!”

  Big John checked at his son’s cry. Looked.

  His beautiful shiny streets were dissolving under the pounding rain into mud, their blacktopping running down the ditches beside them. Just as Bart Heslip had known they would, because Josef Adamo had bought up just about all the recycled crankcase oil and cheap paint thinner in Seattle. A mix of paint thinner and crankcase oil applied to a road surface looks exactly like high-class road paving—until it rains.

  Then the glistening new surface just melts and vanishes.

  Screaming his fury, Big John Charleston flung himself on fat Josef Adamo.

  Bart Heslip’s last view of BIG JOHN’S BIG BUNGALOWS was through sheets of torrential rain as two hefty tar babies rolled over and over in the mud, flailing ineffectually away at each other. Even as the downpour obliterated the sight, the third figure, jumping up and down and waving its arms, lost its footing and rolled down the muddy slope into the fray.

  It wasn’t until he hit the Idaho line on his way to Chicago that Bart stopped to check out the bag that Josef Adamo had tossed into the Seville.

  Thirty thousand dollars—in a pig’s valise! Bart Heslip cracked up. As Jane Goldson would say in her Limey accent, Dan Kearny really was going to do a bird over the personal property in this baby!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Rudolph’s actually scant data to Giselle was now going out, as Yana’s also scant data to Ballard already had, so people were on the road for the second wave of repos before the first wave had even hit the beach. Kearny still was holding off on referrals to affiliates around the country, and even to DKA branch offices: he didn’t want to make assignments until he had specific cars, names, and addresses to give them.

  Both O’B and Bart Heslip had called in.

  The Spanish Lottery Gyps’ car was in the barn and Morales was on a plane to Cabo San Lucas, where an unnamed Gyp was maybe using his Cadillac in a lost-goldmine scam on some yachtsmen. In Baja, a Spanish-speaker was a must; hence Morales.

  Ken Warren was driving Sarah Walinski’s Dodge Charger into the sunrise feeling well-content even though still not involved in the Great Gypsy Hunt. Their client on the Charger was a Jersey City used-car dealer who thought DKA’s three bids on the car were too low. Ignoring the fact that drunks’ cars g
et beat-up very rapidly, he thought DKA was jerking his chain. He wanted the Dodge ferried back to Jersey for resale off his own lot.

  Which ticked Dan Kearny off enough to tell Ken to get cash or certified check for all costs before handing over the Charger. Ken was glad to. Don’t get him started on Jersey City…

  The real point was that Dan Kearny had promised to give him any east coast Gypsy assignments that might develop while he was on the road.

  * * *

  Giselle Marc needed a shower and clean underwear. She couldn’t call Rudolph, the hotel switchboard would be listening in, but she needed to tell him that Ballard—ddamn him—had grabbed the limo she’d promised Rudolph he could keep until his hotel scam was over. So she’d told Jane Goldson to put through any call from Mr. Grimaldi immediately—but no others. She was so upset she didn’t realize Ballard overheard the instructions.

  The phone rang. Giselle grabbed it up.

  “Cara mia. I missed you when I awoke this morning.”

  “Me too.” She paused. “Rudolph, I… have to tell you…”

  * * *

  Everything fair in love and war, right?

  And this was war.

  So when he saw Giselle’s extension light up, Ballard punched in and shamelessly eased his receiver off the hooks.

  To hear Giselle’s voice, “Rudolph, I… have to tell you that… um… Larry, uh, repossessed your black limo over the weekend. Took it right out of the St. Mark garage.”

  Rudolph’s hearty chuckle came over the wire, tightening Ballards hand around the receiver as if around Rudolph’s neck.

  “Cara mia mine, that is all right—let your Larry have his dog’s leavings, his Yana will dump him when she learns I have the pink Cadillac! He is meaningless to me.”

  “I can hardly wait until tonight,” said Giselle in a dreamy little-girl voice that made Ballard want to fwow up.

  “Nor I, my love,” said Rudolph. “I will count the hours until I hold you in my arms again.”