Joe Gores - 32 Cadillacs

“Joe Adams.”

Big John took the hand. “Big John Charleston,” he said.

Truth be told, Big John liked everything he saw. Even drove American, not Japanese. No flash — hell, construction game, a man needed a heavy car to drive around in — not afraid to get dirty, not afraid to put a sign on the door of his car. But Big John crossed belligerent arms over his own wide torso.

“That’s a substantial amount of money you want. Ain’t any way I’m gonna pay the whole contract off up front in cash.”

Adams had a heavy, almost guttural voice that went with his massive physique. “There’s reasons I’m askin’ for that.”

“I’d like to hear ’em.”

Adams gestured at Little Johnny, hovering behind his pa like a family dog waiting to be told whether he’s going to be allowed to ride in the car or not.

“I thought I made ’em clear to your boy there.”

“Make ’em clear to me, too.”

“Primo, you’re in trouble with your bank.” Big John swung around to glare dangerously at his son; Adams put up a detaining hand. “Not him. I got connections, even up here in Shitburg.”

“You mean God’s country,” chanted Little Johnny in the Northwest’s knee-jerk mantra about their heavenly land.

“Yeah? All God does up here is piss on a flat rock.”

“No rain’s slated ’til Monday,” said Big John literally.

“Good. I can finish the job by then, and our work is guaranteed. In writing. Second, you got the Greenies breathin’ down your neck. But Joe Adams, Inc., Contractors, we just do it — and once it’s in , it’s hard to tear out. That’s why we can undercut anyone else’s bid by fifty percent. And that’s why we get our money up front.”

Unfortunately, Big John still had only half the needed cash. But then Little Johnny surprised him with, “It isn’t good business to pay you up front for a job you haven’t even started.”

“Tell you what,” said Joe Adams. “Thirty thousand Monday morning, the other half in sixty days. Fair enough?”

Yes indeed! Big John was proud of his son for the first time in the kid’s miserable weak-kneed life. All he had to do was figure out a way to hold this guy off on the second $30,000 until he could scratch up the dough. He stuck out his hand.

“Couldn’t be fairer,” he rumbled.

As Joe Adams drove away from BIG JOHn’s BIG BUNGALOWS up in Seattle, down in L.A. Ken Warren was turning his company car into the Sherman Oaks Inn on Ventura and Coldwater. Ignoring the office, he went down the sloping drive and turned left, as Kearny had instructed, to check the under-the-building parking stalls.

“There they are,” said Trin Morales.

Next to the end wall was Dona Dulcinea’s Fleetwood Sixty Special four-door sedan. In the stall this side of it was Adam Wells’s Seville. They’d flip a coin to see who had to tow the company car back up north. But Morales spoke abruptly.

“I’m staying over.” He dug an elbow into Warren’s ribs. “Just came down ’cause I got a little chiquita lined up, ’course I couldn’t tell Kearny that. You drive one Caddy back up, tow the other — I’ll keep the company car. Got it, dummy?”

Without answering, Ken Warren got his towbar from the trunk and tried the key Kearny had given him for the Seville. It worked. Kearny’s other key worked in the Fleetwood. Only then did he turn back to Morales.

“Hndon’ cat’th AIDTH,” he said.

The others had already left when the nigger showed up. Wasn’t nothin’ wrong with niggers playin’ wide-out for the Seahawks, say, goin’ long for them bombs and them Hail Marys. But not around Big John’s subdivision. Hell no. Niggers was lazy and couldn’t keep their eyes and hands off your women.

This one was a little feller, couldn’t go over 160 pounds, but had the widest shoulders Big John’d ever seen on a man his size. Stood looking around the staked-out subdivision under the lowering skies, clipboard in hand.

“Looks like you’re going to have some road-paving work done,” he said pleasantly. “All graded and ready to go.”

Big John fisted his hand around the roll of nickels he’d gotten from the desk drawer before coming down the steps.

“Ain’t any work, that’s what you’re after.”

“Not looking.”

“They’re all sold, closed escrow on the last one yestiday.”

“Before the streets are in,” marveled the nigger. “Before the houses are even framed up. In a recession economy. You’re a hell of a salesman, Mr. Charleston.”

“You gettin’ wise-ass with me, boy?”

The nigger just shook his black poll and said, “Wouldn’t know where I could find your paving contractor, would you?”

“Joe Adams? Try his office.”

“Which is...” Ballpoint poised.

“In Seattle.” Big John chortled at his own wit, then demanded abruptly, “What ya wanna see him about, boy?”

“I’m with the State Contractors Licensing Commission...” Big John put a hasty hand in his pocket to deposit the roll of nickels there. “Question of whether he has the necessary permits and has paid the necessary fees.” He was looking into Big John’s eyes for the first time, and there was unexpected steel in his gaze. “We don’t want him to do any road paving here on your subdivision until it’s cleared up. Do you understand?”

The nigger obviously didn’t know about the Greenies’ injunction against any work being done on the subdivision.

“I most surely do,” said Big John evenly.

He’d keep away from the job over the weekend, in case this guy did come around and catch Adams paving without a permit. And just to be sure he’d... But he stopped his hand on its way to his money clip. The nigger somehow looked like a bribe offer might not set too well with him. And hell, wasn’t no need. No gov’ment pussy’d ever worked the weekend in the entire history of bureaucracy, and the paving would be done by Monday.

Which gave Big John his really brilliant idea.

Make sure this pansy coon came around with his pansy little clipboard on Monday, after the job was finished, so he’d arrest Adams, at least shut him down for operating without a permit. Maybe Big John’d get himself a $60K job for zero K bucks.

“Mr. Adams plans to start work on the project first thing Monday morning,” he said. “You can catch him here then.”

Bart Heslip drove away satisfied. Josef Adamo indeed was in Seattle, calling himself Joe Adams. And would be out here at this subdivision Monday morning bright and early in his Seville.

But as he headed north on Empire Way, Bart got thoughtful. Big John Charleston had been too cooperative. What if the work was going to be done over the weekend, not next week?

Considering that rain was forecast for Monday, and considering what he’d learned that day going around to recyclers and paint wholesalers in the greater Seattle area, he’d hold off until Monday. He laughed aloud as he jinked over to the I–5 skyway that would take him all the way up to Seattle Center.

Monday was going to be a whole lot of fun.

Bart didn’t like bigots any more than bigots liked him.

“Sir, you can’t leave those cars there fastened together like that... sir!” Ken Warren, already out of the Fleetwood, just waited. “You’ll have to uncouple them to park them here.”

Fair enough. Ken bent to the task of getting the Seville off the towbar. He had taken U.S. One up through Big Sur to see firsthand the post-quake repairs they had made on the highway. Had seen HIGHLANDS INN, below that, Pacific s Edge Restaurant, on a sudden urge had snaked the linked Cadillacs up the one-way blacktop drive to the restaurant looking out over the vast sweep of Pacific. He’d always wanted to eat in one of these fancy places, and Kearny had given him a raise and promised all his expenses on this trip would be paid besides... So why not?