Other than the house where the colonel was, there didn't appear to be a really good watching post on the block, except for a used-car lot diagonally across the street. From a used-car lot you could see a great deal and you wouldn't draw much attention: there could be lots of traffic in and out, lots of different people coming and going. But there didn't seem to be any of that here. Down the block was a pizzeria that wasn't open yet, some kind of insurance agency that seemed to be either closed or at least not doing much business, a credit union office that had an occasional visitor. Really, Joe thought, there was just the used-car dealer. He decided to give him a visit, though not by walking up. Edna or the colonel, or the guy upstairs, would be sure to make him if he tried to just walk down the street.
He went back to the alley and drove his car around the block, then a few blocks further, just to make sure he wasn't being tailed. It looked clean. He returned to Main Street and simply drove into the used-car lot, making sure to park to one side, where he would be obscured by other cars. He walked into the dealer's office, which was nothing more than an aluminum prefab unit set up as an office. In addition to a secretary—one of those efficient, seemingly anonymous women of thirty-five or forty, diligently working on titles and insurance details—there was only a hefty man of thirty in a sport coat and a tie, not overly bright but nobody's fool, it would seem. Nobody else in the office. No federal-agent types. Nobody just sitting around sipping coffee and watching the street.
“Bob Tyler,” the hefty man said, holding out his hand.
“Clarence Woods,” Joe said, shaking the hand firmly.
“Lookin’ for a good car, Clarence?”
“Not really, Bob. No, I was just . . . Bob, where do you get these cars?” Joe asked.
“Where do I get ‘em? They come in. I buy ‘em. All good cars, Clarence. I got the greatest mechanic in the Mountain West. He goes over ‘em, gets ‘em in top shape, and I sell ‘em. Can't hardly get enough of ‘em.”
“You mean these are all cars that people drive in here and sell to you?”
“Sell, trade . . . that's about it, Clarence.” Bob was confident, relaxed. “You wouldn't believe the return bidniss I git. Guy come in here—what was it, Lynn?” Bob turned to the woman at the desk. “Two days ago? That old fella from Sandy?”
The woman nodded without looking up and said, “Lewis, James.”
“Right. Old Jim Lewis. He bought the sixť car, I think it was, he's got from me, over the years. Good cars, ever one. ‘Pendable cars.” The man leaned back against the door jamb, writhing slightly to scratch his back, his belly bulging his wide belt with its cruelly biting rodeo buckle. “You don't git that kinda return bidniss, you don't pervide good cars. Clarence,” he added.
Joe nodded enthusiastically. “But Bob, you must have times when the demand outruns the supply?”
Bob stood upright, his brows shooting up. “Can't hardly maintain inventory, Clarence. I like to keep the lot full. It looks like success. Funny, eh? When you figure that real success would be if you couldn't keep the lot full. Whudjoo got on your mine, Clarence?”
“Bob, can we talk?” Joe gestured toward the inner office.
“Can we talk? Clarence, you're talking to a auto-mo-beel salesman, the original motor mouth. Come on in here. You want a coffee? No? Mormon tea—Coke?” he said. He ushered Joe into his office and closed the door, then got a can of Diet Coke out of a small refrigerator. “Whudjoo have in mine, Clarence?” he said, opening the can and setting it down on the edge of the desk. He had a habit, when not talking himself, of moving his lips slightly, as if helping you say what you had to say. It could be disconcerting at times.
Joe refused the chair, preferring to stand and look out the picture window, ostensibly at the lot. “Bob, I've got a bunch of cars. Actually, I've got access to as many cars as you can handle,” Joe said. He gazed casually at the street, talking over his shoulder. Nothing was happening. “Cheap cars,” he added.
“Cheap,” Bob said. “How cheap?”
“What did you pay for that Bronco?” Joe asked. He had to glance away to avoid repeating “Bronco” when Bob clearly mouthed the word.
“I don't know right off,” Bob said, cautiously, coming to stand by him. “It was a trade-in. A Mormon bishop from Idaho brought that in, I took it on trade for a damn near bran’ new Buick.”
“Did you give him thirty-five hundred?” Joe asked.
Bob stood and sucked his teeth for several seconds, then said, “Whudjoo got in mine, Clarence?”
“What I had in mind was you could have given him thirty-five,” Joe said, “and you'd still have made a thou.”
Bob looked out on the lot, standing next to Joe. “Mmmm,” was all he said. Then, “I don't want no rust. Midwest cars gotta lotta rust. They use salt on the roads back there. Folks ‘round here won't buy rust.”
“Southwest,” Joe said. “Arizona, New Mexico. Like that.”
“Good titles?” Bob said.
“Solid,” Joe said. He turned to look at the man. “I'm talking, say, five hundred cars?”
Bob made a face. “No way I can do five hunderd cars.”
Joe shrugged. “Oh well. I thought maybe you had more turnover.”
“I tell you what, though,” Bob said, earnest now, “I can make some calls. I could prolly fine a place for . . . mmm, three hunderd?”
“You talk,” Joe said.
Bob went to the phone. Joe continued to look out the window. The more he looked the more he was convinced that nothing was going on. The colonel had his lookout, but it was the only lookout.
After a while, Bob hung up the phone and said, “I can place three hunderd. If,” he emphasized heavily, “you can give good titles, Clarence.”
Joe sighed and said, “Can I use the phone, Bob?”
“My pleasure.” Bob stood up, shoving the phone toward Joe. Joe sat down behind the desk. He still had a commanding view of the street. “This may take a little while, Bob. I have to call long-distance. Is that a problem?”
“No prob,” Bob said.
“Uh, could you leave me?” Joe asked.
Bob was easy. “Hey, it's your office, Clarence. But let me ast one thing. What are we talking, unit-wise? Say a nineny-three Olds, four-door?”
“Bob, how about a ninety-four de Ville? I got one in Pocatello, it has less than four thou on it, run you . . . oh, five bills?”
“A nineny-four de Ville for five grand? Clarence, you can call Spain, I don't care.” He went out and closed the door.
Joe sat at the phone for a long moment, thinking. He watched the street closely. Then he got up and opened the door. Bob stood nearby, sipping a Diet Coke. “Honey,” he called to the secretary, “what's the area code for Detroit?”
“Three one three,” she said, consulting the phone book.
“Clarence,” Bob called out, “I don't want no Midwest rusters.”
“Rust-free,” Joe said. He closed the door and sat down at the phone.
Humphrey answered on the second ring.
“I need three hundred used cars,” Joe said.
“You gotta be kidding,” Humphrey said.
“In Salt Lake City.”
“They don't have any used cars in Salt Lake City?” Humphrey said.
“They don't have enough,” Joe said.
“Who'da thought? So, Joe. You're going into the used-car business?”
“I'm thinking about it.”
There was a long silence, then a long sigh. Humphrey said, “You know, Joe . . . “ He stopped.
“Go ahead man.”
“Joe, I got a problem with you. But . . . “ Another long silence, another sigh.
“Fat Man, you and me never had any problems,” Joe said. “You know that. I had problems with Carmine. I even had some small problems with Mitch. But you and me, we never had any problems.”
“I know that, Joe. I know that.” Humphrey sat, staring at Lake St. Clair, snow slithering and swirling across the ice. “You know, Joe,�
� he said sadly, “I'm not sure I can deal with you. I mean, there's other people involved, a lot has—”
“Fat Man,” Joe interrupted, “I can imagine what the problems are, but they're just problems, aren't they? Problems are what I solve. Everything is a problem. Right? I can talk to Mitch. I can talk to Franco, if I have to. They're just problems. Right?”
“Joe, some problems come with built-in answers,” Humphrey said.
“No, no, Fat. Every problem comes with multiple choice these days. The stupid man takes the simple answer.”
“Joe. Joe. It isn't multiple choice anymore. You went a little too far.”
“Oh, fuck you, Fat. You're living in some kind of dream world. You can't do what you want, because Mitch or Franco isn't going to think you're a good guy? What are we talking about here? Kiss of death? I'm looking out here, Fat, and I'm looking at big lumpy Tongans. You know what Tongans are, Fat? They're big fat kids who got dragged over here from the islands, from the garden of Eden. They're lumbering around in Salt Lake City, trying to figure out where they are, what happened to the fucking palm trees, the surf. These crazy bastards are looking for me, Fat. They want to kill me. We had a little disagreement. But . . . “ Joe gave it a good long pause. “They won't kill me, Fat.” He almost whispered it. “Before these dickheads kill me, Fat, I'll kill you.”
After that there was a good long silence. Then Humphrey said, “You shouldn't call me Fat. I'm not fat anymore. Joe, can you believe it? I lost a hundred pounds.”
“Humphrey! You lost a hundred pounds? I love you, man. You're the coolest. I guess I won't kill you. So. Can you get me three hundred cars?”
“Three hundred cars. They're on the way. Where do I send them?”
“Salt Lake City.”
“Where in Salt Lake? I gotta know. Also, what kind of price are we talking?”
Joe opened the door and beckoned Bob in. “Bob, I got the man on the line. We're talking three hundred cars. What price are we talking, total?”
“Total?” Bob said. “Geez, I don't know. I'd have to see what I'm gettin’. How many late models? I don't want no beaters, now, but I don't want too many new ones. It's hard to say, Clarence, till I saw ‘em, or saw a manifest.”
Joe held up his hand to stop him. He listened to the phone, then held up five fingers. “Per unit?” he said into the phone.
“Five?” Bob was incredulous. “What are we talking? Is this all Caddies? I don't want just Caddies, Clarence.”
“Bob, the Caddie in Pokey is a one-shot deal, you and me. You aren't gettin’ no ninety-four Caddies for five bills from this man. But he'll do all right by you. Wait a minute,” he said as Bob started to reply. Joe shook his head to shut him up. “Humph,” he said into the phone, “we need late models, but not too new. No rust. What do you say to three apiece?”
“Joe!” Humphrey was shocked. “I got to ship them? I've gotta have ten.”
Joe laughed. “Be serious, Humph.” He listened, looking at Bob. Then he shook his head and said to Bob, “He's talking five.”
Bob did a quick calculation. “I don't think I can do it,” he said. “I can't get that kind of capital.”
“Can't do it,” Joe said into the phone, watching Bob mime his words. “Can we get a deal? Say, half down, half later.”
“Joe, Joe,” Humphrey said, “what is this shit? What are we talking about? You serious about this? These fucking cars? I can get you some cars, but is this what you called about?”
“What do you mean?” Joe said.
“Don't we have something else to talk about?”
“Yeah, I guess we do, but what about my man, here?”
“Who is this guy?” Humphrey sounded annoyed. “Is he for real? What do you know about him? Hey, I tell you what, Joe. For you, I'll make him a deal. Fifty cars, three apiece. That's a lousy hundred and fifty grand. If he can get that kind of money together, we've got a deal. Payable on delivery, in cash. But it's on your scorecard, Joe. If he's some kind of cop, some kind of ripoff, then you pay. You got me?”
“Wait a sec,” Joe said. He turned to Bob and explained the deal. But he could see that Bob, his imagination once fired, was now beginning to have second thoughts. He'd been caught up by Joe's enthusiasm, but now he realized that Joe must be into something much more seriously crooked than he wanted to deal with. Bob was smiling and moving his lips, but he couldn't stop shaking his head. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money to be giving a guy who had just walked in off the street, a guy wearing a wool Utes cap and a ski jacket. Bob's vision of a big splash was giving way to a strong sense of reality.
“I'll have to call you back,” Joe said.
“Joe! Don't hang up,” Humphrey said. “We can talk. Where are you staying, what's your number?”
“I'll call you back,” Joe said, but he didn't hang up. “My man's got cold feet.” He looked at Bob with something between reproach and contempt.
“Joe! How about this? Twenty cars . . . “ There was a calculating pause, then: “Twenty cars at three apiece. I ship them. I got trucks sitting idle. That's only sixty bucks, but I'll knock it down to fifty. You got some kind of turkey there, I can tell. He'll like these cars, I guarantee it. Then, later . . . “ Humphrey permitted himself a low chuckle. “We'll show this yokel how real money is made.”
“Fifty bills too big for you?” Joe said to Bob. “Twenty primo cars. Deal?” To the phone he said, “He wants to talk. Here.” Joe handed the phone to Bob. He went to stand by the window while they talked. It sounded like progress was being made.
Across the street he saw a large dark-complected man stroll by Helen's house. The man looked at the house, but he didn't pause. Joe smiled. A few minutes later, while Bob and Humphrey continued to seal their deal, another islander came strolling from the opposite direction. He didn't stop either, although he gave the house a good look. Joe thought this was very promising.
He stood and watched for another fifteen minutes while the deal was being discussed and hammered out. No more Tongans appeared, but then he saw something even more interesting. A late model Pontiac pulled up in front of the house and Helen Sedlacek got out. She stood for a second, looking around, then walked up to the front door of the house and fumbled with keys.
“Bob,” Joe said, turning to interrupt the lovely friendship that was developing, “I've got to go out for a minute. Talk to you.” And he was out the door. He drove his car down the street and turned left at the corner, then left again to enter the alley. He stopped well short of the house and got out cautiously. He reached the alley gate in time to see not only the colonel approaching the back door, but Edna hustling around to the front. Joe understood this situation. It was obviously what the colonel had been waiting for: once Helen was in the house Edna would go to the front, ring the bell, gain entry, and bust Helen; if she wasn't cooperative, the colonel would come in the back. No doubt he had a key, but he would probably prefer it if Edna could let him in. Then they would search. They would have a warrant, of course, but they would probably call for backup, probably get in some expert searchers. They'd make a big show of it, particularly when they found the money. All the better to intimidate Helen, get her to cooperate.
Joe waited behind the fence. It took about two minutes. Then Edna opened the back door and with Helen standing to one side, covered by Edna's revolver, the colonel was allowed in.
As soon as the door closed, Joe raced to the house next door. As he had hoped, the colonel had not locked the kitchen door behind him. He went in quickly and quietly and snuck up the stairs while the phone was still ringing. Someone upstairs picked up the phone and said, “Roger. You got it boss,” and hung up.
The agent was about to make his call for backup when Joe entered the room. The agent recognized the authority of the Glock in Joe's hand with no difficulty. Nor did he complain when Joe relieved him of his .38 Chief's Special and handcuffs and shackled him to a water pipe in the bathroom. For that matter, Joe said hardly five words himself.
He walked next door quickly and knocked on the back door.
“That was fa—” the colonel started to say, but stopped when he saw Joe. He started back into the kitchen but Joe made an abrupt gesture with the Glock and he relaxed. “Company,” the colonel sang out, and walked in front of Joe into the living room.
Joe kept a straight arm in the man's back and forced him to one side at arm's length so he could cover the startled Edna. Helen was sitting in an easy chair, a look of disgust on her face that instantly was transformed into surprise, then delight.
“Joe!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Easy,” Joe said. “That's enough names, enough visiting.” But he couldn't resist adding, “Glad to see me, babe?”
“Am I ever!” She got up and came toward him.
“Whoa,” Joe said. He gestured at her with the gun. “I said, ‘Easy.’ I meant it, babe. Sit down. No, on the couch. Edna, just lower that piece to the carpet, okay? Sit next to Helen. Colonel, let's have the .45. Now you sit, next to Edna.”
When he had them all seated, side by side, Joe carefully picked up Edna's gun. “All right, now,” he said, sitting in the other easy chair, across from them. “Here we all are. Colonel, I'd introduce you to the lady, but I guess you know who she is. No? Oh come on now, you must have had time to identify yourselves. What is it, DEA? IRS? Or are you still just the friendly next-door Aryan Brotherhood?”
“Joe,” Helen said, “what's this all about? These people said they were cops, that I was under arrest—”
“They're some kind of cops,” Joe said, “and what it's all about is they want my money.”
Helen stood up. “My money,” she said.
Joe smiled painfully at her. “My money, sweets. Don't be silly. It's my money. Let's don't argue in front of the neighbors. Here, let me get them settled and then we can discuss this, but we don't have a lot of time.”
The colonel and Edna, like their associate next door, were passively cooperative. They were professionals. They knew better than to argue with a man with gun, especially when he seemed calm and unlikely to harm them. Joe was wary of Helen, however. He wasn't sure how far to trust her. But first he had to secure the two agents. Using their own cuffs, he shackled them to an exposed pipe in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway to the living room, where he could keep an eye on them, and he asked Helen where the money was.
Dead Folks Page 21