their slot and went to work. Twenty-eight seconds after I’d slimmed the door, the ignition gave in and I turned it just far enough to satisfy any touchy alarm system. I stared down the red warning light on the dash for a good minute, just to make sure. I let myself breathe and said to the car, “I still got it.” Then I thought about Jay and mimicked his smart-ass, “You need me to come along?”
I dropped the emergency brake and opened the driver’s side door, pushing the car backward with my leg. It glided out of its space and I threw my weight into the door to stop it. Brake lights were a no-no. I cranked the steering wheel around and, casting an ever-wary eye at the valet hut, coasted the car down the lane, going faster as the angle of the hut’s entrance got more and more oblique. I jumped in and shut the door as the car bounced out into the street, the impetus of the driveway carrying the car almost to a standstill down the side street before I turned it over and drifted quietly away with no lights. I tucked it into an alley not two blocks from the restaurant. It would take the police an hour or two to find it, barring any lucky discoveries.
I was soaked so completely that the skin around my fingers was puckering, and every article of clothing I had on squished as I walked the long way back to my bike.
Rick was going to owe me double.
The rain started to let up a little as I got on the bike and cruised slowly off P.C.H. onto Jamboree Road and from there into Costa Mesa. I passed Rick’s office on Redhill and did twenty-five miles-per all the way to the Shark Club on Baker Street.
The club is a squat, unimpressive gray building with a neon sign above a canopied Hollywood entrance. I’ve never been inside the place, and never want to be. It’s just another depository for the money of South Orange County’s populace that’s run out of things to spend on. I spotted Denise’s boyfriend’s white Hyundai before I even got off the bike across the street.
When the Shark Club opens, the tire shop and mini-mall it sits between are long-shut, so the valets use the parking lots of both places to park the cars. The Hyundai, sitting in the tire shop lot, was entirely on the other side of the club, almost in pitch darkness. I casually crossed the street, just out of sight of the two tuxedoed bouncers standing under the canopy with the only valet, bending the jimmie straight as I walked. Hyundai doors are made like beer cans, and I was inside almost as soon as I touched it.
I flipped the tools open on the passenger seat and looked uselessly for the Hyundai pick. I looked again, staring at the two labels that said “Honda” and “Isuzu” in glow-in-the-dark ink. Hyundai should have been glowing brightly and happily between them. “All right, the hard way,” I said, talking out loud to the second car I’d stolen that night.
A large pocket at the end of the cloth roll held a penlight and assorted odd picks. I turned on the flashlight and put it in my teeth. I chose a diamond-head pick, as wide as a pencil-lead and half as thick with a small bump at the tip. Aiming the light down the ignition channel, I shoved the pick to the back of the lockplate, gave a little push and a twist, and raked the whole pin-slug into my open palm. I put the pick back, grabbed some electrical tape and wrapped the small metal cylinder to keep the keypins in place. If they fell out, Denise’s beau would be out a clean sixty bucks for a new lock. I wanted him to be scratching his head in the parking lot, not emptying his wallet at some dealership.
I pulled the car out and drove away from the club, made a U-ey in the middle of the deserted street about a block-down, and drove back with killed lights to the space across the street where my bike sat.
I got on and looked across Baker Street. The bouncers were still bulging out of their tuxes. The valet hadn’t moved.
Time to drop in at Bob’s and earn my
I dropped the emergency brake and opened the driver’s side door, pushing the car backward with my leg. It glided out of its space and I threw my weight into the door to stop it. Brake lights were a no-no. I cranked the steering wheel around and, casting an ever-wary eye at the valet hut, coasted the car down the lane, going faster as the angle of the hut’s entrance got more and more oblique. I jumped in and shut the door as the car bounced out into the street, the impetus of the driveway carrying the car almost to a standstill down the side street before I turned it over and drifted quietly away with no lights. I tucked it into an alley not two blocks from the restaurant. It would take the police an hour or two to find it, barring any lucky discoveries.
I was soaked so completely that the skin around my fingers was puckering, and every article of clothing I had on squished as I walked the long way back to my bike.
Rick was going to owe me double.
The rain started to let up a little as I got on the bike and cruised slowly off P.C.H. onto Jamboree Road and from there into Costa Mesa. I passed Rick’s office on Redhill and did twenty-five miles-per all the way to the Shark Club on Baker Street.
The club is a squat, unimpressive gray building with a neon sign above a canopied Hollywood entrance. I’ve never been inside the place, and never want to be. It’s just another depository for the money of South Orange County’s populace that’s run out of things to spend on. I spotted Denise’s boyfriend’s white Hyundai before I even got off the bike across the street.
When the Shark Club opens, the tire shop and mini-mall it sits between are long-shut, so the valets use the parking lots of both places to park the cars. The Hyundai, sitting in the tire shop lot, was entirely on the other side of the club, almost in pitch darkness. I casually crossed the street, just out of sight of the two tuxedoed bouncers standing under the canopy with the only valet, bending the jimmie straight as I walked. Hyundai doors are made like beer cans, and I was inside almost as soon as I touched it.
I flipped the tools open on the passenger seat and looked uselessly for the Hyundai pick. I looked again, staring at the two labels that said “Honda” and “Isuzu” in glow-in-the-dark ink. Hyundai should have been glowing brightly and happily between them. “All right, the hard way,” I said, talking out loud to the second car I’d stolen that night.
A large pocket at the end of the cloth roll held a penlight and assorted odd picks. I turned on the flashlight and put it in my teeth. I chose a diamond-head pick, as wide as a pencil-lead and half as thick with a small bump at the tip. Aiming the light down the ignition channel, I shoved the pick to the back of the lockplate, gave a little push and a twist, and raked the whole pin-slug into my open palm. I put the pick back, grabbed some electrical tape and wrapped the small metal cylinder to keep the keypins in place. If they fell out, Denise’s beau would be out a clean sixty bucks for a new lock. I wanted him to be scratching his head in the parking lot, not emptying his wallet at some dealership.
I pulled the car out and drove away from the club, made a U-ey in the middle of the deserted street about a block-down, and drove back with killed lights to the space across the street where my bike sat.
I got on and looked across Baker Street. The bouncers were still bulging out of their tuxes. The valet hadn’t moved.
Time to drop in at Bob’s and earn my
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