Hollywood Moon

ELEVEN

WHILE AT HIS JOB the next morning, Malcolm Rojas decided to call the man he knew as Bernie Graham and ask him once and for all about that job. The man had been unreliable so far and had not called him last evening as promised. Malcolm had not slept well, his thoughts returning again and again to that woman who’d nearly gotten him caught. Every time he thought of the experience, anger welled. They were all alike and he hated them. But when he looked at his swollen left hand and the abrasions on his knuckles, the anger was mixed with stabs of fear and even shame. When she’d started screaming, he’d been terrified and hadn’t known what to do. He should’ve slashed her throat with the box cutter to shut her up, and now he wished that he had.

Then he forced himself to think of Naomi, that tender, young girl with the shy smile who really liked him. Would she grow up to be one of them? Somehow he didn’t think so. She had natural blonde hair, not like theirs, and she was sweet and kind, not like them. Her number was in his cell phone, and several times he’d been tempted to call her and see if she wanted to hang out. He thought he just might do that, but first he needed money. What he cleared from his job as warehouse helper was pitiful, now that he had to give his mother a third of his take-home pay. As soon as he made some real money, he’d call Naomi and take her to the beach in his Mustang. The car needed tires, but soon he’d have the money to buy tires, and lots else.

He dialed Bernie Graham, got his voice mail, and said, “Mr. Graham, this is Clark, the guy you met at Pablo’s Tacos. I wanna talk to you about the job. Please call me.”

After leaving his cell number, he resumed slashing open the tape on one side of the boxes, removing the merchandise, and slashing the tape on the other side to flatten the boxes for recycling. When he worked up a sweat, the intensity of his feelings became manageable.

Dewey got to sleep in late that morning, only because Eunice had an appointment with her gynecologist for a regular checkup. She’d tried to get him out of bed at seven thirty even though he had no morning meetings with runners, and of course that started the bickering.

Before she left the apartment at 8 A.M. Eunice had popped her head into his bedroom once again and said, “Dewey, if I call here in thirty minutes and you don’t answer, I’ll know you went back to sleep.”

“Can’t I sleep in for once, Eunice?” Dewey whined. “For once in my fucking life?”

“No!” she yelled. “You gotta go to the bank and write a check on the deposit I made from that rental gag. One measly rental check is all we get from that account because you couldn’t manage to hook up with a housebreaker who was dumber than you. That means, Dewey, now you gotta open another account at another bank, unless you wanna risk using the same one and hope the renters haven’t yet figured things out and called their bank. So get your ass outta bed!”

“Gimme a break, Eunice!” he’d moaned with his pillow over his head. That voice! She sounded like an old parrot with bronchitis. “One fucking break, one time. That’s all I ask.”

“I don’t get a break,” she snapped. “I gotta work from the crack of dawn till midnight sometimes. Why’re you so special?”

“Speaking of cracks,” Dewey said wearily, “are you having your annual pap smear?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Tell your doctor to say hello to your gizmo for me,” Dewey said. “She sees it more often than I do.”

“Asshole!” Eunice said, slamming the door behind her.

But at least she hadn’t called to check on him. The 9:15 A.M. call on the Bernie Graham cell phone was what woke him. He picked it up but did not recognize the number before saying, “Bernie Graham speaking.”

He heard a youthful voice say, “Mr. Graham, this is Clark, from Pablo’s?”

“Clark?” he said, pausing until his head cleared. “Oh, yeah. Clark.”

“I left a message for you. You said you’d call, and I thought maybe you lost my number.”

“Sorry, Clark,” Dewey said. “I’m very busy. Look, why don’t I meet you today after you get off work? How about you come to the donut shop next to the cyber café on Santa Monica Boulevard at quarter after five? Know where it is?”

“I’ll be there, Mr. Graham,” Malcolm said.

After Dewey made his date with the kid, he lay there staring at the ceiling. He was losing his nerve and he knew it. So far he’d been very lucky. He’d felt confident that the trouble he went through, juggling his identities to keep his runners in the dark, was worth it, despite Eunice’s constant belittling.

The incessant opening and closing of bank accounts with bogus IDs, and depositing bogus checks as well as legitimate checks from gags they’d pulled-all of that was bad enough. But having to be present for merchandise deliveries that Eunice ordered online or on the phone was nerve-racking. Yesterday, for example. Look how exposed and vulnerable he’d been on that porch in Los Feliz, but she didn’t care. She was confident, cocky, even, because she was never out on the streets dealing with vermin, any one of whom might be cutting a secret deal with the cops to nail their employer: Jakob Kessler or Ambrose Willis or Bernie Graham.

He felt sure that none of the runners could direct the cops to a Dewey Gleason if they became police snitches. Even his car had been bought and registered under a bogus name at a bogus address, so if a runner gave the cops his license number, it wouldn’t help them. No, it was those times when he had to be there to do the pickups and collecting that were making him old before his time. What if the college kid at the Pacific Dining Car had been popped at an Indian casino by security officers and had flipped? What if cops had been concealed out there in the parking lot, watching them when the kid had given back to him the bogus cards and other ID, along with his share from the casinos?

He’d been totally exposed that night for a very small payoff, but trying to explain that to Eunice was like talking to her ugly little bull terrier that keeled over dead last year, probably from a lifetime of breathing secondhand smoke. Dewey figured that’s how he’d check out one of these days, gasping for breath and expiring in agony. One thing for sure, though, if he was ever diagnosed with a lung disease, he was going to lace her Whoppers and fries with potassium cyanide. There was no way that bitch was going to live after she’d killed him with exposure to those fucking death sticks.

When Dewey Gleason as Bernie Graham left his apartment that morning, he had another unpleasant task to perform. He had to meet his receiver at the storage lockers to complete the transaction he’d made telephonically for the merchandise that he’d put in storage the day before. What Dewey hated most about this aspect of his business was that he was especially terrified of the people involved in fencing the goods. The man who called himself Hatch was no exception.

Dewey had first encountered him at the cyber café, where he’d met most of his business associates. Hatch was clearly an ex-convict, the jailhouse body art attesting to that. He was a tall white man, bald, gimlet-eyed, and ripped, probably from pumping iron in a prison yard. He always wore a tight T-shirt, greasy jeans, and metal-studded boots. From watching prison documentaries, Dewey figured him for the Aryan Brotherhood. His facial art consisted of a spider on his forehead and tattooed drops that ran from the corners of his mouth down to his jaw line, like blood dripping from fangs. Under his lower lip was a thick soul patch. Dewey imagined that “Hatch” was short for “Hatchet” and that he’d probably earned the sobriquet.

The fact that Hatch appeared alone at their meetings was somehow more frightening than if he’d had an equally scary partner. Hatch would always show up on time in a black van. After Dewey got him admitted into the storage facility and the deal was consummated, Dewey would help carry the merchandise to Hatch’s van. Being alone with him filled Dewey with dread and foreboding. As soon as his van was loaded, it would be easy for Hatch to cut Dewey’s throat and clean out whatever merchandise he could carry alone. Dewey wondered how long his body would lie there in the padlocked room before the stench alerted other tenants.

When he drove over the hill to the San Fernando Valley and the storage facility in Reseda, Dewey found the black van parked on the street in front. Hatch sat behind the wheel, wearing mirror sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. Just the sight of him got Dewey’s bowels rumbling. Dewey punched his driver’s license number into the gate code and the gate opened. He waved at the woman in the office and pointed back to the black van with an OK sign. She nodded, and after going through the ritual of showing an ID to this woman whom he’d never seen before, Dewey, followed by Hatch’s van, motored to the rear of the yard.

After parking, Dewey unlocked the storage room padlock and said, “Morning, Hatch.”

“Bernie,” Hatch said, nodding at him and flipping his cigarette butt onto the pavement in front of the double storeroom.

Dewey made a mental note to pick up that butt after Hatch was gone. They kept a clean storage facility here and Dewey didn’t want any complaints about his guests. For an instant Dewey thought, Yes, I’ll pick it up after he’s gone. If I’m still alive. Then he told himself to get a grip. He’d dealt with Hatch and others like him for the past several years and he was still breathing. That brought it home to him yet again: Dewey Gleason was losing his nerve. He had to get out of this business.

“Do you have everything I ordered?” Hatch asked.

“Everything,” Dewey said. “And I’ve got a few video cams I can sell you. Got them last month. Top of the line.”

“Sure,” Hatch said, grinning. “As long as you let me take them on consignment.”

Dewey hadn’t thought of Hatch as a tweaker, but the bastard had gaps in his grille. Crack maybe. Or maybe he got them knocked out in a prison rumble. The consignment remark was obviously meant as a joke, since nobody in their world did anything but cash business.

Dewey forced an obligatory guffaw and said, “Maybe next time. Just let me know in advance what you might need.”

After Hatch took a perfunctory look at the merchandise and checked the invoice sheets, he said, “Let’s load.”

When they got the plasma TV and the home entertainment center into Hatch’s van, he gave Dewey the agreed-upon price of $3,100 and said, “I can use as much of this quality as you can deliver.”

“At the rock-bottom prices I charge, I’m sure you could,” Dewey said, trying to smile, much relieved when Hatch got into the van and drove away.

After he picked up Hatch’s cigarette butt, holding it by the ash end in case Hatch had a communicable disease, Dewey padlocked the storage room, got into his car, and drove away. He never saw the old Chevy Caprice parked on the street, a Chevy that had followed him from his apartment to the storage facility and was still shadowing him all the way back to Hollywood.

When Dewey pulled the Honda into the underground parking garage at his apartment on Franklin Avenue, Tristan Hawkins parked as fast as he could, got out of his Chevy, and sprinted to the security gate in front of the building. Tristan tried to stay concealed as much as possible behind a hibiscus plant beside the gate, and he watched his quarry emerge from the parking garage onto a common patio. He saw his man stop at a soft drinks machine, where he bought a can of soda, and climb the exterior stairway to the third floor, where he entered what looked to be the last apartment on the east side of the apartment building. For the first time, Tristan was seeing his boss in a different disguise, but he’d have known him anywhere.

Tristan went to the gate phone, chose an apartment number on the digital directory, beginning with number one, indicating the first floor, and began punching in the code next to the apartment numbers, most of which were no doubt occupied by tenants who were at work. It took three tries before he reached someone who was at home at that time of day.

Her voice was an elderly croak when she said, “Hello?” and Tristan knew she’d be no problem.

In Los Angeles, apartment dwellers came and went and seldom knew who was living next door, so he knew he could pull a name out of the air. “Hellooo, UPS,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Brandon in apartment number one-twenty.”

“This isn’t number one-twenty,” the old woman said.

“I know, ma’am,” Tristan said, concentrating on keeping all traces of street from his diction. “I delivered a parcel there a few minutes ago just as he was leavin’ for his job, and I stopped at the drinks machine for a Coke. And darn it, I left my keys on the table beside the machine. I’m locked outta my truck.”

“Why’re you bothering me with this?” the old woman said, and for a moment he thought it wasn’t going to work.

“I tried six other numbers but there’s nobody home. Look, would you mind walkin’ to the machine and gettin’ my keys and bringin’ them to the gate?”

“Well…,” she hesitated.

“Or better yet, ma’am, if you would please buzz me in, I’ll get the keys myself. Please. I’m gonna get in trouble with my boss!”

“Well, all right,” she said. “But you should be more careful next time.”

“Thank you!” he said, hearing the electronic tone and the click of the lock.

Tristan hurried through the unlocked gate, scaled the outside staircase, taking the steps two at a time, and walked briskly to the last apartment on the east end of the third floor. It was number 313. He descended the stairs even faster, went back to the directory, scrolled the digital directory, and rang number 313.

“Hello,” a familiar voice answered.

Tristan recognized Jakob Kessler minus the German accent, hung up the phone without a word, returned to his car, and called his boss on his cell phone.

The phone rang several times before Dewey could get out of the bathroom, his trousers at half-mast, and check the taped-on label on his GoPhone to see which of his characters the call was for.

“Jakob Kessler,” he said, after getting the cells sorted.

“Mr. Kessler, it’s Creole,” Tristan said. “Do you have any jobs for Jerzy and me?”

“Not for the rest of the week, Creole,” Dewey said. “I shall call you on Monday.”

“Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said. “I have somethin’ to talk to you about. Can we meet somewheres this afternoon?”

“What is it about, Creole?”

“Nothin’ I can talk about on the phone,” Tristan said. “You’re gonna be real glad to hear about it.”

Dewey thought about his meeting with Clark, but there was no way to fit Creole in before that meeting, because Clark was expecting Bernie Graham, not Jakob Kessler, and a costume change was too much.

“I cannot do it today.”

“Okay, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said. “How ’bout tomorrow?”

“I shall call you, Creole.”

After closing his cell, Tristan mulled it over and thought, We’re meeting today, Mr. Kessler, or whoever the fuck you are.

He got on his cell and speed-dialed Jerzy. He knew, by the way Jerzy answered, the dumb Polack had been woken up by the call, probably after smoking crystal or crack last night.

“Get some clothes on, wood,” Jerzy said. “We got us some important work today.”

“Where you at?” Jerzy said through a yawn.

“On Franklin at Kessler’s crib. Meet me here in an hour. And stay on your cell. I may have to move to another location.”

“What is this bullshit?” Jerzy muttered.

“Do it, wood,” Tristan said. “It’s about a real payday.”

Eunice had been gone for most of the day, first to her gynecologist, afterward for lunch at her favorite restaurant on Melrose. Every once in a while she needed a day off, but when she arrived home, she was all business and intended to work well into the evening to make up the time. She didn’t expect to find Dewey there.

“What the hell’re you doing here?” she said with a sniffle, suffering from summer allergies exacerbated by constant smoking.

He pointed to the $3,100 on the table between two of the computers and said, “I collected for the TVs.”

“And?” she said, taking a tissue from her purse and blowing her nose with a honk.

“And what?”

“And what else have you done today?”

“Aw, fuck!” he said. “I risked my life to collect from a thug you couldn’t imagine in an acid nightmare, and I bring every penny of it home, and you ask me what else have I done.”

“Why didn’t you get online to the Assessor’s Office? I told you there were loan documents I need, and I showed you how to do it. I wrote out everything so a child could understand.”

“Yes, Eunice, I’m a computer re-tard. I know that. How could I ever forget it?” His jaw muscles flexed after he spoke.

“Why didn’t you do a few lockboxes in the hills? I gave you cards with mag strips that’d work.”

“I’m not a fucking burglar, Eunice,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to ransack the houses and steal their TVs,” she said. “But you could get valuable information if you’d look around in desk drawers. You got your real-estate business cards if somebody comes home. You only have to leave the door wide open, hand them a card, and say you’re a West L.A. Realtor sizing up the property for a hot client. You’re always bragging about what a great actor you are. But now you can’t play a Realtor with conviction? Why can’t you manage that, Dewey? Are you that gutless?”

He didn’t answer for a long, painful moment. When she wanted to savage him, she’d always do it by reminding him that he was a failed actor, one of thousands out there on the streets of Hollywood. These days she seemed to be deliberately trying to drive him out of her life. She seemed to be looking for an excuse, but he wasn’t going to give it to her. Not yet.

When he did answer, he said quietly, “I’m not entering a house where people live, and that’s the end of it. It’s too risky.”

“Hugo would never hesitate to -”

Then he found himself in free fall. “I’m not Hugo, goddamnit!” he cried. “Hugo’s in the joint, doing fifteen years because he did every fucking gag you dreamed up, and you finally got him caught!”

“Hugo had balls!” she said, sneezing twice, her allergies inflamed by a burst of emotion.

“I did too until I met you!” he said. “Just run what’s left of my nuts through your crosscut shredder, why don’t you? Just turn them into confetti, Eunice! They’re no good to me anymore!”

“A drama queen,” Eunice said. “After a real man like Hugo Beasley, I ended up marrying a drama queen. What the hell was I thinking?”

“There’s such a thing as divorce, Eunice!” he blurted, but he wanted to grab those words back and swallow them, especially when she replied, “There certainly is, Dewey, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot these days.”

When she went to change into her working clothes, she slammed the door to her bedroom, and Dewey felt the familiar rumbling in the bowels. It was even more intense than when he’d been alone in that storage room with Hatch. What if she did kick him out? Where would he go? How would he live? On the other hand, she needed him more than he needed her. He was the street performer, the artist who made all her computer machinations result in the profits that drove her, the treasure she lived for.

And that made him think about those bank accounts that she’d opened way back when she’d been married to Hugo. Every dime she’d salted with Hugo and later with Dewey had gone into them. Maybe he was being conservative, estimating them to have reached $500,000. Maybe she was close to her $1,000,000 goal! Maybe there was a way for computer-illiterate Dewey Gleason to learn the numbers and passwords to access the accounts. It calmed his bowels when he thought about it. But if he ever got the chance, he knew he wouldn’t take only half. He deserved a lot more than that for putting up with that scowling shrew for nine long years.

When he was getting ready to go out again, Eunice was at a computer, looking as slovenly as ever.

“I’m going to work now,” he said as pleasantly as he could. “I’ve got a new kid to meet. His name’s Clark. Latino, with a great smile. I got a strong feeling he’ll be a good runner for us.”

She didn’t answer, and he started feeling the fear again. She wouldn’t really lock him out and call a lawyer. Would she?

He said, “Would you like a couple of Whoppers when I come back tonight?”

Without removing the cigarette from her lips she said, “Yeah, with fries.”

Dewey Gleason smiled then. If there was a way to the witch’s stony heart, it was by sticking a Whopper under her dripping nose.

“That’s his Honda, but that don’t look like him behind the wheel,” Jerzy Szarpowicz said to Tristan Hawkins as Dewey Gleason’s car pulled from the underground parking garage onto Franklin Avenue.

“That’s because he’s somebody else,” Tristan said, giving the Honda time to get a few car lengths ahead. “He ain’t Jakob Kessler today.”

They followed the Honda when it turned south on Highland Avenue, and then it made several turns designed to get through some of the afternoon Hollywood traffic. Tristan almost lost the Honda twice before reaching Ivar Avenue and headed south until they were on Santa Monica Boulevard.

“This James Bond shit is wearin’ me down, man,” Jerzy grumbled. “How we’re gonna make money from this is -”

“He’s going to the cyber café,” Tristan said.

“So what?” Jerzy said as Tristan drove toward the strip mall. “I still think that ain’t him in that car.”

Tristan got stopped at the next light, but there was no need for concern. He could see the Honda catch a parking place by the donut shop after a car pulled out. Tristan turned south and parked half a block from the strip mall.

“Let’s go for a walk, wood,” Tristan said.

The strip mall was busy. Lots of customers were at the 7-Eleven, and the donut shop was doing a brisk business. But the summer foot traffic coming and going from the cyber café was amazing even at this hour. Later, the tweakers and baseheads would be out in numbers, working the rented computers and meeting one another for surreptitious exchanges of money, drugs, stolen merchandise, and identity information.

There was a coffee-colored drag queen in an extravagant pink wig, a rhinestone-studded jersey, and second-skin shorts sashaying along the sidewalk beside the cyber café, hoping to catch a trick on his way home from work.

As they walked past the dragon, Jerzy leered and said, “Howdy, sweetness.”

The dragon took one look at Jerzy, tossed her do, and said, “Fuck off.”

When they were standing outside the donut shop, concealed behind an SUV, Tristan said, “Take a good look through the window. Is it him or not?”

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.