Joe Gores - 32 Cadillacs

“You killed him!” Pietro shrieked. The big man, turning away, shook his head. Pietro momentarily abandoned his lover to run after him, hugging him from behind, trying to kiss his hand, crying, “Don’t go! I love masterful men!”

The masterful man said, “Fnuk ohnff!” and was gone.

Only then did Pietro drop on his knees to minister to the unconscious Freddi. But even as he did, his thoughts were all with that delicious scary brute who had simply dismantled Freddi.

Even as he was whispering to his fallen defender, “My poor, poor darling...”

“My poor, poor darling!” exclaimed the man who called himself Grimaldi, then started to chuckle. “Giselle, you are very quick; to see what I was doing and play along—”

“What choice did I have? And how did you know about what’s-his-face? The underambassador? Ali Akbar Zuhrain?”

“I read the President’s schedule in the Chronicle. ”

“And how come you know my name?” Almost an accusation.

“Who do you think left the phone message leading you to Theodore Winston White the Third?”

“Your real name wouldn’t happen to be Rudolph, would it?”

He shot her a surprised look. Marino was tooling the long sleek black limo out California Street through the tranquil wide-street richness of Pacific Heights.

“You’re really good, you should be a Gypsy yourself.”

“Rudolph what?”

“Look in your crystal ball.” Then he shrugged. “Marino.”

Giselle opened her window to let the air blow her blond hair around. She put her silk scarf on the seat, began doing airplanes with her right hand in the slipstream outside, as she used to do on car trips with her folks when she was little.

This Marino was just the kind of guy to get her into a lot of trouble. Well — defiantly — maybe a lot of trouble was what she needed.

Painfully casual, she said, “You ever hear of a mitt-reader calls herself Madame Miseria?”

“Aha! Little Yana has been whispering in your ear.”

“Not my ear,” said Giselle bitterly.

Out of sudden memory and insight, he said, “A tall blond man perhaps? Hawk nose, hawk eyes?”

Dismayed, she yelped, “How did you—”

“Gypsies know things.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Dear, sweet little Yana. I bet she said she didn’t know me...”

“Never even met you.”

Marino felt a dangerous urge to tell this gadjo woman real truths about himself. He contented himself with facts instead.

“We grew up together. We were betrothed when she was seven and I was fifteen.”

“So she’s a liar besides!” Triumphantly.

“Can you blame her?” His mildness would have surprised Yana. “I want to be King of all the Gypsies, Yana wants to be Queen of all the Gypsies. One of us must fail.”

Giselle said, “Outstanding,” softly. She was recovering from her dismay. Help him, hurt her. How? There’d be a way.

He turned downhill on Lyon Street, parked at the long-since-locked Broadway gate of the Presidio. They got out, the pungent cat-box odor of the eucalyptus groves beyond the chain-link fence rolling over them. He leaned in the open rear door as Giselle came around the back. She watched him detach a small radio receiver from some inconspicuous wires going under the backseat.

“Standard issue for limos this year?”

“Disarming a bomb.”

He waited for her to be shocked, but she merely raised her eyebrows for him to continue. A woman worthy of a rom !

“Inept terrorists were going to try to blow up the President, but fortunately were going to get the wrong limo...”

“Only I stepped in and tried to repo the President’s limo instead, and screwed up all your plans!”

“Screwed them up?” Mischief glinted in his eyes as he looked over at her. “Made them better. To the Secret Service I said you were the underambassador’s wife, but to the hotel management I will say you were a blond terrorist...”

Giselle clapped her hands in the delight of discovery.

“Blackmail! The hotel management! I was working to your command—”

He said, a little stiffly, “I am a rom , not a blackmailer.”

Then, struck by the incongruity of it, they both laughed.

Ken Warren had once spent a couple of weeks as a substitute meter reader for PG&E, and still had a contact or two there. One of them, just this morning, had let him know that a new San Francisco utilities connection had been made by a Sarah Walinski.

His Sarah Walinski, formerly Heslip’s Sarah Walinski?

After dropping Uvaldi’s Mercedes 500SL back at the dealer, he cruised the tall narrow streets that overlooked James Lick Freeway from Bernal Heights. Modest row houses built after World War II for returning vets but with price tags no longer modest. Working-class, racially mixed, just the right kind of anonymous rabbit warren in which his Sarah would rent a burrow.

Heslip said she was big and quick and powerful and without inhibition concerning violence to others, which made Ken wary. You couldn’t hit a woman, not even to defend yourself, but he didn’t want to get axed or coffee-canned, either. Nor did he want her alerted to skip again, so he’d have to start looking for her and her car all over somewhere else. So, cruise the area, talk to a couple of bartenders, the local ma-and-pa...

But as he started uphill from Jarboe, a Dodge Charger pulled over and stopped on the other side of the street, facing down. Right address. Right year. Right color. Right license.

Right car!

In his rearview he saw a woman get out and start up the front steps with a twelve-pack. Right woman, too, from Bart’s description. A fireplug with weight-lifter arms and beautiful taffy hair glinting in the spring sunshine.

At the top of the hill he parked to consider his givens:

— She bought the car in Jersey City and skipped.

— She ran another repoman off with an axe and skipped.

— She belted Heslip with a can of coffee and skipped.

— She put her boyfriend in the hospital and skipped.

Conclusion: he’d only get one shot at Sarah and her car.

He gave her twenty minutes to pop a tab and tap the tube, then got out, locking his car and making sure no papers on the seat or over the visor betrayed it as a repoman’s. Unhappy subjects liked to get even by icepicking your tires or sugaring your gas tank before you could get back to pick up your own car.

Sarah must have stopped for a couple on the way home: car window open, door unlocked, wheels uncurbed so the steering wheel wasn’t even locked. The slightest of turns would lock it, but if he could put the Charger in neutral and let it roll downhill out of sight of the house before he fired it up...

He eased off the handbrake, let it roll. So far, so good, but since he couldn’t turn the wheel, he couldn’t steer it. By the time it hit the flat intersection it was in the wrong lane. And then it lost momentum. And stopped.

“Grrrrr!” observed Ken.

He cast a look up the hill — nothing — and bent down under the steering wheel to get at the ignition lock.

“You got troubles, pal?”

Ken came up from under the dash, his fingers still up behind it trying to find the ignition lock ring washer. When he straightened, his shoulder was tight against the steering wheel.

Click.

Now it was locked.

A head was in the window. Guy from a road crew around the corner Ken had noted on the way up, young, beefy, brash, semi-belligerent, looking for something to liven up a cigarette break.

“Hgnoh!” Ken exclaimed crossly.

“What was that, pal? You tryna wise off?” Why couldn’t he talk like everyone else? Just this once? He kept silent. The intruder didn’t. “Ignition’s busted, huh, pal?”