Joe Gores - 32 Cadillacs

Calling himself Wells... be here tomorrow...

Kearny put his roll away and shook her hand heartily, a good loser. E. Dana Straub had a warm sweaty palm. Out in the smog-browned sunlight, he thought that the Gyppo had to be very good indeed to con that stainless-steel lady into nothing down, pay at the end of the week — when both he and his hustled TV sets would be gone and she’d be stuck with her remodel.

It had been a lousy day for Ephrem Poteet on the Universal Tour shuttle buses. Every woman he sized up had her purse zipped, every man had his wallet in his front pants pocket instead of on his hip, and none of the kids was bratty enough to give the natural diversions he needed while he made his dip.

A lousy day. Less than a hundred bucks in seven hours.

The trouble’d begun when he’d donned the maintenance uniform and lifted all those wallets that one afternoon. So much extra security as a result of it that he was reduced to working only two days a week; even then he’d had a couple of close calls and been saved only by his disguises. He’d given his big score to the ponies, and now was barely making the rent. Kearny’s $100 a car was suddenly looking damned good.

As he thought that, Dan Kearny went into the Universal City Post Office across Lankershim from the studio to check through the semi-opaque window of Poteet’s P.O. box. Not even junk mail. Already picked up today? Still, worth a shot now he was here; it was the only place he could make physical contact with his man.

Behind the counter was a strikingly handsome black man in postal uniform, likely an actor waiting to be discovered. Kearny gave him the used red window envelope with its canceled stamp. Inside was his blank sheet of letterhead, now with five $20 bills folded into it and Poteet’s handwritten box address showing through the window.

“This was lying under the bank of boxes. Guy must have dropped it when he picked up his mail.”

“Sure. Thanks. I’ll put it right back.”

Kearny went back outside and, sheltered from the hot sun by an overhanging tree, sat in the Cutlass to keep observation on the P.O. boxes through the big plate-glass window. If Poteet did come in to check his, being a Gypsy he would be sure to spot anyone hanging around in the post office lobby itself.

Leaving the special-effects demo without scoring yet again, Poteet felt sudden rage roil up inside. Tomeshti driving around in a new Caddy, him riding the stinking bus. Well, he had a line on three other cars besides the Seville, and over the next weeks he would feed them to DKA, hundred bucks a pop, getting even with goddam Yana for making all this necessary...

He left Universal through the Main Gate, just in case someone was lying in wait for him at the Studio Tour gate. Maybe he would get drunk tonight, get in a fight. Get the bastard on the ground, knee-drop him — you could crush a guy’s ribs that way, even kill him. Yeah! Grrr! Everybody said the Gypsies were conmen, nonviolent — but he’d done a hard deuce at Walla Walla during which he’d learned a thing or two. He’d show ’em.

Goddam bus was just pulling away when he got out to the street. It figured. Another half-hour wait.

May as well check the P.O. box again even though he’d checked it this morning — Kearny might have sent his $100 same-day delivery or something.

To pass the time, Kearny was playing the guessing game about those entering the post office. Three beautiful women in their 20s — easy, actresses from Universal. An older woman with white hair and the bearing of a queen — director, perhaps? A white-haired southern colonel limping along with his gold-headed ebony cane — aging character actor in a TV mellerdrama. A couple of suits — had to be execs from the Black Tower.

But no Ephrem Poteet, Gypsy. Not coming tonight. Kearny’d hang on for another hour just to...

Flash of red! The envelope, please. Never would have taken the old Kentucky colonel for Poteet, must be running a scam. Looking quickly around the lobby — Kearny was glad he was outside in his car — then ripping open the red envelope. Taking out the sheet of letterhead, staring at the $100 folded inside... Pocketing it, quickly caning his way out of the building.

Kearny already had slid down in his seat so he was not visible over the dashboard. This guy was jumpy as a cat. Watched the angled rearview until the Gyppo’s retreating back came into it. Shifted around, staying low in the seat until the bus came and Poteet boarded it.

Tailing a bus is not as easy as it might seem, not during rush hour. You can get blocked off by other cars, lose your man when he debarks. But Kearny was an old hand at it, so he was driving by when Poteet walked into a run-down residence hotel on North Main not far from the old Union Station, was parked in a meter space across the street when Poteet emerged minus his disguise thirty minutes later.

He was sipping a draft three stools down when Poteet got into an argument over liar’s dice and got 86’d from the first of several bars he visited that evening. After the third, Kearny dropped out to buy a cheap camera and film and find a motel for the night. He settled on the Sherman Oaks Inn on Ventura. He still didn’t know what Poteet’s scam was, didn’t have any leverage on him yet. Which meant a busy day tomorrow.

He didn’t bother to call the office. Nothing to report.

Yet.

With Kearny gone off somewhere, Giselle had been stuck behind her desk all day. Now, 7:00 P.M., the after-school girls had abandoned the automatic typewriters, the skeleton night staff had arrived — and Giselle was still here. And cranky.

The limo outfit in L.A. hadn’t called back. Dan Kearny hadn’t called in, no idea where the big bum was. Ballard was probably playing footsie with his red-hot Gypsy mama and getting all sorts of hot leads, while Giselle hadn’t even time to ask any hotels if they had an Angelo Grimaldi registered, or to check out who Theodore Winston White III in Marin might happen to be.

And on top of everything else, she still hadn’t found a new cleaning service whose work she’d trust, and the scrap paper was piling up and... oh, to heck with it for tonight. She reached for her purse. Field men were in and out all night, but when she worked the office she liked to be gone before seven. As she stood up, her personal phone that didn’t go through the switchboard rang. Kearny. Finally. She picked up.

“Dammit, Dan, where are—”

“Yeah, where the hell is he?” Stan Groner. Pissed.

“Stan!” She put delight and surprise in her voice. “You’re working late. You want to talk with Dan? He just—”

“Don’t try to con me, Giselle. He missed a ten o’clock this morning, and Jane said he’s out of town. Now, where is—”

“Hot lead on the Gyppos,” she ventured promptly.

“Hot?” he asked in a slightly mollified voice, then turned hard again. As hard as Stan could get. “It better be hot. I’m getting a lot of heat myself, from the president of the bank.”

“Hey, we got three of them already, Stan. What do—”

“Three out of thirty-one.” He became his old querulous self. “What’d you guys do to that one Ballard got, Giselle?”

Since the Sonia Lovari lead had been dug up by Ballard, he had been credited with the Allante.

“We... he got it in front of an Indian bar, Stan,” she said over the clatter of auto typewriters in the big echoing room.

“ Indian bar? The Gyppo sold it to an Indian?”

“No, no — her street scam is posing as an Indian. Collects for nonexistent Native American charities and keeps the money.”

“Jesus!” Giselle could almost see him shaking his head. “If they’d put that much energy into working they’d be—”