32 Cadillacs (46 page)

“Staley!”
yelled Lulu in warning.

He turned to stagger back to bed, but it was much too late.

“Remarkable recovery,” said Dan Kearny with a hard-faced grin. “Almost miraculous.”

Staley gave a little shrug—what could he do? He’d just forgotten himself after all those weeks in that goddamned bed.

“You too,” he said.

Kearny nodded. “How you gonna keep the Gyppos from finding out you’ve been scamming them from the beginning?”

He was at the closet taking out his clothes. Staley made a gesture and Lulu went out, closing the door behind her.

“How indeed?” said Staley tentatively.

*   *   *

Larry Ballard was running for his life on the floor below, a corridor full of Gypsies in hot pursuit. He kept trying to slow
them down by throwing anything he could find into their path—a waiting room lamp, an abandoned gurney, an unused Murphy stand
without any plastic IV bottles, an empty laundry hamper.

But whoever he took out of the chase, there were fifty still in it. Seeking the emergency stairs, he skittered into a cross-corridor
under the nose of a nurse wheeling an old gentleman in a wheelchair with a blanket across his knees. He’d hit full stride
before he realized he’d turned the wrong direction. The stairs were the other way.

Rooms right and left, worse traps than the hallway, linen closet, ditto, rest rooms, ditto, the shouting throng was closing
in on him, the dead-end wall loomed ahead.

With an open window. Ballard started to yell when he was ten feet from it, hit his stride like a hurdler, leaped out feet-first,
ready to tuck and roll when he hit the ground below. Instead, with a bone-jarring impact, he landed right in the backseat
of an open convertible tucked away behind the hospital.

“OOOF!”

The car leaped forward. Ballard could hear the diminishing yells of the Gyppos hanging out of the window behind him, even
as he felt himself over for anything broken. The driver jerked around to stare wide-eyed over his shoulder at whatever had
landed in his car. The driver was Rudolph Marino! The car was the pink Caddy! Recognition widened the eyes of both men.

”Bastard!” Marino yelped.

“Son of a bitch!” Ballard croaked.

Neither man got physical. Marino was too busy not using his lights while dodging hardwoods with nothing more than a dirt track
to follow. Ballard was too breathless. The Eldorado went into a controlled skid, righted itself,
CRASHED
across a curb, squealed its tires in another skid, and was driving sedately along a back street of Stupidville.

“You stole my money and this car from me!”

“Yana’s car. The hotel’s money.”

“My car now—I’ve just stolen it back again.”

“Until I take it away again.”

By the illumination of passing streetlights, Marino found Ballard’s face in the rearview mirror.

“They’ll tear you apart if they find you.”

“I’ll get by.”

“No you won’t. I’ll have to disguise you to save your worthless butt,
gadjo,
until I am King and can protect you.”

Why the hell not him as Gypsy King, come to think of it? Yana as Queen would be inaccessible, but if Rudolph were King…

“Maybe I can help you with that King thing,” said Ballard.

*   *   *

The Elks Lodge was a big bare echoing room with stuffed deer heads on bare wooden walls, hardwood floors scarred and stained
by countless years of Saturday night smokers, as well as the occasional holiday special events when the Elks could bring their
Does to dance polkas.

At tonight’s Town Meeting no one was dancing, or even drinking. Mix alcohol with emotion, Mayor Strohbach, presiding, said
sententiously, and you could have vigilantism.

“Maybe we need a little vigilantism,” said Himmler, the former nosetackle.

“They’re corrupting our youth,” asserted Mary Lonquist.

“They steal babies,” said Noreen Degenhart, kindergarten teacher. “When I was a child—”

“We must be Christian men and women,” said Reverend Tidmarsh. “There has been a great deal of stealing, but no one has been
assaulted—”

“Look what they did at the hospital today!”
burst out Himmler, neck veins swelling dangerously. “I say, throw them out before they wreck the town!”

“They’ve already done that—”

“As Christians we can’t condone—”

“I don’t care, my children’s safety—”

Mayor Strohbach pounded the table with a makeshift gavel, but no one listened. The Town Meeting was getting away from him.

*   *   *

Giselle had never known anything like it. The encampment suddenly was every Gypsy movie she had ever seen. Fires filled the
night with the rich smell of roasting meat and fowl. The women were in traditional dress: long silks and bright scarves, great
glittering golden hoop earrings swaying as they danced. Children and pets were everywhere, scooting underfoot, leaping over
the campfires. Violins, tambourines, balalaikas.

Firelight across brown faces, strong bodies. Someone with a splendid sob in her alto voice was singing an old Romany song
whose meaning Giselle could only guess at.

Kay hin m’ro vodyi?

Ujes hin cavo,

Ujes sar o kam,

Ujes sar pani…

But nowhere did she see Rudolph. The word was that the King had had some sort of miraculous recovery; when he arrived, surely
Rudolph would also appear.

She cut through some bushes toward another part of the encampment, gnawing on a turkey leg, when there in front of her, gleaming
like a polished rocket, was the pink Eldorado convertible! Top down, whitewalls glowing in the semi-dark…

If she could spirit away the car, she would control the succession for the dying King’s crown! Her head whirled: was she repowoman,
or a woman with a
rom
lover? Would she—

“HER!”
shrieked a hate-filled voice.
“THAT’S HER!”
Giselle whirled to be impaled by flashlight beams. Sonia Lovari! No longer Miwok Indian, now only
rom. “She’s no newswoman, she’s the repo bitch who stole my car in San Francisco!”

“Repo bitch! Repo bitch!”

“Get her!”

Nonviolent Gypsies? Giselle fled through the woods, half a hundred screaming
rom
women after her. She leaped a campfire, ran down a row of trailers and campers, darted between them…

And came face-to-face with that same most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Yana!

“You!”
they exclaimed together.

There was a frozen moment; then something passed between them. Something unspoken, some measurement of worth, some understanding
between women who’d had to cut their own deals in a man’s world on man’s terms—and had survived. And prospered.

“Quickly, come, or they will tear you apart!”

Yana threw open the door of the nearest trailer and shoved her inside, tumbled in behind her. She pulled the door silently
closed as the clamor of pursuit passed by outside.

“I must hide you, keep you alive until I am Queen.”

Well, why not? thought Giselle. A Rudolph who was King would be totally inaccessible. But if Yana were Queen…

“I know where the pink Cadillac is,” she said.

“Hidden behind the hospital.”

“No.”

An almost imperceptible pause, then: “I will disguise you so you can show me.”

*   *   *

Staley Zlachi stood on an impromptu platform in the middle of the encampment, in the midst of his people, tears in his eyes.
His loyal subjects! Still roaring with laughter from his tale of his complicated scam to take the insurance man for $75,000.

“Assembled people of Romany, you know of my recovery this day at the hospital—”

A mighty roar from five hundred throats.

“But though cured, I must ask if perhaps it is time to step aside for younger blood. But how to choose?” No shouts now—the
throng was not taking the question as rhetorical. They wanted to know. “Well, what is the Gypsy way? How can the contenders
show they are better steeped in our Gypsy traditions than any other?”

He looked around the assembled throng. Oh, he had them in the palm of his hand!

“Since Christ our Savior hung on the shameful cross, it has been our way to steal from the
gadje
—who through the centuries have stolen from us our place in the sun, our very lives.”

A great shout went up. Yes! To be a
rom
was to rip off the
gadje!
The one who did it best deserved to lead the
rom!

“WHO CLAIMS MY THRONE?”
yelled Staley.

Springing up on either side of him were Yana and Rudolph. Each in finest Gypsy dress. Across Staley’s portly figure they exchanged
looks, each triumphant. Staley took a hand of each.

“Now, my children, how do you honor your King?”

Almost in unison, they exclaimed, “With a pink nineteen fifty-eight Cadillac convertible like that in which you drove to your
coronation.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Staley, beaming upon them. “The kind of car I sought to be buried in.” He looked from one to the other.
“
Which
of you has brought me such a car?”

Each cried out in ringing tones, “I have!”

Again almost in unison, they both turned and gestured out into the crowd. Which parted. And the massive pink Cadillac rolled
majestically forward into the cleared space in front of the platform.

But behind the wheel was no minion of either! Staley’s wife, Lulu, was driving it!

Staley looked from one to the other in apparent amazement.

“You each claim this car as your gift, yet it is my wife who drives it?”

Yana and Rudolph looked at one another in confusion; both were sure they had secured the car and had subverted their own particular
DKA lackey to bring it here on their signal.

Lulu stepped out with Queenly grace, letting all see the interior beauty of the car before shutting the door.

“Who claims it now?”
thundered Staley.

There was silence.

A
t that exquisite moment a tall lean Gypsy lad dressed in tight leggings and a loose silk tunic with puff sleeves, a silk bandana
knotted around his head, streaked through the crowd to vault lightly into the car, hit the horn and the accelerator, and
ROAR
it forward. It ran right through a cook fire, sending a big iron cauldron of soup spinning lazily off into the darkness,
scattering Gypsies, kids, dogs, cats, and chickens—even a pig—in every direction.

Giselle in her boy’s clothing spun the wheel, skidding on the grass, threading her way through cars, trailers, pickups, tents,
cook fires…

Repowoman.

Seeing Rudolph up there with his own, she had suddenly known he was where he should be—trying to scam his way into power among
his people. And she was where
she
should be—stealing his goddam car!

She shrieked and stood on the brakes as almost up in front of her popped an aged Gyspy crone in tattered silks, clanking metal
coins and beads and hoops and ornaments, her head shawled in a bright scarf. But as the car slewed by almost sideways, she
vaulted lightly into the rider’s seat beside Giselle. The Caddy shot out of the encampment into the highway as they fought
for control of it.

Behind them, everyone was scrambling for cars, trucks, campers, anything on wheels in which to give pursuit, but they were
arrested by Staley’s suddenly booming voice.

“LET IT GO!”
Movement ceased, heads turned faces slack with confusion toward him. “
Let it
go, my children, I cannot now claim it, anyway. I have realized that
I
must remain King of the Gypsies
until I
die!
I
cannot give away this sacred power, for we now see that only I know how to wield it fully…”

Right into the outskirts of town the glorious finned monster roared, as the two apparent Gypsies battled for control of it.
Half the time the car drove itself as they tried to shove each other, elbowed and cursed and…

The crone’s clutching fingers tore Giselle’s scarf from her head. Her lustrous blond hair tumbled out to blow about her face.
The crone stopped fighting, staring at her openmouthed. Giselle, sensing advantage, tried to slam the crone’s head against
the dash. Instead, she stripped the silken shawl from around her shoulders and face.

Rather, Ballard’s face.

No hand on the wheel, no foot on the accelerator, the pink Cadillac slowed to a halt half on and half off the road.

Of common accord, they leaped out to stagger around in the road like drunks, laughing, wiping the makeup from their faces,
panting out their stories… Giselle was suddenly sober.

“Larry, what about Yana? If you love her—”

“When I saw her up there with Rudolph, Giselle, I suddenly realized… that’s where she belongs…” He jerked his head at the
pink Cadillac. “And here’s where I belong. Stealing cars from the goddam Gyppos.”

The last barrier was down. They hugged each other, delighted with their rediscovered friendship. And thus did not see the
trunk lid pop up a few careful inches.

“The look on your face when I almost ran you down…”

“The look on yours when I jumped in and started fighting you for the wheel…”

With a
ROAR
the pink Cadillac fish tailed away from them, leaving them gaping in the middle of the road. They ran after it a few steps,
then stopped. Hopeless.

They looked at one another, both started to speak, neither did. By common accord, they started trudging wearily down the road.
The greatest sin in Dan Kearny’s moral code was losing a repo once you had your hands on it. What the hell were they going
to tell him when they got to their distant motel?

*   *   *

If they got there. Most of the townspeople, after their Town Meeting, had gone to their beds like good citizens. But a small
group, led by Herr Himmler, had gone hunting along highways and byways with lanterns and clubs. They found no Gyppos, of course,
because they were giving the encampment a wide berth. Out there, after all, were half a thousand Gypsies to their scant fifty.
Where was the glory in that?