Max Collins - Fly Paper

“Huh?”

“No, I can’t beat that.”

Nolan’s lack of interest finally dawned on the guy, and shut him up. Which was no big deal, as they were within a block of Bernie’s Used Auto Sales anyway.

Bernie’s was indeed a white man’s business that had gone untouched in the rioting, and with half a block of cars sitting out in the open like that, it was a wonder. The big garage next to the lot had gone untouched as well, not even a broken pane of glass. It was not hard to figure: Bernie’s business was not one the neighborhood would like to lose. A grocery store was expendable, but not Bernie’s.

Nolan got out of the taxi, looked at the meter, which read “$15.50.” He handed the cabbie a twenty and waited for change, but the guy just grinned, said “Thanks,” and roared off. Nolan now understood how the cabbie had made it to a better neighborhood.

Immediately, a salesman approached Nolan, saying, “What can we do for you, my man?” His words were mild enough, but his tone and expression said, What the fuck you doin’ here, whitey? He was a lanky, chocolate-colored guy who couldn’t keep still. Nolan hated goddamn funky butts like this; he liked people who didn’t move anything but their mouths when they talked, and not much of that. This guy was a fluid son of a bitch poured into a white-stitched black suit and a wide-brimmed gangster hat. The band was wide and black, the hat itself white, and Nolan had seen George Raft in a similar one, years ago. It looked better on Raft.

“Tell Bernie I’m here.”

The guy stopped dancing, narrowed his eyes on Nolan. “Uh, like who should I say...”

“Tell him Nolan.”

“He’s not...”

“He’s expecting me. Didn’t he tell you? No, I don’t suppose he would. Tell him.”

The guy’s eyes filled with something, and it wasn’t love. “Okay,” he said. “Wait here till I see if it’s cool with the man.”

“Okay.”

The salesman strode off, but his butt seemed slightly less funky now. His reaction to Nolan had been a natural one, as most of Bernie’s white customers never showed their faces around here, making arrangements to see Bern at his suburban home or at one of his junkyards. Nolan walked around the lot while he waited, taking a look at Bernie’s stock.

The lot was packed with cars, of recent vintage mostly, every make and model from Volks to Mercedes, Pinto to Caddy. An impressive selection, but to the casual observer, nothing unusual. Nolan was not a casual observer, and he was smiling, thinking of the one thing that separated Bernie’s from your run-of-the-mill used-car lot: virtually every car on the well-stocked lot was a stolen one.

But the skill and workmanship of Bernie and staff saw to it that every car sold off the lot was not only untraceable, but offered to the public at bargain pricing and with full warranty. This was why Bernie’s had been an oasis in a desert of rioting: nobody kills the golden goose, and Bernie was him, Bernie was the goose who’d provided this neighborhood with countless golden eggs. Rip off a car in the morning, and by early afternoon Bern’s cash was in your pocket, and Bern was cool, he paid off fair, no hassle, no shuck. And on top of being where you could unload the car you stole for ready cash, Bernie’s was a mother of a cheap place to buy wheels. If there was one white dude in the neighborhood who deserved being called brother, it was Bern, baby, Bern.

Nolan wasn’t precisely sure how Bernie worked this gig, but he did know that Bernie had been a jump-title expert for years. Last Nolan knew, Bernie owned a chain of junkyards all over the Detroit area and, by matching up stolen cars with junked cars of the same make, he simply spot-welded the junker’s serial numbers onto the stolen job — under the hood, inside the door and, when possible, on the frame — and presto, a “new” car ready for titling. Legislation had, in recent years, crippled jump-title rackets badly, especially on the large scale that Bernie worked; but fortunately, a southern state notorious for its lax titling laws was glad to have Bernie’s trade, and the particular county Bernie did his business through even went so far as to service him by mail-order. Sounded far-fetched, but Nolan remembered the time in Alabama, not so very long ago, when he’d stolen a car and, with no proof of ownership whatever, driven up to the courthouse, got the auto tided, and driven it away.

“Yer fat!”

Nolan turned, and Bernie was standing there, a short, massively muscled man with not an ounce of flab on him; he had a round face with round eyes and round nose and, when he spoke, a round mouth. If he hadn’t had a full head of curly brown hair, he’d have looked like a talking cueball. He was wearing the world’s dirtiest coveralls, with “Bernie’s” emblazoned over one breast pocket “How’d you get so goddamn fat?”

“I’m an old man, Bernie. I live a soft life these days.”

“Soft life, my ass. Come on, Nolan, let’s go in the back and have some beer.”

Why Bernie didn’t have a potbelly from constant beer guzzling was one of the mysteries of life Nolan would never understand. Maybe the man just worked hard enough to offset all those suds: Bernie, never content to live high on the carloads of cash his business brought him, spent most of his time in there doing the drudge work — painting the cars, doing body work, replacing parts, everything. It was obvious that Bernie didn’t need to do illegal work to make a good living; but the illegal route had led to his own shop, his own operation, and freedom was always worth a little risk. One thing was for sure, Nolan thought: Bernie ran the most efficient automotive firm in Detroit And probably the most honest.

The back room was a cubbyhole with a small desk and a large cooler of beer. The desk was cluttered with car manuals, the Red and Blue Books of this and many a year, bills and receipts, and so on. Nolan knew the reason for the mess: Bernie kept good books, but felt that overly neat records made the IRS unduly suspicious. Besides, he got a kick out of making them come in and dig. If they wanted to come and look for ways to screw you, cross your legs and make ’em work their asses off getting in.

Bernie popped a top and handed a foaming beer to Nolan, did the same for himself. “So yer fat, and you ain’t dead.”

“Yes I’m fat, no I’m not dead.”

“You already told me why you’re fat. Now tell me why you ain’t dead.”

“Didn’t you hear about the change of regime in Chicago?”

“No. I got no Family ties, never did have. I’m an independent and like to stay clear of that shit. You know me, Nolan. So what, the people that wanted you dead, those Family people, are out? And what, the new people love you?”

“Something like that.”

“What are you up to now?”

Nolan told Bernie about the Tropical.

“Sounds boring.”

“It is. But it’s a good deal, for the immediate present, and I don’t want to blow it”

“How could you blow it?”

“Well, you see, Bernie, I’m here on business. Detroit’s never been my idea of a place to vacation.”

“So?”

“The Family people I’m fronting for don’t want me straying from the straight and narrow. They got a name and background set up for me, so I can front the Tropical with no static from the law or anybody. Somebody runs a check on me, I sound like the president of the goddamn Chamber of Commerce. Hell, I’m even a college graduate, would you believe that?”

“I believe you can pass for one,” Bernie said, getting a fresh beer. “I joined this country club, and it’s full of those Phi Beta crappers. They’re some of the dumbest, most boring assholes I ever hung around with. If Thelma didn’t insist we belong, I’d get the hell out.”