gold with a black top, that she picked up at the airport. She had the top up, of course, in this weather. One of the Pontiacs. I can’t remember all the jazzy names. A Firebird?” She gave me that number, too, and said a little warily: “You sound as if you were planning to take off after her by yourself and leave me here.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Somebody’s got to keep in touch with home base, in case the police report a bad accident involving a gold convertible, or a dead redheaded female body, or something. And you were going to do some research on Sorenson, remember? I’ll head south and check back with you. Have you got anybody at the border to see who goes through?”
“We’ve always got somebody at the border to see who goes through, Mr. Helm. And in answer to your next question, yes, they’ve been alerted and given all available information. But they can’t take action without bringing in the police officially; that’s not their job.”
I regarded her for a moment. I would have been happy to trade her for a certain tough, unscrupulous, hot-tempered, redheaded little girl with whom I’d once worked, but that girl was dead. What I had to back me up now was a lady dope cop with ideals, and in this business nothing will kill you faster or deader than ideals. It wasn’t a happy thought.
“No,” I said, “it’s my job, Charlie. And yours.”
10
When I came outside, the mist was just as thick as it had been, or a little thicker, and it smelled just as bad, or a little worse. I went over to the new rental car that had been brought to me by Devlin’s people after I’d explained to the guy on the phone that I’d ditched the other one, because somebody might have seen the license plate at the scene of the shooting and mentioned it to the police. He’d promised to deal with the problem, if it turned out to be a problem.
I’d already driven the replacement far enough to know that it was never going to become my favorite vehicle: a commuter’s special with too many power gadgets and too little character. It had one of those space-age names—Satellite—that they like to give to cars nowadays when they’re not naming them after animals, birds, or poisonous reptiles.
Getting into the shiny sedan, I heard a siren on the freeway and saw an ambulance go by up there, heading for Los Angeles. It was the third such emergency vehicle I’d encountered since starting south. Well, it was a bad night for driving. There was bound to be some breakage. With that thought, I slid behind the wheel, swung the car around jerkily—a sports car man at heart, I’m not at my best with automatic transmissions and power brakes—and headed for the nearest on-ramp to join the fun.
Southern California drivers are a courageous lot. You might even call them reckless—perhaps life has lost its meaning down there without real air to breathe. By the time I’d raced that headlong, suicidal traffic through the gradually lessening fog to the outskirts of San Diego, I was happy to pull off the freeway and find a phone. When I called the garage, Charlie Devlin answered promptly.
“McGrory’s Motor Service.”
“Hi,” I said.
“Oh, it’s you. Where are you now?” I told her, and she said: “No farther than that? Well, your subject crossed the border at Tijuana, some twenty miles ahead of you, almost an hour ago. She headed south towards Ensenada, our people report. The white Jeepster was two cars behind her going through the international gate.”
“Your people couldn’t stick a pin in his tire to stop him, or plant some marihuana under his seat, or something?”
“Don’t be silly, nobody cares about marihuana smuggled
into
Mexico. And I told you, these are information people, not action people. When they need muscle they call the police. Or us. Did you want the police dragged into this?”
“I guess not.” Obviously, if I’d wanted the police, I should have made up my mind earlier. “You’re sure
“That’s right,” I said. “Somebody’s got to keep in touch with home base, in case the police report a bad accident involving a gold convertible, or a dead redheaded female body, or something. And you were going to do some research on Sorenson, remember? I’ll head south and check back with you. Have you got anybody at the border to see who goes through?”
“We’ve always got somebody at the border to see who goes through, Mr. Helm. And in answer to your next question, yes, they’ve been alerted and given all available information. But they can’t take action without bringing in the police officially; that’s not their job.”
I regarded her for a moment. I would have been happy to trade her for a certain tough, unscrupulous, hot-tempered, redheaded little girl with whom I’d once worked, but that girl was dead. What I had to back me up now was a lady dope cop with ideals, and in this business nothing will kill you faster or deader than ideals. It wasn’t a happy thought.
“No,” I said, “it’s my job, Charlie. And yours.”
10
When I came outside, the mist was just as thick as it had been, or a little thicker, and it smelled just as bad, or a little worse. I went over to the new rental car that had been brought to me by Devlin’s people after I’d explained to the guy on the phone that I’d ditched the other one, because somebody might have seen the license plate at the scene of the shooting and mentioned it to the police. He’d promised to deal with the problem, if it turned out to be a problem.
I’d already driven the replacement far enough to know that it was never going to become my favorite vehicle: a commuter’s special with too many power gadgets and too little character. It had one of those space-age names—Satellite—that they like to give to cars nowadays when they’re not naming them after animals, birds, or poisonous reptiles.
Getting into the shiny sedan, I heard a siren on the freeway and saw an ambulance go by up there, heading for Los Angeles. It was the third such emergency vehicle I’d encountered since starting south. Well, it was a bad night for driving. There was bound to be some breakage. With that thought, I slid behind the wheel, swung the car around jerkily—a sports car man at heart, I’m not at my best with automatic transmissions and power brakes—and headed for the nearest on-ramp to join the fun.
Southern California drivers are a courageous lot. You might even call them reckless—perhaps life has lost its meaning down there without real air to breathe. By the time I’d raced that headlong, suicidal traffic through the gradually lessening fog to the outskirts of San Diego, I was happy to pull off the freeway and find a phone. When I called the garage, Charlie Devlin answered promptly.
“McGrory’s Motor Service.”
“Hi,” I said.
“Oh, it’s you. Where are you now?” I told her, and she said: “No farther than that? Well, your subject crossed the border at Tijuana, some twenty miles ahead of you, almost an hour ago. She headed south towards Ensenada, our people report. The white Jeepster was two cars behind her going through the international gate.”
“Your people couldn’t stick a pin in his tire to stop him, or plant some marihuana under his seat, or something?”
“Don’t be silly, nobody cares about marihuana smuggled
into
Mexico. And I told you, these are information people, not action people. When they need muscle they call the police. Or us. Did you want the police dragged into this?”
“I guess not.” Obviously, if I’d wanted the police, I should have made up my mind earlier. “You’re sure
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