Willie’s Marin runner, Monty Adair, presented a marked contrast to his laid-back surroundings. Adair was angular and intense. His dark brown hair was cut military-style; his bright eyes snapped; his small nose and chin were sharply pointed. When he spoke, it was in short, clipped sentences.
“Nice to have you aboard, Sharon. Willie, there’s a guy who wants to see you. He’s in the third space, back aisle. Wants to know if you’ll take a TV in trade for a car stereo. I said I’d send you by.”
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 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 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 font 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.
5.
When we drove into the Saltflats Flea Market, a man with an irongray 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 the 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 windows. “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 that you continue to.” The flea market operator turned and stalked back to t
he 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 sort 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 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.
As I watched, he finished his popcorn, crumpled the bag, and threw it into a nearby waste container. The swift motions alerted me, and I sat up straighter. The man’s eyes met mine and then he turned on his heel. I jumped off the tailgate and went after him.
I hurried across the aisle, nearly stumbling over a child with a helium-filled balloon. The man disappeared around the popcorn stand. I went through the narrow space between it and a used clothing concession, then stopped at the edge of the next aisle. It was easy to spot the yarmulke-covered head some ten feet to the left. The man was walking purposefully, but not fast. I followed, also taking my time.
He stopped in front of a display of sunglasses, his thin face reflected darkly in their hundreds of shiny lenses. His hand reached for a pair of glasses, wavered, and fell to his side. He moved along the display, selected another pair, and tried them on in front of a mirror. As he adjusted them and bent down to get a better look, I realized he was checking me out in the glass. Quickly he straightened, dropped the sunglasses on the counter, and trotted off down the aisle.
I followed him, weaving through the casual strollers. He increased his pace, glancing back over his shoulder. A woman lugging an overstuffed satin pillow stepped into his path, and he ran into her, bouncing off her soft burden. She laughed, and the man whirled, then veered off toward
the exit. He was moving fast now, and people were turning to look.
He cut straight through an open stall that sold ceramics, and I followed. Briefly I was aware of the vendor standing open-mouthed, a garish ceramic cake topped with strawberries in her hands. The man plunged into a crowed near an ice cream peddler and, my eyes fixed on him, I smacked into a woman in a long dress who wore five flowered bonnets piled on her head.
“Watch where you’re going!”
“Sorry!”
“That’s okay. You want to buy a hat?” I heard her last words over my shoulder as I sprinted toward the exit. The man was pushing around a line of people and heading for the frontage road.
He ran along beside the cars that were parked there, his shiny shoes slapping on the pavement. I raced after him. Near the half-finished marina, he came to a sudden stop and jumped into a beat-up brown sedan. When I got to it, he was frantically grinding the starter.
I reached through the driver’s window and grabbed at the keys. He slapped my hand, got the car started, and stalled it. I pulled the keys from the ignition and backed up, bracing myself for a struggle. But the man gave a groan and flopped back against the seat, his eyes closed. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
“Okay,” I said, “who are you and why have you been watching Willie Whelan?”
He remained still for a moment. Then he brought his hands down on the steering wheel with a thump.
“Answer the question.”
Slowly he opened his eyes and turned his head. “Who are you?”
“One of Whelan’s employees. Now you answer my question.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything. Give me back my keys.”
“No.”
“Give them to me!”
“Uh-huh.”
He tried to glare at me, but wasn’t able to summon up much ferocity. His fingers began to drum on the steering wheel. “I told them this would happen,” he said.
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