The number rang twice. Darcy answered. I hoped I didn’t sound like myself when I said, “May I speak to Mr. Voorhies?”
“Just a moment, please. I’ll ring his office.” She clicked off. Music played in the background, filling telephone limbo with an orchestrated rendition of “How High the Moon.” Inexplicably, the lyrics popped into my head unbidden. I thought about Dawna, wondering how long the cops could hold her. Wounded or not, she was dangerous.
15
MAC CAME ON the line. “Voorhies.”
“Mr. Voorhies, my name is Hannah Moore. I have car insurance with your company and I wanted to check on my coverage.”
There was dead silence. I knew he recognized my voice. Raymond leaned his head close to mine, angling the phone so he could listen to the conversation.
Mac hesitated. I could hear him grope with the request, trying to figure out what was going on and what he could say without jeopardizing my situation, whatever that might be. He knew me well enough to realize I wouldn’t make such a call without a good reason. “Is this regarding an automobile accident?” he asked cautiously.
“Well, no. I, uhm, might be driving a friend’s car and he doesn’t like the idea unless he knows I’m covered.” Raymond’s face was six inches away from mine. I could smell his after-shave and feel the warm, slightly adenoidal character of his breath.
“I can understand that. Is your friend there now?” Mac asked.
“That’s right.”
“Do you have the policy number handy?”
“Uh, no. But the agent is Con Dolan.”
Raymond drew back and reached for a piece of paper, scratching out a note. “Ask about collision.” I hate it when people coach me when I’m on the phone. He pointed significantly. I waved at him with irritation.
“Uh, it’s really the collision I need to know about,” I amended.
Another awkward pause. I smiled at Raymond wanly while Mac cleared his throat. “I tell you what I’ll do, Miss …”
“Moore.”
“Yes, all right. Why don’t I see if I can get in touch with Mr. Dolan. He’s no longer with the company, but I’m sure he’s still in town. I can check our files for the coverage and get back to you. Is there a number where you can be reached this afternoon?”
Raymond pulled his head back and put a finger to his lips.
I said, “Not really. I’m staying with this guy in Los Angeles, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. I could call again later if you’ll tell me what time.”
“Try five this afternoon. I should have the information by then.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” I handed Raymond the receiver and he hung it up.
“What’d he say?”
“He’s going to check. I’m supposed to call him back this afternoon at five.”
“But as far as you know the insurance is in effect.”
“I told you it was.”
Raymond and Luis exchanged a look. Raymond looked over his shoulder at Bibianna, still intent on her game of solitaire. “Get your jacket. We’re going out.” And then to me. “You need a jacket? She’ll give you one.”
“What’s happening?”
“We’re going on a drive-down.”
“Whatever that is,” I said.
We took Sepulveda Boulevard up to Culver City, with Luis at the wheel. Bibianna was being sullen, sitting silently in the backseat with her arms crossed while Raymond either made calls on the car phone or rubbed, petted, and generally annoyed her, rambling on about all the money he meant to make, all the things he’d done, and all the big plans he had for the two of them. I had to give that guy some lessons. He was going about this all wrong. Aside from the fact that (unknown to him) she was already Mrs. Jimmy Tate, she was never going to tumble to all the smoke he was blowing. Women don’t want to sit around listening to guys talk about themselves. Women like to have conversations about real things, like feelings – namely, theirs. Raymond seemed to think he just hadn’t persuaded her yet of the depth of his affection. I wanted to scream, “She knows that, you dummy! She just doesn’t give a shit.” We pulled up at the first address. The ‘79 Caddy was parked at the curb, a black Seville, being offered by a muscular black guy with a pink shower cap, a tattooed teardrop on his cheek, and a gold hoop through his left ear. Honestly, I’m not making this stuff up. He wore a T-shirt and low-slung jeans, with his Calvin Kleins sticking out above his belt. He was actually very cute with a mustache and goatee, a mischievous smile, and a little space between his teeth. Bibianna stayed in the car, but I got out and stood around with the guys, shifting from foot to foot while the three of them entered into a long and tedious negotiation. Raymond went through several sequences of ticcing, but the black guy didn’t react except to stop making eye contact. I could see that in some circles, Raymond would be treated like a walking basket case. I wanted to speak up protectively and say, “Hey, the guy can’t help it, okay?”
The OBO turned out to be a hundred dollars less than the $999 listed in the paper. Raymond turned his body slightly and took out a fat cylinder of bills with a rubber band wrapped around them. He slipped the rubber band over his wrist while he peeled off the right denominations. The pink slip was signed and changed hands, but I couldn’t believe Raymond was actually going to take it down to the DMV. Habitual criminals never seem to be troubled about things like that. They do anything they please while the rest of us feel compelled to play by the rules.
The black guy strolled off as soon as the transaction was completed. Raymond and Luis made a study of the car, which seemed to be in reasonable shape. Chrome flakes were peeling off the bumper and the right rear taillight had been smashed. The tires were bald, but the body didn’t show any major dents. The interior was gray, a rip in the passenger seat neatly sutured with black thread. The floor, front and back, was littered with fast-food containers, empty soft drink cans, crushed cigarette packs, newspapers. Luis took a few minutes to shove it all into the gutter, emptying the ashtray in a little mountain of cigarette butts.
“What do you think?” Raymond asked me.
I couldn’t imagine why my opinion mattered. “Looks better than anything I ever drove.”
He stuck a finger in the key ring and flipped the keys into his palm. “Hop in. Bibianna goes with him.”
I glanced over at the dark green Ford where Bibianna sat. She was perched up on the backseat, using the rearview mirror to braid her dark, glossy hair. “Fine with me,” I said.
I got into the Caddy.
Raymond got in on the driver’s side and slipped his seat belt on. “Buckle up,” he said. “We’re going to have an accident.”
“Is this car insured? We just bought the damn thing,” I said with surprise.
“Don’t worry about that stuff. I can call my agent later. He does anything I want.”
I buckled up, trying to picture myself in a neck brace.
The transmission was automatic. The car had power locks and power brakes, power windows. Raymond started the engine, which thrummed to life. He adjusted the rearview mirror and waited while a silver Toyota passed at cruising speed before he pulled into the lane of traffic.
I tried the power windows, which went up with a quiet hum. “How do we do this?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
We seemed to drive randomly, taking Venice Boulevard through Palms, turning right on Sepulveda into an area called Mar Vista. These were neighborhoods of small stucco bungalows with small yards and tired trees with leaves that were oxygen-starved from all the smog in the air. Raymond watched the streets like a cop looking for the telltale indications of a crime in progress.
“What makes this a drive-down?”
“That’s just what we call it when we’re out cruising for an accident. Car’s called a bucket. I got a fleet of buckets, a whole crew of drivers doing just what we’re doing. You’re a ghost.”
I smiled. “Why’s that?”
“Because you don’t get paid, therefore you don’t exist.”
“How come I don’t get paid?”
“You’re a trainee. You’re just here to beef up the head count.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said. I turned and looked out the window on the passenger side. “So, what are we looking for?”
Raymond glanced at me sharply, suspicion etched in his “I’m just trying to learn,” I said.
“A victim. We call ‘em vies,” he replied in belated answer to my question. “Somebody running a stop sign, backing out of a drive into the right-of-way, pulling out of a parking space …”