Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) (25 page)

I was amazed. The statement revealed a totally new aspect of my
boss's character. Or did it? No matter how irrational they might seem
on the surface, Hank usually had good reasons for his actions. If
he'd sent me to see Willie, neglecting to mention his profession,
there was more to this than was readily apparent.

Willie leaned toward me, frowning, as if he were worried that he
had made a social blunder. "You're not shocked or anything?"

"Well… not really. It doesn't matter." But I would
have to talk to Hank before I agreed to take Willie on as a client.

"Damn straight!" There was a touch of relief in the way
he crumpled his beer can and tossed it under the truck. "I look
at it this way: I may be a fence, but I've got rights just like the
next guy. And I want this following business stopped."

I decided I might as well take down the preliminary information,
so I picked up the notebook again. "Okay, describe the person."

"Weird, like I said. Little skinny guy. Wears glasses. Wears
a suit."

"A suit, here at the flea market?"

"Yeah. It's no wonder I noticed him, huh?"

"I guess. Anything else?"

"A funny hat."

"How is it funny?" Carefully I avoided looking at
Willie's leather cowboy hat with its braid and bright red feather.

"Sort of round—it fits close to the crown of his head.
Like a beanie."

Quite improbably, it sounded like a Jewish
yarmulke
.
"Anything else?"

He screwed up his face in concentration. "Not that I recall."

"Do you know anyone who might have reason to follow you? An
enemy, for instance?"

"I deal tough, and sometimes it makes people mad at me, but I
don't really make enemies."

"What about your merchandise—do you handle valuable
items?"

"Well, some command high prices, but there's nothing like art
goods or jewelry, if that's what you mean."

"And you don't deal in drugs?"

"No, ma'am."

"You owe any money? Gambling debts, perhaps?"

"Nope. I operate on a strictly cash basis, and I stay away
from the tables and the track."

"Could it have any connection with a romantic relationship? A
former girlfriend, for instance? Or an ex-wife?"

"Not that I can imagine. I got an ex-wife, but she's
remarried twice now. Lives in another state. And my other women, I've
always treated them right."

"Are you currently involved with someone?"

"Yeah, a little gal called Alida Edwards. She runs a
handcrafted jewelry concession here."

"What does she think about this person who's been watching
you?"

"She's as puzzled as I am."

"If you're so puzzled, why don't you go up and ask him what
he's doing? You look as if you can take care of yourself."

He hesitated. "Look, I'm a fence. I'm in a vulnerable
position. I don't want to do anything that might attract attention to
me."

"Has the guy been around today?"

"No, but he might be waiting near the house when I get back.
That's happened before."

"What time will that be?"

"Today I'll leave here around three. I've got a couple of
truckers coming, wanting to peddle me some goods they've boosted."

"How about if I meet you there?" Until I could talk with
Hank about Willie, I might as well follow up on his problem. And, for
professional reasons, it might be helpful to watch a fence operate.

"Sure." He gave me his address, in San Francisco's inner
Sunset district, near Golden Gate Park and Kezar Stadium.

I finished my beer and then rejoined Don. He was regarding the
bathtub critically. "The enamel's shot. You'd do better at a
junkyard if you want one of these things."

"Probably. But I'm not sure I do want one."

He reached out and smoothed down my hair. "For a new
homeowner, you're pretty cavalier about getting the place in shape."

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" Much as I loved my new home,
there were a great many things that interested me more—
including Willie Whelan's problem.

I dropped Don off at my house and then drove across town to the
address Willie had given me. It was on the section of Arguello
Boulevard that stretches between Kezar Stadium and the University of
California Medical Center, on the fringes of Golden Gate Park. The
neighborhood serves as home for an odd mixture of middle-class
professionals, students from the Med Center, and bohemian types who
spill over from the nearby Haight-Ashbury. While most of the
buildings seem well-maintained, the mouldering shell of
long-abandoned Polytechnic High School and the crumbling stadium cast
a seedy pall over the area.

I parked and got out of the car, looking for signs of the man
Willie had described, but saw no one remotely resembling him on the
street. Then I crossed toward my prospective client's house, a
stucco-and-beam Edwardian that had probably been built around the
turn of the century. It was three stories, with the main floor
several steps up from the sidewalk, and a garage underneath. As I
approached, I saw that the garage door was up, and I glimpsed Willie
standing just inside of it. He waved and motioned for me to come in.

The garage took up the entire basement and must have been close to
a thousand square feet. Its walls were lined floor to ceiling with
merchandise on makeshift plywood shelving. A long clothes rack held
expensive-looking suits, coats, and dresses. Most of the goods on the
shelves—small appliances, housewares, TVs, video recorders,
cameras, and sound equipment—was new and still in the original
packaging, but I spotted a group of more interesting older things—
other pedestal sinks, some stained-glass panels, an ancient pinball
machine, and a Victrola.

Two men in work clothes—presumably the truckers Willie had
mentioned—were sitting on a pair of mismatched kitchen chairs
in the space where a car would normally have been parked. When I
entered, they stood up, shuffling their feet and glancing warily from
me to Willie. He held up a hand and said, "Relax. She's okay,"
and they returned to their seats.

To me, Willie added, "I've still got some dealing to do. Look
around, why don't you?"

I nodded and, marveling at the quantity and variety of
merchandise, wandered off toward the back of the garage.

While the light up front came from fluorescent fixtures, here it
was filtered through two wire-mesh-covered windows that looked out on
a yard. I glanced through them and saw a sun-parched lawn and
crumbling cement birdbath. There was a cluttered desk to one side of
the window, and a two-year-old Japan Airlines calendar—a feeble
attempt at decoration—on the wall above it. Next to the desk
stood an old refrigerator, its motor wheezing and grunting as if it
might give up the effort at any moment. I stood and examined the
costume jewelry in a glass case that separated the office area from
the rest of the garage, listening to Willie's conversation with the
truckers.

"Yeah, Joey, these suede jackets are nice. Real nice. But
it's hotter than the hinges of hell out there. Who's gonna buy a
suede jacket in this heat?"

"In the fall—"

"Sure, in the fall. Then they'll move. But in the meantime, I
got a dozen jackets laying around here taking up space."

"Willie, that's top-quality suede."

"I'm not questioning the quality. I'm saying I can't move
them now. Bring them back, maybe in a couple of months. Then we'll
talk.

"I can't keep them around either. Not at the price you're
asking. Ties up too much of my capital." There was a long pause.
"Tell you what I
can
do: I can take them off your hands
for half of what you're asking."

"Aw, come on, Willie!"

"It's the best I can do. I don't know, Joey, maybe you can
find somebody else who's willing to tie up his money in out-of-season
goods. If I were you, I'd give it a try."

The man was silent. Then Willie spoke to the other. "How many
of these cameras you got, Jim?"

"Six more in the truck."

"Japanese, huh? Nikon, that's a good brand. But look here,
Jim: there's part of it missing."

"What the hell do you mean? That's the way they shipped them,
right from the factory."

"Well, maybe they screwed up. This camera's not all here. See
this gizmo? Where you put the flash? It's not there. If the flash
isn't there, it don't work right. How's somebody supposed to take
pictures inside if there's no flash?"

"Jesus, Willie, I've got
seven
of these."

"Yeah, seven cameras that don't work."

"They go for hundreds in the stores."

"Right—but those have got all the parts."

"I'll never unload them—"

"Tell you what. A hundred bucks for the lot."

"I thought you said they was no good."

"They're not." Willie's voice became elaborately
patient. "But I see a lot of stuff come through here; maybe
someday I'll see a flash attachment for one of these. Maybe not. It's
a long shot, but I'm willing to bet a hundred bucks on the off chance
that someday a flash attachment will come through that door."

"I don't know. I'd hoped to get—"

"Well, you can quit hoping. Nobody's going to pay big bucks
for a camera that's not all there."

The man sighed. "Okay. I'll go get the others."

"Do that. I'll write you up a receipt." Willie started
back toward the office, then stopped and snapped his fingers.

"Oh, yeah. Joey, what about those jackets? You want to unload
them for half price?"

"Guess I got no choice."

"I'll do up a receipt for you too." Willie went around
the jewelry counter, winking at me, and pulled two Budweisers from
the refrigerator. He took them to the man, saying, "Have a beer
and give one to Jim when he comes back." Then he returned to the
desk and busied himself with a receipt book and a check register. The
men joined him; receipts were signed, checks were endorsed, cash
changed hands, and the truckers left. I watched the entire procedure,
unable to make much sense of it.

After the truckers were gone, I said, "Willie, I have a Nikon
camera. They work perfectly well without flash attachments."

He grinned and took out two more beers. "I know."

"They never come equipped with flash attachments. You buy
them separately."

"Yeah, but old Jim don't know that." He opened a beer
and handed it to me. "He's what you might call ignorant."

"You tricked him."

"Sure I did. Dealt him right out of a nice profit."

"What about the other guy—Joey? Will those jackets
really sit here for two months?"

"Hell, no. I'll have them at the flea markets tomorrow.
They'll be gone in an hour."

"You're quite a businessman."

"It's all in the wheeling and dealing. Wheeling and dealing."
His voice was flat, as if the transactions had given him a high and
he was now coming down from it. "Let's go have a seat up front."

I followed him up there and took one of the mismatched kitchen
chairs. Willie closed the garage door with an automatic control and
slumped next to me.

"I take it the fellow in the suit wasn't out there when you
got back?" I asked.

"Not today, for a change."

I sipped beer for a moment, trying to accommodate myself to his
sudden change in mood. Finally I said, "Can I ask you some
questions?"

"Fire away."

"They probably won't seem like they have much to do with your
problem, but I need to get a feel for your business before I decide
how I can help you."

"That's okay."

"You gave those two men receipts, wrote them checks, and then
also paid them in cash."

"Right."

"What's all that supposed to accomplish?"

"Keeps the law off my back. In case you get caught with hot
stuff, what you need is a receipt and a canceled check. That proves
you thought you were buying legitimate."

"If the merchandise is hot, what does it matter what you
thought?"

"Because to convict a person of receiving, they've got to
prove he knew the stuff was stolen."

I remember Hank telling me something to that effect once. "So
you write up a receipt. Not in the person's real name, I assume."

"Nope. And the check's the same way."

"Then how can he cash it?"

"He doesn't. I pay him in cash. He endorses the check with
the fake name. And I just take it to my bank and deposit it right
back in one of my accounts. Then, if the cops come around, I got a
receipt and a canceled check, all legal."

"Sounds complicated."

"It is. But it works."

"I guess you do a pretty good business."

"It's a living."

"How'd you get started?"

"In a small way. And then it got bigger."

I sensed that was all I would get out of him, so I went off onto
another tack. "Do people like those truckers—"

"Thieves, you mean."

"Well, yes, thieves. Do they come here any time they feel
like it?"

"There's a pattern to it. Early in the morning, I'm usually
down here by seven. By ten I've done more of my buying. Then I take
it easy, wait for people to see the 'garage sale' sign and drop in.
Some of the stuff I buy comes from shoplifters.
They
start
coming in around one-thirty, two, after they've worked the stores
over the noon hour. That's when they get crowded and security is
lax."

I'd once worked as a department store security guard and I
remembered those hectic noon hours all too well. Most shoplifters I'd
apprehended during the day were kids or frustrated housewives—people
you really had to feel sorry for on a certain level. But the
professional thieves who operated during the peak hours—they
were hard cases and, as far as I was concerned, deserved tougher
sentences than the courts handed out to them.

Again I felt a twinge of conscience at even contemplating helping
Willie, but I had to admit I was fascinated. "So your thieves
pretty much keep to normal business hours?"