Росс Томас - Twilight at Mac’s Place

“Not even for a second,” Padillo said.

Dark’s Garage in Falls Church, Virginia, had a sign inside that read: “Foreign 8c Domestic, The Older the Better. Ledell Dark, Prop.” Erika McCorkle read the sign aloud with obvious approval. As she read, Granville Haynes looked around the long narrow garage and noticed a Packard from the 1940s, an Avanti, a 1948 Buick Roadmaster, an ancient Citroen sedan (the getaway model), a Humber Super Snipe and a TR-3 that looked almost new.

The Cadillac that Steadfast Haynes had bequeathed to his son was being driven from the rear of the garage at a stately 2 mph by Ledell Dark, Prop. It was a 1976 Eldorado convertible, the last one made, with a glossy black finish, a black canvas top that looked new, black leather seats and what Haynes guessed to be a thousand pounds of glittering chrome. It also looked a block long.

It came to a slow stop the way a large boat might. Ledell Dark got out and removed the 6-foot-long, 2½-foot-wide strip of reddish paper, ripped from a butcher’s roll, that had protected the driver’s seat. After discarding the paper, Dark stripped off his immaculate white cotton gardening gloves and stuffed them into a pocket.

A contented-looking man in his forties, Dark wore a studious, almost pedantic air and a pair of white coveralls with “The Older the Better” stitched across the back in red letters. He had the build of the average man in his forties who shuns exercise. There was a slight stoop. A bit of a paunch. And a face that Haynes classified as American-mild — except for the blazing green eyes that could only belong to a fanatic.

The green eyes were now half closed and the head was slightly tilted as Dark listened to the idling Cadillac engine. He smiled and nodded approvingly, then walked over to Erika and Haynes. “Know what I’d do if she was mine?” he asked. “I’d buy her a set of gangster whites.”

When Erika looked puzzled, Dark explained, “Big wide white sidewall tires like they had in the thirties and forties — but mostly the thirties.”

“You’re saying it needs new tires?”

“Well, it’s not exactly a matter of need,” Dark said, “although those four’ve got a few too many miles on ’em. It’s more a case of, well, you know—”

“Esthetics,” Haynes suggested as he opened the Cadillac passenger door for Erika.

“Yeah, right,” Dark said. “Esthetics.”

Once Erika was inside. Haynes closed the door and said, “I’ll tell Mr. Mott.”

“You also oughta tell him that some guy wandered in here late last Saturday, took one look and offered me twenty thousand cash for the Caddie. That means he’ll go twenty-five. You can always tell how high they’ll go by how much they slobber. I call it the drool factor.” Dark paused. “I got his name and number if you want it.”

“Okay,” Haynes agreed.

“Said his name was Horace Purchase.”

Haynes turned quickly toward the TR-3 to hide the surprise that he suspected was rearranging his face. Still staring at the old Triumph roadster, he said, “Purchase wants to purchase it, huh?”

Dark grinned, obviously amused. “Know something? That’s exactly how I remembered his name. Purchase wants to purchase it.”

Haynes turned back and said, “These old cars must be worth a lot of money.”

“That Packard behind you?” Dark said.

Haynes again turned to look.

“That’s a nineteen forty convertible with a Darrin body and a frame-off restoration. Probably fetch a hundred, maybe even a hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Then you must have one hell of a security problem.”

“But I also got me a state-of-the-art security system,” Dark said with a proud smile that a frown suddenly erased. “When that Purchase fella was here, he wanted that old Caddie so bad I thought he might bang me over the head and drive off in it. So I sort of discouraged him.”

“How?” Haynes asked.

Dark stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Haynes heard them coming a second or two later, their claws clicking on the concrete floor, their growls punctuated by angry barks. He turned to find three rottweilers racing toward him, fangs bared and eyes blazing. Haynes also found there was no time to run or hide and just barely enough to wonder how much it would hurt.

Dark whistled again. The dogs stopped abruptly, skidding a little, then sat down on their haunches. One of them yawned and scratched his right ear with a hind foot. The other two seemed to grin at Haynes.

“Three of them,” he said.

“They fight over who’s boss. Keeps ’em mean. With two, you get buddies. With three, rivals.”

“What did Purchase do when you whistled them up?”

“He sort of froze just like you did. Just like everybody does. Still want his phone number?”

“I don’t,” Haynes said. “But Mr. Mott might.”

By 5:32 P.M. that Monday they had checked into the Bellevue Motel in Bethesda, Maryland, as Mr. and Mrs. Jeff T. Clarkson. The room was $58 a night and the motel owner demanded a $100 deposit after Haynes announced he would pay cash. The owner wasn’t in the least interested in either the make of Haynes’s car or its license number. Nor did he ask to see a driver’s license or other identification.

The pink and teal Bellevue Motel was built in the shape of a two-story U. The view it offered was that of the McDonald’s across the street. Haynes’s room was at the bottom of the U and as he nosed the Cadillac into the vacant parking space, he felt, then heard, the right front wheel run over and crush a glass bottle. He and Erika got out to inspect what damage, if any, a broken 750-milliliter Smirnoff vodka bottle had done to the tire. Apparently none, they decided.

Erika went into the room first after Haynes unlocked the door. He followed, carrying her canvas overnight bag that looked like something a stonemason might carry his tools in. After dumping the bag onto one of the twin beds, Haynes sat down on the other one, picked up the telephone and made a call to Sheriff Jenkins Shipp in Berryville, Virginia.

“That you, Granville?” the sheriff said, once a deputy had transferred the call to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“What can I do you for?”

“I’m calling about that car my father left me.”

“Steady’s big old Cadillac?”

“Right. Did the man who came to pick it up check with you first?”

“That fella Dark? He like to talk my arm off.” Sheriff Shipp paused to let a small measure of concern creep into his tone. “He was supposed to pick it up, wasn’t he? Least, that’s what Mr. Mott called and told me.”

“That’s right, he was,” Haynes said. “But I’m wondering whether anyone ever said anything about wanting to buy it?”

“You fixin’ to sell it?”

“Maybe.”

“You know, Granville, a fella did drop by last week and say he was interested in buying it. Wasn’t more’n a day or two after Dark came and got it. I told him to call Mr. Mott or go talk to Dark. Even gave him the address of Dark’s garage in Falls Church. Tell the truth, I think this fella was more’n just interested. I think he was in love with that car.”

“He give you his name?”

“If he did, I forgot it.”

“Was his name Purchase by any chance?”

There was a long silence until the sheriff said, “Granville?”

“Yes.”

“Just what the fuck’re you up to? We may be way out here in the boonies but when somebody with the name of Purchase gets himself killed during a shoot-out in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, the name sort of sticks in the mind — know what I mean?”

“Probably a different Purchase,” Haynes said.

“I’m afraid I lied to you, Granville. The man who wanted to buy Steady’s car — his name was Horace Purchase. The man who got killed in the Willard — his name was also Horace Purchase, or so CNN claims. Soon as I heard his name mentioned on the TV I got on the phone and called Washington homicide. They put me onto a real smart colored fella — Detective-Sergeant Pouncy — and him and me got to talking and it turns out he’s just dying to have a word with you.”