paying—fourteen bucks and climbing. Christ!
The cabbie rambled on. “Martin Luther King weren’t the only thing got killed, that time. This whole neighborhood went down with him. Look at it. You ever seen a place so tore-up?”
“No,” Nolan said, though it wasn’t true. Berlin had been like this, after the war.
“You know, where I’m taking you, it’s about the only business in the area didn’t get hurt. All them cars, and not even a antenna busted off. And a white fella runs it, can you beat that?”
“No.”
“Huh?”
“No, I can’t beat that.”
Nolan’s lack of interest finally dawned on the guy, and shut him up. Which was no big deal, as they were within a block of Bernie’s Used Auto Sales anyway.
Bernie’s was indeed a white man’s business that had gone untouched in the rioting, and with half a block of cars sitting out in the open like that, it was a wonder. The big garage next to the lot had gone untouched as well, not even a broken pane of glass. It was not hard to figure: Bernie’s business was not one the neighborhood would like to lose. A grocery store was expendable, but not Bernie’s.
Nolan got out of the taxi, looked at the meter, which read “$15.50.” He handed the cabbie a twenty and waited for change, but the guy just grinned, said “Thanks,” and roared off. Nolan now understood how the cabbie had made it to a better neighborhood.
Immediately, a salesman approached Nolan, saying, “What can we do for you, my man?” His words were mild enough, but his tone and expression said, What the fuck you doin’ here, whitey? He was a lanky, chocolate-colored guy who couldn’t keep still. Nolan hated goddamn funky butts like this; he liked people who didn’t move anything but their mouths when they talked, and not much of that. This guy was a fluid son of a bitch poured into a white-stitched black suit and a wide-brimmed gangster hat. The band was wide and black, the hat itself white, and Nolan had seen George Raft in a similar one, years ago. It looked better on Raft.
“Tell Bernie I’m here.”
The guy stopped dancing, narrowed his eyes on Nolan. “Uh, like who should I say . . .”
“Tell him Nolan.”
“He’s not . . . ”
“He’s expecting me. Didn’t he tell you? No, I don’t suppose he would. Tell him.”
The guy’s eyes filled with something, and it wasn’t love. “Okay,” he said. “Wait here till I see if it’s cool with the man.”
“Okay.”
The salesman strode off, but his butt seemed slightly less funky now. His reaction to Nolan had been a natural one, as most of Bernie’s white customers never showed their faces around here, making arrangements to see Bern at his suburban home or at one of his junkyards. Nolan walked around the lot while he waited, taking a look at Bernie’s stock.
The lot was packed with cars, of recent vintage mostly, every make and model from Volks to Mercedes, Pinto to Caddy. An impressive selection, but to the casual observer, nothing unusual. Nolan was not a casual observer, and he was smiling, thinking of the one thing that separated Bernie’s from your run-of-the-mill used-car lot: virtually every car on the well-stocked lot was a stolen one.
But the skill and workmanship of Bernie and staff saw to it that every car sold off the lot was not only untraceable, but offered to the public at bargain pricing and with full warranty. This was why Bernie’s had been an oasis in a desert of rioting: nobody kills the golden goose, and Bernie was him, Bernie was the goose who’d provided this neighborhood with countless golden eggs. Rip off a car in the morning, and by early afternoon Bern’s cash was in your pocket, and Bern was cool, he paid off fair, no hassle, no shuck. And on top of being where you could unload the car you stole for ready cash, Bernie’s was a mother of a cheap place to buy wheels. If there was one white dude in the neighborhood who deserved being called brother, it was Bern, baby,
The cabbie rambled on. “Martin Luther King weren’t the only thing got killed, that time. This whole neighborhood went down with him. Look at it. You ever seen a place so tore-up?”
“No,” Nolan said, though it wasn’t true. Berlin had been like this, after the war.
“You know, where I’m taking you, it’s about the only business in the area didn’t get hurt. All them cars, and not even a antenna busted off. And a white fella runs it, can you beat that?”
“No.”
“Huh?”
“No, I can’t beat that.”
Nolan’s lack of interest finally dawned on the guy, and shut him up. Which was no big deal, as they were within a block of Bernie’s Used Auto Sales anyway.
Bernie’s was indeed a white man’s business that had gone untouched in the rioting, and with half a block of cars sitting out in the open like that, it was a wonder. The big garage next to the lot had gone untouched as well, not even a broken pane of glass. It was not hard to figure: Bernie’s business was not one the neighborhood would like to lose. A grocery store was expendable, but not Bernie’s.
Nolan got out of the taxi, looked at the meter, which read “$15.50.” He handed the cabbie a twenty and waited for change, but the guy just grinned, said “Thanks,” and roared off. Nolan now understood how the cabbie had made it to a better neighborhood.
Immediately, a salesman approached Nolan, saying, “What can we do for you, my man?” His words were mild enough, but his tone and expression said, What the fuck you doin’ here, whitey? He was a lanky, chocolate-colored guy who couldn’t keep still. Nolan hated goddamn funky butts like this; he liked people who didn’t move anything but their mouths when they talked, and not much of that. This guy was a fluid son of a bitch poured into a white-stitched black suit and a wide-brimmed gangster hat. The band was wide and black, the hat itself white, and Nolan had seen George Raft in a similar one, years ago. It looked better on Raft.
“Tell Bernie I’m here.”
The guy stopped dancing, narrowed his eyes on Nolan. “Uh, like who should I say . . .”
“Tell him Nolan.”
“He’s not . . . ”
“He’s expecting me. Didn’t he tell you? No, I don’t suppose he would. Tell him.”
The guy’s eyes filled with something, and it wasn’t love. “Okay,” he said. “Wait here till I see if it’s cool with the man.”
“Okay.”
The salesman strode off, but his butt seemed slightly less funky now. His reaction to Nolan had been a natural one, as most of Bernie’s white customers never showed their faces around here, making arrangements to see Bern at his suburban home or at one of his junkyards. Nolan walked around the lot while he waited, taking a look at Bernie’s stock.
The lot was packed with cars, of recent vintage mostly, every make and model from Volks to Mercedes, Pinto to Caddy. An impressive selection, but to the casual observer, nothing unusual. Nolan was not a casual observer, and he was smiling, thinking of the one thing that separated Bernie’s from your run-of-the-mill used-car lot: virtually every car on the well-stocked lot was a stolen one.
But the skill and workmanship of Bernie and staff saw to it that every car sold off the lot was not only untraceable, but offered to the public at bargain pricing and with full warranty. This was why Bernie’s had been an oasis in a desert of rioting: nobody kills the golden goose, and Bernie was him, Bernie was the goose who’d provided this neighborhood with countless golden eggs. Rip off a car in the morning, and by early afternoon Bern’s cash was in your pocket, and Bern was cool, he paid off fair, no hassle, no shuck. And on top of being where you could unload the car you stole for ready cash, Bernie’s was a mother of a cheap place to buy wheels. If there was one white dude in the neighborhood who deserved being called brother, it was Bern, baby,
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