by Ed McBain
“Let’s go, Andy,” I said.
It wasn’t difficult. It’s tough to get a dealer’s franchise, and there aren’t very many dealers in any specific neighborhood. We tried two, and we hit the jackpot on the third try.
We spotted the car in one corner of the big garage. We walked over to it, and there was a mechanic in grease-stained overalls working on the right headlight.
“Police,” I told him. “What’s wrong there?”
He continued working, apparently used to periodic checks from the Automobile Squad. “Sealed beam is broken. Just replacing it.”
“What happened to the grille?”
“Oh, a small accident. Damn shame, too. A new car.”
Andy walked around to the back and saw the paint scratches on the trunk. He nodded when he came around to me again.
“Back’s all scratched, too,” he said to the mechanic.
“Yeah, this goddamn car’s been a jinx ever since we got it in.”
“How so?”
“Got a headache with this one. The day we took it out for a test, the fool driver ran it into a ditch. Sliced hell out of both rear tires, and we had to replace them. All this in the first week we had this pig.”
“Did you replace with Allstate?” I asked.
The mechanic looked up in surprise. “Why, yeah. How’d you know?”
“Where’s your boss?” Andy asked.
“In the front office.” The mechanic got up. “Hey, what’s this all about?”
“Nothing that concerns you, Mac. Fix your car.”
We went to the front office, a small cubicle that held two desks and two leather customer chairs. A stout man was sitting at one desk, a telephone to his ear. I estimated his age at about forty-two, forty-three.
He looked up and smiled when we came in, nodded at us, and then continued talking.
“Yes . . . well, okay, if you say so. Well look, Sam, I can’t sell cars if I haven’t got them . . . You just do your best, that’s all. Okay, fine.” He hung up without saying goodbye, got out of his chair and walked over to us.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Yes,” Andy said. “We’re interested in a car. Are you the owner of this place?”
“I am.”
“With whom are we doing business?”
“Fred Whitaker,” he said. “Did you have any particular car in mind?”
“Yes. The black Buick on the floor.”
“A beautiful car,” Whitaker said, smiling.
“The one with the smashed grille and headlight,” I added.
The smile froze on his face, and he went white. “Wh . . . what?”
“Did you smash that car up?”
Whitaker swallowed hard. “No . . . no. One of my mechanics did it.”
“Who?”
“I’ve . . . I’ve fired him. He . . .”
“We can check this, Whitaker.”
“Are . . . are you policemen?”
“We are. Come on, let’s have it all. We’ve got a girl to identify you.”
Whitaker’s face crumbled. “I . . . I guess that’s best, isn’t it?”
“It’s best,” Andy said.
“I didn’t mean to run him down. But the girl screamed, you know, and I thought he’d heard it. He stuck up his hand, and I . . . I got scared, I suppose, and there was no one around, so I . . . I knocked him . . . I knocked him down. Is he all right? I mean . . .”
“He’s dead,” I said.
“Dead?” Whitaker’s eyes went wide. “Dead . . .”
“Was it you who smashed that picket fence?” Andy asked.
Whitaker was still dazed.
“Wh . . . what?” he said.
“The picket fence. On Barnes.”
“Oh. Yes, yes. That was afterwards. I was still scared. I . . . I made a wrong turn, and I saw a police car, and I wanted to get away fast. I . . . I backed into the fence.”
“Why’d you bother that little girl, Whitaker?”
He collapsed into a chair. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“You’re in a jam,” Andy said. “You’d better come along with us.”
“Yes, yes.” He stood up, took his hat from a rack in the corner, and then started for the door. At the door, he stopped and said, “I’d better tell my mechanics. I’d better tell them I’ll be gone for the day.”
I looked at Whitaker, and I thought of Benson. My eyes met Andy’s, and I put it into words for both of us.
“You’ll be gone a lot longer than that, Whitaker.”
Hot Cars
Because there was less of a risk involved, that’s why.
I’ll tell you something, John, I’d appreciate it if for once you let me get a word in edgewise here, instead of all the time interrupting. I been in this crumby cell with you for two months already, and the way the thing reads I’ll be in here for at least another three years, figuring on parole. But every time I try to explain the whole beauty part of the deal, you stick your nose in and tell me if it was such a beauty I wouldn’t be doing a stretch for grand larceny right this very minute. While at the same time you keep telling me you’re the world’s best pickpocket, and I have always had the decency never to even suggest that if you were such a good pickpocket what are you doing in here? So, if you can just for once keep your mouth shut and let me tell the whole thing before lights-out, I would sincerely appreciate it, because otherwise you’re a nice cellmate, though you snore and pick your teeth.
The way we done it, there was never no risk involved, that was the beauty part. We didn’t have to stand out there on the street practically naked and force the side flap, and then hook the door latch with a wire hanger, and unlock it, and then open the hood and cross the wires, all of which takes a lot of time even if you are an experienced person. There is the danger there of some eager-beaver cop coming up and saying, “Hey, what are you doing there?” and maybe shooting you in the leg or something. I know a car man in Frisco who got shot not in the leg but also where it hurts a lot.
So what we done is we looked through the classified ads, you understand me, John? Like in this newspaper here, and stop picking your teeth, that’s a disgusting habit. Like right here, I’ll read this thing out loud to you so you can get an idea how we set up the marks, and spitting out little pieces of meat like that, what the hell’s the matter with you, John? This here is a typical ad we would circle with a red pencil and then give the guy a call. I’ll read it to you.
CADILLAC ELDORADO CONV 1971
Firemist green with white vinyl top & inter.
AM/FM stereo tape deck, air cond, 6-way seat,
monitor lights, dr locks, 1 owner. $3300 firm.
And then the phone number, and all that crap where you should contact the person who is selling the car. I’m only giving you this as an example, John, because actually we tried to get cars that had a bigger demand, like right now a used Mercedes 280SL is very big because they ain’t making them no more, and the model they’re putting out costs something like fourteen grand, so there’s a very big market for the old model, you follow me? You broke your friggin’ toothpick. But like let’s say this is the car we decide to heist, so what we done is Clara would call the person—she ain’t been to see me, she ain’t sent not even a postcard, I wonder what’s the matter with that dame? She was one of the best in the business, I got to tell you, John, the tale she gave that man on the phone was unbelievable, she’ll probably come next visiting day, I hope.
She would call the number in the ad, and she would start the conversation by saying, for example, if it was this particular car in this ad here, she would say, “Are you the person advertising the Cadillac Eldorado convertible 1971?” she would say.
And he would say, “Yes, I am.”
And then it would go like this:
“This is Mrs. Abigail Hendricks, what color is the car?”
She would use different names each time, of course, her real name is Clara Parsons. I think. At least, that
is the name she told me was her real name. But for the sake of example, let’s say this time she’d be using the name Abigail Hendricks. John, you can hurt your teeth using a paper clip that way. And the guy who was trying to sell his car would say, “Yes, I am the person advertising the Cadillac Eldorado convertible 1971.”
“What color is the car?” the conversation would go.
“It’s firemist green with a white vinyl top and interior.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Clara would say. “What’s firemist green?”
“A sort of off-green.”
“It’s not like a bright Kelly green, is it?”
“Oh no. No, not at all.”
“I’ve always wanted a Cadillac,” Clara would say. Or a Mercedes or a Lincoln Continental or a T-Bird, or whatever car was in the ad, you follow? “I used to have a Buick, I sold it last month. But in my secret heart I’ve always wanted a Cadillac. This is a convertible, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“I’ve always wanted a Cadillac convertible. How many miles are on it?”
“40,000. More or less.”
“Is it in good condition?”
“Excellent condition. It is in excellent condition.”
“It wasn’t in any accidents or anything, was it?”
“No, no. Never.”
“And the interior is in good condition, too?”
“Perfect condition.”
What’s happening, John, is that the mark is trying to sell her, you understand? He don’t know yet that we are going to heist his Caddy, he’s got no idea we are setting him up. He just listens to the tale, and tries his best to get Clara to buy the goddamn car.
“And it’s thirty-three hundred dollars, is that right?”
“That’s all.”
“That sounds a little high. Is that just the asking price? What I mean is are you willing to come down a little?”
“That’s the firm price.”
“I’m a widow, you see. Excuse me one minute, could you? I think I hear one of the children.”
That was where she’d put down the phone, and go to the refrigerator and get herself a bottle of beer or something, or come over to where I was sitting and give me a little kiss, I wonder why she ain’t written, well, she’ll probably show up next week and surprise me. So she’d let him wait on the phone for just a little bit, and then she’d go back and pick up the receiver again and say to him. “I’m sorry I took so long. I live in this big old house in Larchmont, Andrea’s room is all the way down the hall. I have three children, two boys and a girl, it isn’t easy raising a family all alone, believe me. My husband passed away last June, you see.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, I’m just getting over it, actually. Do you think it’s frivolous of me to want a Cadillac?”
“No, a Cadillac is a very fine motor car.”
“It’s just, you know, I think I’ve been in mourning long enough, don’t you? Do you know what color my Buick was, the one that I sold?”
“What color?”
“Black. It was a ’72 Skylark wagon, are you familiar with that particular automobile?”
“I can’t say I’m too familiar with it.”
“I got twenty-five hundred dollars for it, which is how I happen to have the money to buy another car. That Buick always reminded me of a hearse, and now that I’m finally getting over my husband’s passing away, I think I ought to have something more light-hearted, don’t you think? Firemist green. That sounds very light-hearted.”
“It is. It’s a very light-hearted motor car.”
“Do you think I should come see it?”
“That’s entirely up to you, Mrs. Hendricks. I have several people coming to see it tomorrow, so I can’t guarantee . . .”
“Oh, please don’t sell it till I’ve at least had a chance to look at it. Where are you located, exactly?”
Let’s say the guy lives on Seventy-eighth and Central Park West, or wherever. So he’ll tell Clara, “I’m on Seventy-eighth and Central Park West.”
“In the city, is that?”
“Yes, in the city.”
“Because I live in Larchmont, you see,”
We didn’t live in Larchmont, I hope you understand that. John, you listening to me, or what? I can’t tell if you’re listening when you got your eyes closed like that. Where we really lived was in a hotel on Forty-seventh Street just east of Broadway, that was where we made our headquarters in New York. But Clara keeps mentioning that she lives in Larchmont because she wants to give this picture of a respectable widow living in a big old house she probably inherited when her old man kicked off, and she’s raising three adorable little kids, and she’s got this nice check deposited for twenty-five hundred, so it’s reasonable she could have scraped up another eight-hundred someplace, right? Just nod, John. That way I’ll know you’re not asleep.
Anyway, she goes on about how much she’s always wanted a firemist green Caddy, and she asks if any tapes go along with the AM/FM stereo deck, her favorites are Mantovani and Frank Sinatra, though she loves other recording artists, too, and then finally she says, “What time do you go to bed?”
“Well, after the Eleven O’Clock news, usually.”
“Because I have this friend who’s a mechanic,” she says, “he knows cars inside out and backwards, and if I can get hold of him, I thought maybe I could come look at the car tonight. How long will it take me to get there from Larchmont?”
“A half-hour,” he says. “Forty minutes? Something like that.”
“Can I call you back in five minutes?” Clara says. “I just want to see if my friend is free. If he is, we’ll come right down.”
“Certainly.”
“Now don’t sell it in the next five minutes, okay?”
“I promise I won’t sell it in the next five minutes.”
“I’ll get right back to you.”
So that’s when she hangs up, and comes over to me and sits on my lap or something, and I put my hand up under her skirt or something—you realize I haven’t seen her in two months? Well, maybe she went to visit her mother in Tallahassee who is sickly. Then she calls back the guy and tells him she can’t get ahold of her mechanic friend, but she doesn’t want to lose the car, so she will come down to see it anyway if she can get somebody to drive her into the city. And if the car is as nice as she’s sure it’s going to be, she’ll give the guy a deposit check right on the spot, and tomorrow when the bank opens, she’ll go get him a certified check for the balance. So the guy hangs up, and since we are only ten minutes or so away from where he lives, we usually make love or something to kill the time, and then we hop into the little Volkswagen and drive up there and start the real pitch.
Now this is where I have to tell you what really happened the last time we pulled this, though it was a freak occurrence and has nothing to do with the beautiful way everything was working before then. We had heisted a total of seven cars in as many states, though of course when they caught me I only admitted to the one I was driving. What happened was that we went through that whole routine with a man who had a 1968 tobacco-brown Mercedes-Benz 280SL with genuine beige leather interior, air-conditioned, two tops, fully-loaded, it was a nice car, I could have got rid of it in New Jersey in thirty seconds flat. The beauty part, you see, is that any of these cars we heisted would not officially become hot cars till the next morning, by which time the serial numbers would be filled off the engine, and the car repainted, and new plates put on it. In other words, by the time the mark realized his goddamn car had actually been stolen, we already had at least a ten-hour lead on the cops, by which time the car was already being driven out to Texas or someplace. That was the way it usually worked, you’ll understand what I mean in a minute if you can stop scratching your ass for a minute.
So the night I got busted, we drove over to see this guy who had advertised the Benz. This was after Clara had gave him the whole pitch on the phone about always wanting to have a Be
nz with two tops, and all that crap, and about not being able to get ahold of her mechanic friend, but not wanting to lose the car, and so on. So we meet the guy at a garage in the Bronx, it’s underneath a two-story clapboard house, he’s got the Benz locked in this two-car garage, there’s a big padlock on the door. He turns on this little overhead light bulb, and Clara looks over the car and I look at my watch and tell her, “Abigail, I’m sorry I have to go, but I’ll be late for work.”
“But how will I get back to Larchmont?” she says. We have already established on the phone that she will have to find somebody to drive her to where the car is, you see, and I am the somebody she found to drive her, but I have to get to work now because I’m a respectable hard-working person who is just doing Abigail Hendricks a favor. I am dressed respectable, you know, I am wearing a suit and a tie, and I explain to the mark that I am a bank guard, and that I have to relieve the other guard at midnight, and it is almost that time now. We used the bank guard routine because it made me sound like an upholder of law and order. It always worked perfect. So Clara is worrying now about how she is going to get home to Larchmont, and I tell her that maybe I can let her have the Volks, if she promises to pick me up at the bank tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp which is what time I go off, and usually I am very sleepy by then. I also tell her to be very careful with the car since it is practically in mint condition though it is a 1963 model, and it is here that we establish Clara has never had an accident in the fifteen years she’s been driving. I have to tell you that Clara looks as if she’s never had an accident. She is wearing a brown suit, and her hair is pulled back in a bun, and she is wearing little gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and she looks like her own maiden aunt who lives next door to her mother in Tallahassee. So I give her the keys, and she asks me how I will get down to the bank, and I tell her it’s okay I’ll catch a taxi, and then I leave her with the mark, and I know in about an hour or so I am going to have myself a nice 1968 Mercedes-Benz 280SL to drive over to New Jersey and sell on the spot to this man who will file off the serial numbers and paint it red or whatever.