“There’s a gap between the front of the building and the fence,” said Kearny.
They walked past the stalls. Above their heads, Channel 2’s 10:00 P.M. newscast began blaring from an open window. Which car — if any — belonged to Odum’s girl friend? Or had Sharon Beaghler conned the great Dan Kearny, too, just as she had conned Larry Ballard earlier?
She hadn’t. When they came to the end of the stalls and could look beyond, down the gap between the building and the fence where the garbage pails were, it was there. Gorgeous, the son of a bitch. White over red, hardtop two-door, license 666 KAH.
Ballard’s nervousness was gone; he was cold, quick, precise, this was what it was all about. Neither man even slowed down. Kearny had given Ballard the keys; he went for the driver’s side. Kearny went down the other side, felt the hood. Knowing whether the motor was cold or warm was often the difference between a flooded engine and a clean grab.
“Hot,” said Kearny.
He kept going right around the car as Ballard pulled the door almost shut and twisted the ignition key after turning off the radio. Ballard backed smoothly out, at the same time reaching across to unlock the rider’s door. Kearny got in as he put it into drive and pulled away.
“She sounds good,” Ballard said to Kearny. He was grinning.
They went down the length of the building, around in front. A man and a woman, silhouetted by the vestibule light, were just coming from the front door as they went by. The man yelled, pointed, then was gone behind them.
“Just in time,” said Kearny.
He added nothing to Ballard about a good job, nor did Ballard expect him to. The good job had been in getting there in the first place. Once you spotted the car, it should be yours, short of physical attack by the subject or his friends. Even then, it usually should be yours. You weren’t hired to lose them.
“You phone it in to the cops while I make the condition report,” said Kearny as they pulled up in the darkened gas station next to the Ford.
Ballard found a dime in his pocket. “Antioch city police or Contra Costa county sheriff’s department?”
“Try the sheriff. He’ll know who has jurisdiction from the address.”
As Ballard stepped into the booth, they heard the sound of a car coming up Gavallo Road, fast. Its lights were on high and the tires shrieked as the people inside it saw the T-Bird in the gas station and stood it on its nose. It was a new yellow Toronado.
“The Lone Ranger and Tonto,” said Kearny in a totally unexcited voice.
The driver was a woman, with the street light back-lighting her blond hair and casting her features into darkness. The door on the rider’s side flew open as the car skidded to a stop. A dark figure hit the concrete running, charging them. Ballard’s heart seemed to stop.
“He’s got a gun,” he heard himself say in a tight, desperately calm voice. “Dan, he’s got a gun...”
Twenty
It was a monkey wrench.
For the first time Ballard knew why Kearny had such strictures against carrying guns on the job. If he’d had one, he would have used it before realizing that Odum was technically unarmed.
Odum skidded to a stop ten feet away, as if disconcerted that neither of them had run. He was short, burly, very pale, with shaggy hair and glasses thick enough to bottle Cokes in. Tall? thought Ballard. Handsome? Suave? This cat?
“Who...” Odum stopped and cleared his throat. His voice had come out funny. He was scared shitless. “Who in hell are you?”
Kearny took the play away from him. “Are you Charles M. Griffin?”
“Well, no, I...”
“Then it doesn’t matter who the hell we are.”
Ballard loved to watch him work, take the offensive, push the antagonist in the direction he wanted him to go. Right now he was turning back to the car, leaving Odum with only a broad back in a business suit to argue with.
“I... what... why the hell did you take this car?” Odum demanded. His girl friend was still in the Toronado, still just a dark shape with the halo of back-lit blond hair.
Kearny turned back to the ex-con. He repeated, in the same harsh tones as before, “Are you Charles M. Griffin?”
“I already told you I wasn’t. But—”
“Then it doesn’t matter why the hell we took this car.”
He turned away again. Odum was emboldened enough to step toward him. Ballard came around the front of the car, fast, fists clenched, but Odum, despite the wrench, wasn’t after trouble.
“Well, look, you guys, I... ah... paid three hundred bucks for the equity in this car. Cash. You can’t just—”
“We already have.” Kearny turned back, leaned casually against the door with his arms folded, like a farmer talking about crops. “You may as well clear your personal crap out and give us the keys.”
“But it’s my car,” said Odum desperately.
“It can’t be your car.” Kearny’s voice was patient, reasonable; daddy telling junior about the birds and the bees in words he could understand. “This car belongs to California Citizens Bank and is registered to a Mr. Charles M. Griffin. You aren’t either one of ’em.”
“But I gave the guy three hundred bucks—”
Kearny leaned forward, arms still folded, but by the sudden tension in his voice and body, compelling response. “Griffin?”
Odum was blinking rapidly, as if he were going to cry. “Yeah. That guy. Gloria can vouch—”
“What Gloria says has no validity in a court of law,” Kearny said coldly. “Gloria who?”
“Court of law?” Odum’s voice was stricken. “Uh... Gloria Rouse. She, uh... listen, court of...”
“The woman in the Toronado?”
“Uh... yeah.”
“Mm-hmmm.” Kearny said it as if a dark suspicion had just been confirmed. “She resides at 1-9-0-2 Gavallo Road, Apartment Seven?”
From the stall in which the yellow Toronado had been parked, of course. That cool bastard must have noted the make of car in each stall just walking by, automatically, probably not even aware that his brain was doing it. Ballard couldn’t have given him the make of any of those cars. Not one.
“Yah... uh, yes. Sir.”
Sir, added belatedly. Odum, sitting in the straight-backed chair by Saul Savidge’s ancient wooden desk, getting told the facts of a parolee’s life. Did those showers really leak down on the more comfortable swivel chair, or was that just a subtle ploy of Savidge’s? Yes, sir. Then Ballard thought angrily to himself: Pity for this shithead? Who maybe had broken Bart’s skull, maybe even with the wrench now dangling forgotten and useless at the end of his arm like the tuft on a jackass’s tail?
“You’ve been living with Gloria Rouse at this address since last Tuesday in clear violation of the conditions of your parole. What sort of explanation can you give for this?”
«I...»
His eyes were darting from one to the other, seeking a soft spot. Ballard kept silent, put on his stoniest expression. The normal expression on Kearny’s granite features was stony enough.
“I... none, sir.”
“All right.” Kearny made it sound as if he were bestowing a great favor. He turned to Ballard. “Mr. Beam, did Mr. Savidge say anything today about this Thunderbird?”
Ballard hoped he was reading Kearny’s lead the right way. “He seemed extremely upset when I told him that the subject might be driving a car, contrary to the conditions of his parole.”