“…surprises me that a private eye would want to read about fictional ones,” Don was saying.
“What?”
“I mean, don’t mystery novels seem pretty unrealistic to you?”
“That’s what I like about them. They’re so much more interesting than my life. When you spend a lot of your time interviewing witnesses and filing documents at City Hall, you appreciate a little excitement on paper.”
“Your life hasn’t been that dull. How did it go with Willie?”
“Not bad. I’m going to take the case.”
“I thought you didn’t like the idea of working for a fence.”
“Willie’s no ordinary fence. And his problem intrigues me.”
“What he told you sounded pretty run-of-the-mill to me.”
“It’s what he didn’t tell me.”
“Such as?”
“Well, consider Willie: He deals with tough customers every day. He’s tough himself. From the looks of him, I’d say he can handle most things that come along.”
“So?”
“So somebody’s following him. A little guy in a suit. If a little guy in a suit were bothering you, what would you do?”
“Go up and ask him what the hell he’s doing.”
“Right. So would I. But why doesn’t Willie? This guy has been bugging him for three weeks, by his account. And has Willie once approached him, tried to find out what’s going on? No. Instead he calls his lawyer and hires a private detective. Why?”
“Did you ask him?”
“Yes. He said that as a fence he’s vulnerable, doesn’t want to get into anything that will call attention to himself.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
“I’m not sure. It could very well be true, but on the other hand, it might not be.”
Don got up and went to the barbecue. I watched him, liking the way he moved. He was a stocky man, but he handled himself with confidence and a certain grace. Don had dark Italian good looks that had attracted me immediately when we’d met last fall while I was on a case in his hometown of Port San Marco. I hadn’t been sure how we’d get on otherwise, however, because he was a disc jockey – star of the most raucous, nerve-jangling rock show on the mid-coast airwaves. Then I’d found out that he did most of the show wearing earplugs; that he loved Brahms and Tchaikovsky; that he adored salami and cheese and rich red wine. Most important, Don could laugh at himself.
“Anyway,” I went on, “I’ve decided to take the case, but that means canceling our plans for brunch tomorrow. I have to be at Willie’s at seven in the morning, so I can go around to the flea markets with him.”
Unperturbed, Don poured charcoal lighter on the briquettes. “That’s okay. There’s a free concert at Stern Grove that I wouldn’t mind catching.”
Another thing I liked about him was his self-sufficiency. Given the erratic hours and unpredictable demands of my job, I’d always assumed I wouldn’t find a man who could put up with me. But now – well, maybe I had.
The fire was blazing nicely. Don came over and sat down. “Do you want to start replastering the living room ceiling tonight?” he asked.
I sighed. We’d stripped what plaster remained from the lath and prepared the surface. We’d bought the supplies and borrowed a scaffold. Tonight was the only time I had free to work on it. “No.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want another glass of wine.”
“And then?”
“Another. And then lots of barbecue ribs. And then I want to go to bed early.”
“How early?”
“No later than eight. I’ll have to get up at six and they say you need at least eight hours’ sleep.”
Beneath his shaggy mustache, Don’s mouth began to curve up. “Eight at night to six in the morning is ten hours.”
“I know.”
He winked at me. “I’ll get you that glass of wine.”
4.
The next morning, Willie and I got in the red truck at his house and headed south on 101 to the San Jose Flea Market. As we drove, I stared sleepily at the little businesses and cheap apartments on the frontage road. The Peninsula, bounded on the east by the Bay and on the west by mountains and then the sea, was a string of communities with names like Millbrae, San Carlos, Palo Alto, and Mountain View. From the freeway, one was indistinguishable from the other, and I’d often had the feeling that I was driving through the endless outskirts of a town that stubbornly refused to materialize. There ought to be someplace tangible here, with parks and houses and palm-lined streets; but instead there was mile after mile of fast food stands, shopping centers, termite exterminators, and convenience stores.
At first Willie was silent, drinking coffee from a plastic cup with a screw top that kept it from spilling. Then, as the caffeine perked him up, he started talking about the fencing business.
“I get terrific customers at my permanent garage sale, you know? Just terrific. I love ‘em all. You wouldn’t think there’d be much traffic where I am, practically out in the Avenues. But it’s all word-of-mouth. One tells another, and then another. Pretty soon you’ve got a regular clientele.”
“Like who?”
“Anybody. Other flea market vendors looking for merchandise of course. Clerks from the stores down on Irving Street or over on Haight. Secretaries, I get a lot of secretaries – they don’t get paid so good and they’re always looking for a bargain. Tellers from the bank where I do business – they catch on to me fast. And the Medical Center – Jesus Christ, doctors are the cheapest bastards alive. I got this one last week, drive up in a silver-gray Lincoln, leave the goddamn thing right in the driveway so people have to squeeze around it. Suits he wants, designer suits. I show him where his size is, and next thing he’s upset because they don’t still have the labels in them. How’s he supposed to know whether it’s a Cardin or Yves St. Laurent?”
“I tell him he wants labels he should go downtown to Brooks Brothers. He doesn’t like that much, but he quiets down, decides to try some on. I show him the place I got curtained off at the back of the garage. He wants to know why there’s no full-length mirror. Then he wants alterations. I say, ‘Do I look like a seamstress?’ When the guy finally leaves, he’s got two designer suits for around a hundred bucks. Not a bad deal, but he’s still annoyed and when he goes to back out of the driveway, he knocks over my garbage can that I’ve got sitting there, all full of crap that I’ve got to scrape up off the sidewalk with my bare hands.”
“I tell you, it’s not easy sometimes. But I still love my customers, every one of them, whether they’re at the garage sale or the flea market. I move a lot of stuff through the markets, now that I’ve got three runners. I go around, check on each of them, then go to the Saltflats and get myself a little fresh air and sunshine, make some deals.
“Now, this market we’re going to first in San Jose, it’s more commercial than the Saltflats. You’ll see. They got an office that’s open all week, a lot of permanent vendors, food concession. And they play it straight with the law; you got to be careful that anything you sell there has a legitimate-looking pedigree. Real careful, because you don’t want a run-in with management or the San Jose cops…”
The drive passed quickly and soon we were parking in a rutted lot across the street from the market. As Willie had said, it was more substantial than the Saltflats, with permanent booths and bins for the regular vendors to store their merchandise in. Most of the sellers were just setting out their goods, and many waved and called to Willie as he strode by with me in tow. We passed hot dog stands and popcorn wagons and tacquerias before we came to the display of cheap clothing, garish ceramics, and tacky furniture.
Willie led me through the maze to a stall near its center, saying, “The guy that’s snooping around won’t be here because they’re not letting the customers in yet, but I wanted you to get an idea of the setup. Here we are.” He motioned at a beefy, balding man in his mid-forties who was stringing piñatas on an overhe
ad wire. “And that there’s my San Jose runner, Roger Beck.”
The man glanced over his shoulder. His face was round and puffy, and on his thick forearms were tattoos of anchors. “Be right with you, Willie.” He clipped a brightly colored papier-mâché donkey to the wire, which sagged under the added weight.
“Lots of Mexs come here,” Willie said, “so we stock the kind of crap they like.”
Roger Beck let the wire sag and came toward us, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. “How you doing, Willie?”
“Not bad, for a Sunday. Rog, this is Sharon McCone, newest member of the team. She’s going around with me today, learning the ropes. Then I’m going to turn her loose on the Berkeley Flea Market. Anything you can fill her in on will help.”
Beck’s eyes, pinpoints in his fleshy face, turned slowly to me. “You hired a woman?”
“Why not? I’ll take on anybody who can handle the job.”
“Yeah, but can she? It’s a rough business, especially for a broad. And that Berkeley market’s weird.”
“This lady can take care of herself.” There was a cold edge to Willie’s voice that seemed out of proportion to Beck’s sexist but fundamentally harmless remark. I glanced uneasily at him.
To me, Willie said, “Rog’s what you call your basic male chauvinist. Doesn’t like women much, especially since his old lady took off with an insurance salesman and the family silverware.”
Roger Beck’s face flushed and he turned back to the piñatas, jerking angrily on the wire.
“Since then,” Willie went on, “he drives a bakery truck during the week and moonlights for me on Saturdays and Sundays. It’s not much, but it helps pay the bills the old lady left. And he fits right in here, with all the other rednecks.”
I frowned.
“You see, Sharon, this is real redneck territory. Guns on the racks of the pickups. Shit-kicking music. Law and order, beer and pretzels, touch-my-woman-and-I’ll kick-your ass. You’re in for a real treat.”
There was silence as Beck pulled the wire taut. Then he turned and said with tightly controlled anger, “There anything you want me to get out of the truck?”
“Yeah. Half a dozen suede jackets. A carton of sweaters – bright colors, the Mex’s will love them. Some socket sets. Receipts are all in the glove compartment; take them in case you need them.”
Willie handed him his key ring and the beefy man left the stall, his big fists balled at his sides.
“You were rough on him,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess I was.” He was looking thoughtfully after Beck.
“Do you usually ride him like that?”
He turned abruptly, motioning for me to follow him. “Look, don’t worry about it. Nothing I say really bothers Rog. Doesn’t bother him at all.”
But it did, and Willie knew it. I suspected the fence wasn’t exactly a cheerleader for women’s rights, so it couldn’t have been Beck’s remark that set him off. And he didn’t strike me as a gratuitously cruel man. There had to be more going on between him and Beck than he was willing to discuss. The unpleasant scene kept puzzling me as Willie led me around, introducing me to other vendors and explaining the workings of the market.
The next flea market Willie took me to was on Alameda Island, a stone’s throw from Oakland. It was on the grounds of a drive-in theater near the Naval Air Station, and didn’t seem nearly as commercial as the San Jose operation. Even the vendors were more low-key as they lounged in the sun, watching the first customers straggle by. I caught snatches of conversation as Willie led me toward his stall near the drive-in’s snack bar.
“…so I told him if he wants me to take this literary crap that nobody buys, at least he could give me a price break on the good stuff – coffee-table books, you know? But a lot of good that does me…”
“…big dealers, they’re all alike. Don’t give the little guy nothing…”
“…like I told my daughter, I come for the sun. You can go crazy in a dingy windowless store six days a week…”
“…some party and, believe me, I could use a few aspirin right now…”
“…a sale’s a sale…”
“…looking for antiques?” The words were addressed to me this time. The old man stood amidst a motley collection of rickety tables, hideous lamps, and tattered mattresses. I stopped, staring at the fattest, ugliest overstuffed chair I’d ever seen.
“Plenty of genuine antiques here.”
“Mainly me,” the man added.
I smiled at the joke and hurried to catch up with Willie.
He was waiting impatiently in front of a stand that sold jeans and T-shirts. When I came up, he took a firm hold on my arm and propelled me down the aisle. “That’s my stand up ahead, with the barber pole in front. Nobody watching it; I guess he hasn’t started in on my runners yet.”
I glanced around; he seemed to be right.
The wares in this stall were different from those at San Jose, I noted. There was no clothing or piñatas, but instead a few antiques, some serviceable-looking furniture, housewares, and a great many children’s toys. When I commented on it, Willie said, “You stock to fit the clientele. Here you get a lot of young families who shop seriously. They want top value for their dollar.”
The words reminded me of an earnest young marketing executive I’d once known, and briefly I wondered to what heights Willie might have risen if he’d entered business school instead of becoming a fence.
A rail-thin man in a T-shirt that showed the outlines of his ribs was unloading a tricycle from the battered van parked at the back of the space. He set it down, paused to take a swig from a beer can that rested on the van’s bumper, then trundled the trike over to a group of strollers. His movements were slow, almost trancelike. When he turned, I saw that he was in his middle thirties – and that some of those years must have been hard ones indeed. The most recent evidence of it was a black eye and raw abrasions on his face.
“Hey, Willie.” He raised a hand.
“Morning Sam. What the hell happened to you?”
The man ambled over to us, his thumbs hooked in the loops of his belt, looking sheepish. “It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing to me. You seen a doctor?”
“Look, I’m okay.”
“Yeah.” Willie’s tone was flat, disbelieving.
The man went back to his van, finished off the beer, and immediately pulled another from the paper sack.
“Bad night?” Willie asked.
“Carolyn left. Again.”
“And?”
“She said she was going to stay with some friend on the Peninsula. Ended up in a bar in Hayward—”
“Hayward’s not on the Peninsula, Sam.”
“Shit you think I don’t know that. I was blind drunk, man. Anyway, I got into a fight, these two guys jumped me, and the next thing I’m coming to in the parking lot.” He shook his head and swigged beer.
“Yeah. Sam, this is Sharon. She’s going to handle the Berkeley market for me. Sharon, Sam Thomas.”
Sam looked at me with faint surprise, as if he hadn’t been fully aware of my presence. “Hi, Sharon.” To Willie, he said, “Glad you finally found somebody who’d go there.”
Willie glanced at me, amused. “None of my runners want to work the Berkeley Flea Market. Too ethnic for them. Too many weirdos and liberals. You know Berkeley.”
Sam took out another beer. “Well, it is weird. They’ve even got a chiropractor operating there, for Christ’s sake. And the food – you ever had a tofu burger?”
“Speaking of food…” I began.
Willie looked at his watch. ‘Yeah, it’s almost lunchtime. The fried chicken at the snack bar’s not bad.” He took out his wallet, extracted a twenty, and handed it to Sam. “Get us some, will you? And feed yourself, too.”
“I’m not hungry.” But he took the bill and shambled off, still clutching the beer.
“Does he always drink that much?”
“Yes.” Willie was surv
eying the space with a critical eye. He went over and pushed the strollers closer to the van, then lugged a kitchen table out and piled some cookware on it. “Sam can never get it through his head how I want things arranged.”
“So why do you put up with him? He’s obviously an alcoholic. Was it his wife who walked out last night?”
“His lady. But she’ll be back, probably be there when he gets home tonight. Sam can get violent – it happens that way with some Vietnam vets – but it doesn’t last long. When something sets him off, Carolyn leaves. But she’s always come back – so far.” In spite of his optimistic words, his eyes were troubled.
“She must love him, then. And you must like him pretty well, too.”
“Let me tell you something about Sam. Like I said, he’s a Vietnam vet. Former Special Forces type. Went over there gung-ho. He wasn’t like me – just an ordinary grunt who was too dumb to try to get out of it. Or like our friend, Zahn, who was ROTC and went because he thought it was right, then came back to grow his hair and carry a protest sign. Sam really believed in that war.
“So he went over there and, like Zahn and me, he saw some pretty unspeakable things. Probably did some of them, too. But he didn’t come home and forget like I did. Or try to change things like Zahn. He came home and remembered – too damn well. The booze kind of takes the edge off of it.”
“And that’s why you put up with him.”
“I may be dumb about a lot of things, but I’m not too stupid to know that a lot of the cripples left over from ‘Nam aren’t in wheelchairs.”
When Sam came back from the snack bar, he had a fresh sixpack and baskets of fried chicken for Willie and me. We sat in the van and talked – about flea markets, about the Oakland A’s and their chances this season, about where you could buy the cheapest gas. I don’t know how Willie did it, but by the time we left, he’d convinced Sam to see a doctor about his face, at Willie’s expense, of course. Sam should think of it as health insurance, he said. After all, didn’t nearly everybody else in the world have Blue Cross these days?
That afternoon we drove across the Richmond Bridge to the Marin City Flea Market. On a vacant lot beside the freeway, it was even more low-key than Alameda. The stalls spread out haphazardly in all directions, and the wares they offered were more exotic than mundane. Willie and I checked for suspicious strangers, but again everything seemed normal.
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