I hopped the fence to give it a closer look. The cars that were parked diagonally across it were for the most part old and beat-up. Little metal signs on poles marked the parking assignments, which were set up according to prestige: the maintenance men parked the furthest from the entrance. Closer in were “shippers”; closer still were “assembly crew.”
I found what I was looking for flush up against the poorly lighted shipping entrance: a single parking slot with “foreman” stenciled in white paint on the cement.
I checked the time–nine-twenty-three. The graveyard crew probably came on at midnight. All I could do now was wait.
It was late when I was rewarded. Over three hours of squatting in a darkened corner of the parking lot had put me in a foul mood. I watched as the night shift took off at precisely twelve o’clock, peeling rubber in my face. They seemed happy to be free.
The graveyard crew trickled in over the next half hour, seemingly not as happy. My eyes were glued to the parking space in front of the building, and at 12:49 a well-kept ’46 Cadillac pulled in and parked in the foreman’s space. A fat blond man got out. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell if he was missing any thumbs.
I waited five minutes and followed him inside. There was an employees’ lunchroom at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. I walked in and looked around. A youth in a duck’s-ass haircut gave me a curious look, but none of the other goldbricking workmen seemed to notice me.
The fat blond foreman was sitting at a table, holding a cup of coffee in his right hand. I got a Coke from a machine and took my time drinking it. The foreman had his left hand in his pocket. He kept it there, driving me nuts. Finally, he took it out and scratched his nose. His thumb was missing–more than enough confirmation.
I walked back outside and found a rusty old coat hanger on the ground at the edge of the parking lot. I fashioned a hook device out of it and casually walked over to the foreman’s Cadillac. The car was locked, but the wind wing on the driver’s side was open. I looked in all directions, then slipped the bent coat hanger through the window and hooked it over the door button. The hanger slipped off once, but the second time it caught and I pulled the button up.
Quickly I got in the car and hunched down in the front seat. I tried the glove compartment. It was locked. I ran a hand over the steering column and found what I wanted: The car registration, attached in a leather holder, fastened on with buckles. I removed it and huddled even lower in the seat.
The plastic-encased official paper read: Henry Robert Hart, 1164¼ Hurlburt P1., Culver City, Calif
It was all I needed. I fastened the registration back on the steering column, locked Henry Hart’s car and ran to my own.
Hurlburt Place was a quiet street of small houses a few blocks from the M.G.M. Studios. Number 11641/4 was a garage apartment. I parked across the street and rummaged in my trunk for some makeshift burglar’s tools. A screwdriver and a metal carpenter’s rule were all I could come up with.
I walked slowly across the street and into the driveway that led back to the garage. No lights were on in the front house. The wooden steps that led up to Henry Hart’s apartment creaked so loudly that they must have been heard all the way downtown, but my own heartbeat seemed to drown them out.
The lock was a joke: working the rule and screwdriver simultaneously snapped it easily.
When the door opened, I stood there hesitantly, wondering if I dared enter. My previous B&Es had been done as a policeman; this time I was a civilian. I took a deep breath and walked in, wrapping my right hand in a handkerchief as I fumbled for a light switch.
Stumbling in the darkness, I crashed into a floor lamp, almost knocking it over. Holding it at waist level, I turned it on, illuminating a dreary bedroom–living room: ratty chairs, ratty Murphy bed, threadbare carpet, and cheap oil prints on the walls–probably all inherited from previous tenants long gone.