“That is totally up to Wilson,” Thorn replied cryptically. “At this stage I think it best if none of us knows what might happen. I am confident everything will turn out just fine. The important thing is that George Wilson will not be allowed to destroy Amalgamated’s plans for the future.”
Well, Clayton thought, at least he has his priorities in order.
Fifteen minutes later Clayton was back in his car, heading home, hoping that he would now be able to concentrate on his original plans for the holiday. He tried to put George Wilson out of his mind, but it wasn’t easy. The problem was, he liked George and thought of him as one of the best residents he’d ever had.
“It’s a shame,” Clayton whispered as he turned into his driveway.
36
The trip to the Valley had been uneventful. One never knew what to expect on the 405, regardless of the hour. A person could just as easily get stuck in a huge traffic jam at five in the morning as at five in the afternoon. But not today. Traffic flowed unimpeded. He guessed the heat wave had sent everyone to the beach.
George exited the 405 at Sherman Way and drove east a couple of miles. The signs on the one-story businesses strung along the seemingly endless boulevard changed progressively from English to Spanish. He missed the tow yard on his first pass and had to double back. Now he was there.
George had first inquired about Sal’s car and asked where it had been taken. He was told one of two junkyards in Van Nuys. The first one, Rust-a-Car Yard, denied having received a red 1957 Oldsmobile. The people were not all that friendly, but George decided that he had to take them at their word and called United Salvage Yard. They confirmed that they had the vehicle.
The yard was surrounded by a boarded-over fence with coiled razor wire running along the top to discourage thieves. Basically it looked like any junkyard-cum-tow-yard. There was a small parking lot in front of a trailer that housed the front office. Two other vehicles were in the lot; one was a taxicab that was just pulling out.
George walked up to the trailer and pulled on the door. It was locked. He looked through the narrow glass window and saw a man inside behind a counter talking with customers. George was about to knock when he noticed the bell and a security camera pointed down at him. George rang. A moment later the door buzzed open, and George stepped inside.
The reception room was small and sparsely furnished. The counter was fronted by a thick glass wall of the type George was accustomed to seeing in banks and twenty-four-hour convenience stores. The man behind it was packing a sidearm and arguing with a young couple standing on George’s side of the glass. They were dressed in casual beach attire and sporting lots of tattoos. They appeared to have been drinking.
“This is bullshit!” the guy yelled.
“It’s a freaking scam!” the girl chimed in.
“We have a contract with the city,” the attendant said with a bored voice. “These are the standard rates.” The attendant looked like a Harley-Davidson biker, overweight with a graying ponytail and a ragged five-o’clock shadow.
“It’s not just the rates. Where I was parked wasn’t marked as a tow zone!”
“This is. Out! Of! Freaking! Control!” the girl huffed as she furiously typed a text message on her cell phone. “We’re gonna be so late to the party,” she added. She punched her companion in the arm in frustration. “Your boy better be at the door to get our asses in, I’m telling you right now.”
“Ow! Relax a minute, okay!” he said, rubbing his pumped-up arm.
The guy behind the counter was unfazed. He’d been called names before. He slid a piece of paper through the slot at the bottom of the glass. “These are the published rates. If you got a beef with the street sign postings you can take it up with the city. They have a petition process.”
“But I still have to pay it first?”
“Correct. It’s two hundred twenty-two dollars for the tow, because the vehicle is an SUV. There’s a fifty-dollar-per-day storage fee — which would be for just one day — that fee is subject to a ten percent tax. And there’s a one-hundred-fifteen-dollar release fee. It adds up to three hundred ninety-two dollars. We take cash, debit cards, credit cards, certified checks, traveler’s checks, and money orders.”
“What a scam!” the guy said as he pulled out his wallet and produced a credit card. He glanced over at George. “Get ready to be raped, my man.”
The man behind the counter fished the card out of the window slot and slid it through his processor. His eyes flicked over to George, probably wondering if he was going to have a repeat performance when it was his turn.
George offered him a tight smile. Whatever hopes he had of getting access to Sal’s car had diminished in the last two minutes, watching the attendant handle the couple. For one, George probably didn’t have near enough cash on him.
The tow guy grabbed a walkie-talkie. “Joey. We got someone coming back for the black Escalade you just brought in.” He pointed to the guy, then a door in the corner. “Sir, through here, please. Miss, you can wait out front. The gates will open when the vehicle pulls out.”
She spun on her heels, heading out. “Asshole.”
The attendant looked up at George. “How can I help you, sir?”
He escorted George across the yard to the back corner of the lot. Two large German shepherds growled at George as they passed.
“Fucking shame,” the attendant said when they reached Sal’s car. “It was a nice ride. I knew when I first saw it that the operator didn’t live through the crash.”
“Unfortunately no airbags in the classics,” George replied, agreeably. He wanted the tow guy to feel like they were buddies.
George had gone for broke back in the office. He had opened his wallet in front of the attendant and took out all the cash in it—$317.00—and slapped it next to the window slot. He told the attendant this was everything he had and it was all for him—if he would let him take a look inside the totaled car of his dead friend. He described the vehicle, saying that the police station said it had been brought here. He even went so far as to tell the tow guy he was looking for a microchip. He thought that if the attendant believed he was looking for something of street value, like some kind of jewelry, then he might want to take a look for himself instead of accepting George’s cash. But the guy had looked at the cash and simply said, “Sure.”
The Oldsmobile looked as dead as Sal. Its front end was folded up on itself to less than a third of its previous length. The convertible top was down, which was how Sal had it ninety percent of the time. The engine block was pushed back into the front seat. George groaned. This was going to be harder than he envisioned. He approached the vehicle, looking for a place to start as the attendant’s walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Danno? You got someone at the front gate.”
“Copy that. I’m on my way.” Danno turned to George. “I gotta go back to the office.” He motioned to the car. “Knock yourself out, but be careful. And no walking around the lot. You stay right here.”
“Okay. Got it,” George said, offering a thumbs-up.
“You hurt yourself, I’m gonna throw you over the fence and pretend I never saw you. Understand?”