you simplify things, Meyer, and then you complicate the hell out of them. I don't know what to think now."
"Neither do I. That's my problem."
"So we drive to Miami anyway?"
Holly was home, and she was very helpful about the car. "It's one of those Volks with the fancy body. Oh, dear. What in the world are they called?"
"Karmann Ghia."
"Right! Two years old. Dark red. Hard top. Believe it or not, I can give you the license plate number even. We were shopping, and we went to the place you get the plates together, and mine is about the same weight, so we were in the same series. Hers was one digit more than mine, so hers is 1 D 3108."
We drove down to Miami in Miss Agnes, and I jammed her through the confusions of the cloverleaves and put her in one of the new airport parking buildings, halfway up the long wide ramp leading to the third level, nosing her against the wall between two squatty Detroit products which made her look like a dowager queen at a rock fest. A mediocre hamburger, gobbled too hastily on the way down, lay like a stone on the floor of my stomach.
I pointed out to Meyer how our task was simplified. Apparently there was some kind of stonecrushing plant in operation not to far from the open parking garages. The longer any car had been parked there, sheltered from the rain, the more white powdered stone dust it had all over it. And Mary's would be one of the whitest of all.
There were more than enough ramps and levels and separate structures. Finally, on a top level on the side furthest from the entrance and exit ramp, I saw Karmann Ghia lines, powdery white as a sugar doughnut. Even the plate was powder white, but the bas relief of the digits made it readable as I neared it. 3108. Three months of sitting and accumulating stone dust and parking charges.
Meyer drew in the dust atop the trunk. It would have been a childish trick except for what he drew. A single large question mark. I wiped the windshield with the edge of my hand and bent and peered in. Nothing to see except a very empty automobile.
A police sedan drifted up and stopped close behind the Ghia. "Got a problem?" the driver asked. His partner got out.
"No problem, officer."
"Your car?"
"No. It belongs to a friend."
The driver got out. "And you can't quite remember the name of your friend, I suppose?"
I gave him my earnest, affable smile. "Now why'd you think that, officer? This belongs to Mrs.
Mary Broll, 21 Blue Heron Lane, Lauderdale, for sure."
"Girlfriend?"
"Just a friend, officer."
"Doesn't your friend have anything to say?"
Meyer said, "I was not aware that you were addressing me with any of the prior questions, officer. I happen to have here-"
"Easy. Bring it out real slow."
"I happen to have here a page from a scratch pad which, if you will examine it, gives the name of Page 41
the owner and the license number and description of the vehicle."
The nearest officer took the note and looked at it and handed it back. "Repo?"
"What?" Meyer asked. "Oh. Repossession. No. We happened to be parked here, and we knew Mrs. Broll has been gone for three months, and we wondered if she'd left her car here."
The other officer had gotten into their car. I heard his low voice as he used the hand mike. He waited, then got out again. "Isn't on the list, Al," he said.
"Parked here, you say. Now both of you, let me see some ID. Slow and easy. Take it out of the wallet. Keep the wallet. Hand me the ID. Okay. Now you. Okay. Now show me your parking ticket. What kind of a car?"
"Officer, it is a very old Rolls Royce pickup truck. Bright blue. It's over there in that other-"
"I saw that, Al. Remember? That's the one I had you back up and see if it had the inspection sticker."
It stopped being confrontation and began to be conversation. "Nobody," said Al, "but nobody at all is going to arrive here in that freak truck to pull anything cute. Okay. For the hell of it, why were you wondering if this woman left her car here?"
"Not so much if she
"Neither do I. That's my problem."
"So we drive to Miami anyway?"
Holly was home, and she was very helpful about the car. "It's one of those Volks with the fancy body. Oh, dear. What in the world are they called?"
"Karmann Ghia."
"Right! Two years old. Dark red. Hard top. Believe it or not, I can give you the license plate number even. We were shopping, and we went to the place you get the plates together, and mine is about the same weight, so we were in the same series. Hers was one digit more than mine, so hers is 1 D 3108."
We drove down to Miami in Miss Agnes, and I jammed her through the confusions of the cloverleaves and put her in one of the new airport parking buildings, halfway up the long wide ramp leading to the third level, nosing her against the wall between two squatty Detroit products which made her look like a dowager queen at a rock fest. A mediocre hamburger, gobbled too hastily on the way down, lay like a stone on the floor of my stomach.
I pointed out to Meyer how our task was simplified. Apparently there was some kind of stonecrushing plant in operation not to far from the open parking garages. The longer any car had been parked there, sheltered from the rain, the more white powdered stone dust it had all over it. And Mary's would be one of the whitest of all.
There were more than enough ramps and levels and separate structures. Finally, on a top level on the side furthest from the entrance and exit ramp, I saw Karmann Ghia lines, powdery white as a sugar doughnut. Even the plate was powder white, but the bas relief of the digits made it readable as I neared it. 3108. Three months of sitting and accumulating stone dust and parking charges.
Meyer drew in the dust atop the trunk. It would have been a childish trick except for what he drew. A single large question mark. I wiped the windshield with the edge of my hand and bent and peered in. Nothing to see except a very empty automobile.
A police sedan drifted up and stopped close behind the Ghia. "Got a problem?" the driver asked. His partner got out.
"No problem, officer."
"Your car?"
"No. It belongs to a friend."
The driver got out. "And you can't quite remember the name of your friend, I suppose?"
I gave him my earnest, affable smile. "Now why'd you think that, officer? This belongs to Mrs.
Mary Broll, 21 Blue Heron Lane, Lauderdale, for sure."
"Girlfriend?"
"Just a friend, officer."
"Doesn't your friend have anything to say?"
Meyer said, "I was not aware that you were addressing me with any of the prior questions, officer. I happen to have here-"
"Easy. Bring it out real slow."
"I happen to have here a page from a scratch pad which, if you will examine it, gives the name of Page 41
the owner and the license number and description of the vehicle."
The nearest officer took the note and looked at it and handed it back. "Repo?"
"What?" Meyer asked. "Oh. Repossession. No. We happened to be parked here, and we knew Mrs. Broll has been gone for three months, and we wondered if she'd left her car here."
The other officer had gotten into their car. I heard his low voice as he used the hand mike. He waited, then got out again. "Isn't on the list, Al," he said.
"Parked here, you say. Now both of you, let me see some ID. Slow and easy. Take it out of the wallet. Keep the wallet. Hand me the ID. Okay. Now you. Okay. Now show me your parking ticket. What kind of a car?"
"Officer, it is a very old Rolls Royce pickup truck. Bright blue. It's over there in that other-"
"I saw that, Al. Remember? That's the one I had you back up and see if it had the inspection sticker."
It stopped being confrontation and began to be conversation. "Nobody," said Al, "but nobody at all is going to arrive here in that freak truck to pull anything cute. Okay. For the hell of it, why were you wondering if this woman left her car here?"
"Not so much if she
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