Dewey was standing in line behind an agitated tweaker, and Jerzy said, “That dude’s jonesin’ bad. He needs a sugar fix.”
“Forget the tweaker,” Tristan said. “Is it Kessler or not?”
“That guy limps,” Jerzy said. “And he’s shorter than Kessler and younger. And his glasses have thick black frames.”
“Is it him?”
“Yeah, it’s him,” Jerzy said grudgingly.
“I told you,” Tristan said.
“That don’t prove nothin’,” Jerzy said. “The guy’s a thief and also an actor, so what? Half the people in this fuckin’ lot are probably actors or wannabes. And they’re all thieves.”
“We’re gonna hang around a little while and see what role he’s playin’ tonight,” Tristan said.
After Dewey got his coffee, he walked to a small table to wait for the arrival of Clark. Tristan and Jerzy strolled across the parking lot, where Jerzy had a cigarette and checked out the parade of hungry hustlers while Tristan kept an eye on the donut shop. Every time a customer went inside, Tristan would return to the same place behind the SUV to see if the customer was meeting with the man he knew as Jakob Kessler. Twenty minutes passed before Tristan saw a young Latino wearing some kind of employee work shirt and jeans enter the donut shop and head straight to the small table in the back. Tristan took a closer peek and saw the newcomer talking to their man.
“I’m so glad you called, Clark,” Dewey Gleason said, shaking hands with Malcolm Rojas, who sat down at the table. “Would you like a cup of coffee? A donut maybe? They’re pretty good.”
“No, thanks, Mr. Graham,” Malcolm said.
“I’d like to talk to you about the business we do, Clark,” Dewey said.
“We have lots of venues to explore in order to find out how you might work best for us.”
“I’m a hard worker,” Malcolm said.
“I’m sure you are, but it’s a matter of where you’d fit in. Let’s go for a ride in my car and chat awhile about a few simple jobs.”
Tristan and Jerzy scurried to the Chevy Caprice when they saw their man and the young guy leave the donut shop and head for the Honda. Tristan was in an all-out sprint to get to the car in time, and Jerzy cursed and puffed all the way, trying to keep up.
There was a moment when Tristan feared that they’d lost their target in the stream of cars on Santa Monica Boulevard, but they managed to catch up, and twenty minutes later they pulled into the shopping center’s lot and parked three rows away.
When Dewey and Malcolm emerged from the Honda, Tristan said to Jerzy, “He’s forgettin’ to limp.”
And then it was almost as though their man could hear them, because Dewey suddenly got into his Bernie Graham limp on his right leg, all the way to the store entrance.
Jerzy said to Tristan, “You wearin’ a wire, or what? He musta heard you.”
“He’s takin’ that kid to school, that’s what he’s up to, wood.”
“What, like credit-card shit?”
“Yeah, what else? Let’s take a look.”
“Listen to me, Creole,” Jerzy said. “I’m hungry and I’m tired and I’d really like to smoke a little glass right now, but I’ll go along because I already come this far. But then you’re gonna tell me what the fuck you got in your head.”
It was a huge supermarket, one of many in the chain where Malcolm’s mother always shopped. They walked to the long queues of shoppers pushing carts toward the dozen checkout counters, and Dewey said, “Clark, are you good with text messaging, like most young people these days?”
“Whadda you mean, Mr. Graham?” Malcolm asked.
“When you were in high school, were you able to sit at your desk and look at your teacher with your cell in your hand and text a girlfriend in another class without getting caught? That kind of thing?”
Malcolm Rojas hesitated to answer that one, the truth being that there was no girlfriend in that Boyle Heights barrio school, where he’d never belonged. Nor any boys whom he could call his friends either. Nobody ever had the back of the half-Honduran loner whom the other kids called Hondoo when they spat on his shoes.
Malcolm simply said, “I can handle a cell phone, if that’s what you mean.”
“Watch, Clark,” Dewey said, gesturing toward a woman who’d reached the checkout and was loading her groceries onto the merchandise belt as the cashier rang them up. “She’s the one I’d want to work on.”
The woman was fortyish, well dressed, the only one in line wearing pearls, along with a tailored blazer, matching skirt, and sensible heels.
“Watch her purse,” Dewey said.
“I’m not into snatching purses,” Malcolm said.
“Nobody wants you to. Watch and learn,” Dewey said.
While her purchases were being rung up, the woman opened her purse and removed her checkbook, placing it on the counter. She opened it as though to write a check, then, changing her mind, removed her wallet, took a credit card out, and ran it through the card reader. Then she put the card down beside the wallet and checkbook, not looking at them while she chatted with the bag boy and the cashier.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to learn here,” Malcolm said, his frustration growing, wondering if he’d made a mistake trying to hook up with this man.
“See the guy standing behind her?” Dewey said. “Imagine if you were standing there shoulder surfing.”
“What?”
“That’s what it’s called. The Colombians are really good at it. They can look at a checkbook and memorize an account number in a few seconds.”
“I could never do anything like that, Mr. Graham,” Malcolm said. “I don’t have that kind of brain. I have to be honest with you.”
“You wouldn’t have to,” Dewey said. “There’s a better way. You could just stand there with your camera phone and pretend you’re text messaging. But you’d really be taking pictures of the credit-card number, the checkbook, even the driver’s license sometimes. A good shoulder surfer could’ve gotten all three photos from that woman, later pushed the send button, and downloaded the JPEG photos on his computer. Everything you could want is lying there in plain view. You don’t have to snatch anything from anyone in this business, Clark. People will give their money to you. Why? Because you’re smarter than they are.”
“Is that what you want me to do, Mr. Graham? Shoulder surfing?”
“I’m just showing you one of the many possibilities that’re open to you,” Dewey said. “You’ll start out doing more simple jobs.”
Dewey and Malcolm returned to the car and headed for Mel’s Drive-In on the Sunset Strip, where Malcolm Rojas was treated to a meal and thirty minutes of schooling that Dewey conducted like a game.
When Malcolm was halfway finished, Dewey tested him by suddenly saying, “What’re the first numbers of an American Express card, Clark?”
With his mouth full, Malcolm said, “Three-seven.”
“Visa?”
“Four.”
MasterCard?”
Malcolm swallowed his food and said, “Five.”
“Diners?”
“ Six-oh-one.”
“That’s my boy!” Dewey said, toasting Malcolm with his soda. “You are a very fast learner. You should see some of the employees I’ve had to teach. My secretary, Ethel, would be impressed by you.”
Sometime later, Dewey Gleason was to remember that impromptu comment to Malcolm Rojas, and it would then seem incredibly prescient.
TWELVE
SITTING OUTSIDE in the Chevy Caprice and watching the parking lot of Mel’s Drive-In were Tristan Hawkins and Jerzy Szarpowicz, who was extremely pissed off at his partner.
“I’m outta here, Creole,” Jerzy said. “You can follow Kessler and his little pal home and peep at them while they put on leather underwear with the easy-access zipper in front. But me, I’m outta here.”