Bern.
Nolan wasn’t precisely sure how Bernie worked this gig, but he did know that Bernie had been a jump-title expert for years. Last Nolan knew, Bernie owned a chain of junkyards all over the Detroit area and, by matching up stolen cars with junked cars of the same make, he simply spot-welded the junker’s serial numbers onto the stolen job—under the hood, inside the door and, when possible, on the frame— and presto, a “new” car ready for titling. Legislation had, in recent years, crippled jump-title rackets badly, especially on the large scale that Bernie worked; but fortunately, a southern state notorious for its lax titling laws was glad to have Bernie’s trade, and the particular county Bernie did his business through even went so far as to service him by mail-order. Sounded far-fetched, but Nolan remembered the time in Alabama, not so very long ago, when he’d stolen a car and, with no proof of ownership whatever, driven up to the courthouse, got the auto tided, and driven it away.
“Yer fat!”
Nolan turned, and Bernie was standing there, a short, massively muscled man with not an ounce of flab on him; he had a round face with round eyes and round nose and, when he spoke, a round mouth. If he hadn’t had a full head of curly brown hair, he’d have looked like a talking cueball. He was wearing the world’s dirtiest coveralls, with “Bernie’s” emblazoned over one breast pocket “How’d you get so goddamn fat?”
“I’m an old man, Bernie. I live a soft life these days.”
“Soft life, my ass. Come on, Nolan, let’s go in the back and have some beer.”
Why Bernie didn’t have a potbelly from constant beer guzzling was one of the mysteries of life Nolan would never understand. Maybe the man just worked hard enough to offset all those suds: Bernie, never content to live high on the carloads of cash his business brought him, spent most of his time in there doing the drudge work—painting the cars, doing body work, replacing parts, everything. It was obvious that Bernie didn’t need to do illegal work to make a good living; but the illegal route had led to his own shop, his own operation, and freedom was always worth a little risk. One thing was for sure, Nolan thought: Bernie ran the most efficient automotive firm in Detroit And probably the most honest.
The back room was a cubbyhole with a small desk and a large cooler of beer. The desk was cluttered with car manuals, the Red and Blue Books of this and many a year, bills and receipts, and so on. Nolan knew the reason for the mess: Bernie kept good books, but felt that overly neat records made the IRS unduly suspicious. Besides, he got a kick out of making them come in and dig. If they wanted to come and look for ways to screw you, cross your legs and make ’em work their asses off getting in.
Bernie popped a top and handed a foaming beer to Nolan, did the same for himself. “So yer fat, and you ain’t dead.”
“Yes I’m fat, no I’m not dead.”
“You already told me why you’re fat. Now tell me why you ain’t dead.”
“Didn’t you hear about the change of regime in Chicago?”
“No. I got no Family ties, never did have. I’m an independent and like to stay clear of that shit. You know me, Nolan. So what, the people that wanted you dead, those Family people, are out? And what, the new people love you?”
“Something like that.”
“What are you up to now?”
Nolan told Bernie about the Tropical.
“Sounds boring.”
“It is. But it’s a good deal, for the immediate present, and I don’t want to blow it”
“How could you blow it?”
“Well, you see, Bernie, I’m here on business. Detroit’s never been my idea of a place to vacation.”
“So?”
“The Family people I’m fronting for don’t want me straying from the straight and narrow. They got a name and background set up for me, so I can front the Tropical with no static from the law or anybody. Somebody runs a check on me, I sound like the
Nolan wasn’t precisely sure how Bernie worked this gig, but he did know that Bernie had been a jump-title expert for years. Last Nolan knew, Bernie owned a chain of junkyards all over the Detroit area and, by matching up stolen cars with junked cars of the same make, he simply spot-welded the junker’s serial numbers onto the stolen job—under the hood, inside the door and, when possible, on the frame— and presto, a “new” car ready for titling. Legislation had, in recent years, crippled jump-title rackets badly, especially on the large scale that Bernie worked; but fortunately, a southern state notorious for its lax titling laws was glad to have Bernie’s trade, and the particular county Bernie did his business through even went so far as to service him by mail-order. Sounded far-fetched, but Nolan remembered the time in Alabama, not so very long ago, when he’d stolen a car and, with no proof of ownership whatever, driven up to the courthouse, got the auto tided, and driven it away.
“Yer fat!”
Nolan turned, and Bernie was standing there, a short, massively muscled man with not an ounce of flab on him; he had a round face with round eyes and round nose and, when he spoke, a round mouth. If he hadn’t had a full head of curly brown hair, he’d have looked like a talking cueball. He was wearing the world’s dirtiest coveralls, with “Bernie’s” emblazoned over one breast pocket “How’d you get so goddamn fat?”
“I’m an old man, Bernie. I live a soft life these days.”
“Soft life, my ass. Come on, Nolan, let’s go in the back and have some beer.”
Why Bernie didn’t have a potbelly from constant beer guzzling was one of the mysteries of life Nolan would never understand. Maybe the man just worked hard enough to offset all those suds: Bernie, never content to live high on the carloads of cash his business brought him, spent most of his time in there doing the drudge work—painting the cars, doing body work, replacing parts, everything. It was obvious that Bernie didn’t need to do illegal work to make a good living; but the illegal route had led to his own shop, his own operation, and freedom was always worth a little risk. One thing was for sure, Nolan thought: Bernie ran the most efficient automotive firm in Detroit And probably the most honest.
The back room was a cubbyhole with a small desk and a large cooler of beer. The desk was cluttered with car manuals, the Red and Blue Books of this and many a year, bills and receipts, and so on. Nolan knew the reason for the mess: Bernie kept good books, but felt that overly neat records made the IRS unduly suspicious. Besides, he got a kick out of making them come in and dig. If they wanted to come and look for ways to screw you, cross your legs and make ’em work their asses off getting in.
Bernie popped a top and handed a foaming beer to Nolan, did the same for himself. “So yer fat, and you ain’t dead.”
“Yes I’m fat, no I’m not dead.”
“You already told me why you’re fat. Now tell me why you ain’t dead.”
“Didn’t you hear about the change of regime in Chicago?”
“No. I got no Family ties, never did have. I’m an independent and like to stay clear of that shit. You know me, Nolan. So what, the people that wanted you dead, those Family people, are out? And what, the new people love you?”
“Something like that.”
“What are you up to now?”
Nolan told Bernie about the Tropical.
“Sounds boring.”
“It is. But it’s a good deal, for the immediate present, and I don’t want to blow it”
“How could you blow it?”
“Well, you see, Bernie, I’m here on business. Detroit’s never been my idea of a place to vacation.”
“So?”
“The Family people I’m fronting for don’t want me straying from the straight and narrow. They got a name and background set up for me, so I can front the Tropical with no static from the law or anybody. Somebody runs a check on me, I sound like the
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