Joe Gores - 32 Cadillacs

But that was Friday. Now, on Saturday afternoon, Morales was not thinking of Gypsies. He was, instead, over in the East Bay trying to find a welfare cheat Ballard had been chasing for his Mazda. Typical Ballard shit, he thought, booting the file all over the lot with that phony concussion of his.

He still hated Ballard’s guts from the Maria Navarro thing.

Golden Gate Fields is shoehorned between I-80 and the fringes of the bay at Albany, just south of Richmond. This Saturday was a race day, and since a remarkably large percent of welfare checks in California, state or federal, are cashed at racetracks, and since the Mazda man had a history with the ponies, cruising the parking lots at the track offered good odds.

He waited until the third race, so most patrons already would be there, then for thirty minutes methodically checked for the blue 1990 Mazda 323/Protege hatchback with, noted from an earlier Ballard repo, a grey leaded-in left front fender.

Pretty easy to spot if it was around. It wasn’t. And that’s when he got his bright idea.

Racetracks were also dandy places to look for Gyppos.

Most of them were damned good with horses from the days when they rode around in wagons instead of Cadillacs; Gypsy horseplayers were legion, and a lot of others were seasonal trainers or grooms or even practice riders. For all he knew, there were even Gyppo jockies. He’d never met a legit Gypsy yet, not one, not ever, but he guessed there had to be some.

There was a separate lot at the rear, on the other side of the access road, where owners and trainers parked dozens of R/Vs and horse trailers and big muddy luxury cars. Within five minutes he had spotted three new Cadillacs and felt the old adrenaline surge. Gyppos were the hardest game there was to track; to a manhunter, getting one was like wing-shooting a crow, that wiliest of birds.

And technically, he hadn’t really gone looking for Gypsies, had he? Of course not. But if one of their cars should happen to fall into his lap, he couldn’t be blamed for that, could he?

He parked across and down from the Caddies, studied the list of models and colors and engine I.D. numbers. Cad One was out. It had current California plates and it was just too soon for any of the Gyppo Cads to have plates — unless they were stolen or off a wrecking yard junker. Not likely, not yet. The Gyppos still would be thinking they were too smart for anyone to guess who they were, let alone find them. So, scratch Cad One.

Cads Two and Three were real possibilities.

But even as he thought this, a very tall, very lanky, very blond, very Anglo woman whose pale skin had the translucency of alabaster, wearing a beautifully tailored red hacking jacket and pearl-grey jodhpurs, appeared between the horse trailers. With her was a grizzled old man wearing a cloth cap and knee-high rubber boots spattered with dried horse manure. They shook hands and the blonde got into Cad Two. Before driving off she used her handkerchief to wipe the hand that the old geezer had shaken.

If she was a Gypsy, Morales was Madonna.

That left the silver Coupe de Ville loaded with one of the many Cadillac option packages. He itched to get out of his dumpy little company car and wander over there and try to get a squint at the I.D. number. But if it was one of the Gyppo cars, and he got spotted checking it out, they’d be gone in a flash.

When in doubt, do nothing. For the next twenty-seven minutes he kicked around what he might do if he did snag the car. He was on DKA time here, a field agent hired by the company, but the bank wouldn’t know that. So could he turn it in on the sly, operating under his own still-active P.I. license? He’d probably get a hell of a lot more from the bank direct than the wages and expenses and — maybe — percentage of the repo fee he’d get from DKA. Assuming Kearny had cut DKA the kind of sweet little per-car recovery deal that Morales supposed he had.

No, ashcan that. He didn’t like Kearny, but he was smart enough to fear him. He’d only get the one Gypsy car, then Kearny would find out about it and would have his butt. And if the state did lift his license, he would be out in the cold.

So, since there was no other option, be a good guy. Win one for the Gipper...

A short swarthy man and a beautiful girl of about 15 — the age Morales found himself liking more and more these days — were coming his way. They both had brown skin and shiny black hair: Gyppos, sure as hell. Man and wife? Gypsy marriages were arranged for bride price... Naw, by the way they related to each other, father and daughter. Now, if they stopped at the Caddy...

They did. Okay, then if he got a chance to grab it he would, even though he wasn’t rock-certain it was one of the bank’s cars. Without a key, he’d need a few minutes to break in unseen, check the I.D. against Giselle’s list, pop out the ignition lock and substitute one of his own...

The girl got in behind the wheel of the De Ville but didn’t start the motor. The man talked to her through the open window and Morales slipped out of his car unobserved, a plan half-forming in his mind. When the Gypsy started away between the trailers, Morales, who could pass for rom himself with his heavy features and cruel, thick-lipped mouth, angled quickly toward him. Gyps often posed as Chicanos when working welfare and street scams; Morales now planned to return the favor.

“Hey!” he called.

The Gypsy turned. “Yeah, what you want?” His voice was thick and guttural.

“Za Devalesa.” It was the sole Romany phrase Morales knew, a traditional greeting of some sort he had picked up in the Mission District as a kid. Something like Go with God, maybe.

He said it loudly so the girl in the car, too far away for anything said in normal tones, could hear it.

“Za Devalesa,” the Gypsy returned, obviously surprised into thinking for the moment that Morales was also rom .

Morales put an arm around his shoulders, walking him quickly down between two trailers and out of the girl’s sight. To her, after hearing those exchanged greetings, it must seem that Morales was another Gyppo, a friend of her old man. At least he hoped that was the way it would seem to her.

“I got a good horse for you in the last race,” he said to the Gypsy. “Saratoga Longshot.”

“There ain’t no horse in that race got that name.”

“No shit?” Morales turned away, shaking his head as if in amazement. “Guess I forgot to get up yesterday.”

He walked off leaving the Gypsy frenziedly checking his pockets in case Morales had been a dip. The Coupe de Ville was still there, the girl behind the wheel, the window still open. Morales put what he thought was a charming smile on his heavy face. His gold tooth glinted in the wan afternoon sunshine. She’d like that, he thought, Gyppos were like fucking magpies, they liked bright things. Anything gold, even teeth.

“Za Devalesa,” he said to her. It had worked the first time, what the hell? He added quickly, “Your daddy said you should help me get my car started. Just over in the corner of the lot. He said you’d be back before he was.”

He went around the Caddy and slid his ample bulk in beside her. After a moment, she started the engine.

Morales pointed. “Over that way.”

And kept thinking, Go, move it. Even with her driving and him not laying a glove on her, she was a juvie and technically this had become a kidnapping as soon as they had started moving.

“Got a dead battery, been sittin’ here since the start of the meet, my sister was supposed to pick it up but she got busted in Fresno behind a bum Murphy game beef...”

Seeing him with her old man on an apparently friendly basis seemed to have activated the Gypsy thing of strictly obeying the elders. She seemed to be buying it. Just two more minutes...