"They treat every one like a baby," Bernine said.
"Who does the original cleanup, when the cars are first brought in? Different employees?"
"Are you writing a book about shop management? Jimmie Osborne does the cleanup."
"Well he's a nice young man. We were on the city council together one year."
Bernine sighed again. "I have to run, my dear. It's nearly two, I have a hair appointment." She glanced at the bill, but Wilma picked it up.
When Bernine had gone, Wilma sat for a long while, wondering exactly why her questions had so harried Bernine. Wondering why Bernine had seemed afraid.
23
During the hours of darkness, the outer perimeters of Beckwhite Automotive Agency were well lit. The one-story stucco complex occupied nearly a full square block at the corner of Haley and Ocean. It stood three blocks above Binnie's Italian, and just across from a beautifully landscaped Ocean Avenue motel. Backing on Highway One, which gave it easy access to buyers arriving from other coastal towns, Beckwhite's occupied a prime location at the upper perimeter of the village shops.
The drive-in entry to the maintenance shop was on Ocean. The agency's showroom faced the side street, its brick parking area separated from the street by a wide strip of bird-of-paradise plants. In the predawn dark, they shone waxen in the strong glow of the security lights fixed to the side of the building.
The front of the building was primarily glass. The small portions of white stucco wall were freshly painted, below the slanted roof of curved red tile. Twin bougainvillea vines, heavy with bright orange blooms, flanked the glass entry. The streets were silent, no car moved on Haley or up Ocean. The time was four-forty. The two cats stood up on their hind legs beside a bougainvillea vine, their paws against the clean glass, looking in.
The showroom was immense. Its pale walls provided an effective and contrasting background for the six gleaming imported cars which stood bright as polished jewels within the enclosure. "That red car at the end," Joe said, "is a new Ferrari. Clyde was reading an article about the new model just the other day; he left the magazine open on the kitchen table. It called the car sensuous and artful." Joe grinned. "Those guys who write about cars really take this stuff seriously. Said the Ferrari was sleek and curvy and provocative."
"It is," she said, cutting him a sly glance. "How would it be to drive something that elegant? Or that little blue, open job, careening down the highway?"
"Yeah, right. With the wind whipping your ears down flat and tearing through your fur."
Far to their left was a closed door with a small, discreet sign which indicated that it led to the drive-through entry and the automotive shop. Straight ahead behind the sleek foreign cars, along the back wall, a row of open glass doors and glass partitions defined the sales offices. Each was furnished with a handsome ebony desk, an Oriental rug, and three soft, leather-upholstered easy chairs.
They had already circled the complex, trotting along the dark sidewalk, crouching against the building when the lights of the occasional car approached. They had climbed up onto the roof, as well, in order to see the entire layout.
Behind the main building was a large, enclosed work yard surrounded by secondary buildings, some of which were open sheds containing various pieces of unidentifiable equipment and a few cars in different states of beautification or repair. To the left of the yard, Clyde's repair shop was closed off by a wide metal door. At the end of the shop, facing the showroom, a second garage door led to the drive-through. This door was closed. And the drive itself was enclosed by two chain-link, padlocked gates.
The yard was completely shut away from the surrounding streets except for this fenced entry, and for a narrower passage at the back, a slim alley which was also secured by two locked, chain-link gates. That passage led through to a narrow parking strip facing Highway One. Both wire gates hugged the concrete paving, and their tops touched the roof of the walkway.
They had seen, as they circled the block, that other businesses backed up to the rear automotive buildings. The row of separate stores facing the highway included a hobby shop, a quick-stop grocery, a photo shop, a laundry, and a restaurant. The intruding passage ran between the restaurant and the photo shop. Joe knew that in the daytime, when the gates were unlocked, agency employees went regularly through from their work yard to the side door of Mom's Burgers for coffee breaks and lunch. Clyde usually had a late breakfast there, as did Jimmie Osborne. Midmorning breakfast at Mom's had been a ritual with Samuel Beckwhite.
Standing against the front glass studying the showroom and the gleaming cars, they stiffened suddenly and ducked as a car turned onto Haley.
It was a wedge-shaped red sports car, long and low and sleek, and was running without lights, headed from the residential section toward Ocean. It turned right toward the automotive shop. Joe thought it might be a Lamborghini, an elegant Italian job that would mean really big bucks. "Get down. It's slowing."
They crouched behind the bougainvillea vine as the sleek vehicle slowed before the entrance, then moved on. Seconds later another car followed: Wark's black BMW, also unlit. Both cars cruised slowly past and turned onto Ocean toward the shop driveway. The instant they passed, Joe and Dulcie swarmed up the bougainvillea and onto the tile roof.
Trotting over the low peak, they crouched at the edge looking down on the lit inner courtyard. A tow truck was parked beside the repair shop, close against the wall, a gleaming tan vehicle with Beckwhite's logo on the side. Dulcie said, "Why do they need a tow truck, when these are all such expensive cars?"
"I guess any car can have a problem on the road, maybe a flat tire. Anyone can have a wreck." Both cars had pulled into the drive. Wark got out and unlocked the wire gates, then slid back into the driver's seat. The two cars pulled in, followed by a low yellow roadster also running dark. When the three were inside, Wark closed and locked both gates.
"I think that's an antique Corvette," Joe whispered.
"The yellow one?"
"Mmm. A collector's model." He was surprised at how much he'd picked up from Clyde, and from reading over Clyde's shoulder.
Yes, the red car was a Lamborghini, a vintage model. He recognized the hubcaps from pictures, and he could vaguely remember the names of some of the antique models, Miura, Espada, Islero, because the words appealed to him; he didn't know which model this was, but it was bucks, all right.
Jimmie Osborne got out of the Lamborghini, and a woman emerged from the Corvette, her long blond ponytail, secured high on her head, bouncing like a tassel. She wore skintight black jeans and a black lace blouse that left nothing whatever to the imagination.
Crouched at the edge of the roof, the cats watched Jimmie unlock the door into Clyde's shop and wheel out a metal cart, its shelves fitted with tools. Jimmie laid a folded paper drop cloth on the ground beside the Corvette, and Wark slid into the front seat.
There he scrunched down nearly on his back and placed his feet, clad in black running shoes, up on the car's windshield.
The cracking glass sounded sharp as a gunshot, and the windshield popped out. Jimmie removed it and laid it on the drop cloth as Wark pried at something on the dashboard.
"He's removing the VIN plate," Joe said. "The identification number, it's on a metal plate. They're stealing cars, all right. I wonder if Beckwhite knew."
"Does the agency sell those cars?"