Hunt For The Crown Vic - Part II

Shining like freshly waxed fruit, the 97 Police Interceptor stood out amongst the other lesser autos on the huge lot. It had the ominous look that Jack coveted, the blacked-out rims, spotlight, antennas and low slung profile. But I had a mild gnawing feeling that we would find a problem on closer inspection. Psycho had a look on his face like ‘oh boy...this one is IT,’ so I followed him to the driver side and we both got in, this time he had the wheel and I was the ‘perp.’

Jack sat motionless for a moment, then turned towards me and said, “ What the fuck’s the deal with this.”
He open-palmed the steering wheel like a game show hostess, revealing huge notches in the perimeter. The entire wheel looked like it had been chewed on by an angry hedgehog. I furrowed my brow and Jack got out of the seat, leaving the door open. Was this a K-9 unit, I wondered? I scooted around in the back looking for tell-tale dog hairs but saw none. Jack stood next to the car and stared at the wheel.

I could tell that he felt it too. Something bad had happened in this car. It was palpable, the carma if you will was just wrong. “ I donno...somthin’...” he stopped. “ Ask that guy!” I said, spotting a clipboard dude walking past.
“HEY!” Jack shouted, “ Ahhh... What’s the deal with this car...the steering wheel.. it’s messed up, man.”
Clipboard dude ambled over and peered in through the drivers window. “ Oh..that.. uhh..this car..” he flipped through his list. “ This was a Dade County detective’s car.. the shop guys said the cop was on a lot of stakeouts and stuff..” Jack raised an eyebrow towards me. “ Looks like the guy was sorta nervous....and musta had sharp teeth.”
Clipboard dude leaned in towards Psycho, (never a good idea) “ They said the cop got killed....but not in the car..” he qualified. “ But..like..there’s no other problem with the car, so.....anything else?”
Psycho waved Clippie off and we huddled. “ Shit..this is a clean car...there’s always some fucked up deal.”
he whined. “ Well, this is the last one.. and it does look like it’s got low miles.. whaddya think, J.. can you live with a steering wheel that somebody gnawed on?”

He smiled and shuffled around towards the trunk. “ Just pop the trunk for me ya creep!” I reached in towards the dash and punched the trunk button and noticed something shiny under the edge of the floor mat. I dropped to my elbow and reached down under the seat, peeling the stitched mat back a few inches.
Laying rag-tag in a scattered pile were four shell casings, some ‘pull-tite’ plasti-cuffs and what looked like a portion of some official I.D., slightly burned.

“ Ahh.. J... you might wanna see this,” I said in low tones. “ HEY..There’s a shotgun holder in here!” Jack muffled from behind the car. I eased out of the front with the piece of I.D, leaving the other stuff untouched. “ You’ll love this Pal.” I squinted at the singed plastic card. “ Miami/Dade Police’ 8th Precinct.. yadda, yadda, Det. De La Picssssraaa.. something, something..” the charred edge of the license photo revealed a man with hispanic skintone. Jack slammed the trunk and sidled up to me. “ Wow.. where’d you find THAT!” “ Looks like somebody wanted this gone.. failed to get the job done.” I say.
“Fuck.. it stinks.. it’s .... napalm, man.” Jack says.

I know better than to challenge him on the napalm deal. Even though I don’t really think he’s ever had the awful pleasure of smelling official, government-built jellied gasoline. I imagine that he has made some of his own along the way. Still, I can’t help myself from asking, “ How can you tell though, J?... I mean.. yeah it’s sort of slimy.. but..”
“It’s the way that it’s toasted, buddy.. see how the edges look like they were bubbling..that’s evidence of sticky, high heat.” “ Yes,” I protest, “but.. what would a run of the mill Miami Detective be doing with napalm..christ..you’re pulling my chain now..”

Jack fumbles around in his jacket and pulls out a small razor-knife. I am not amazed anymore at the things he can produce from his jean jacket, cargo pants, sock or bandana at a moments notice. He grabs the chunk of I.D. from me and scrapes some carbon off to reveal a little more of the unfortunate Cops face.
“De La Picsarro.., Tomas..Vice..” Jack ekes out. “ Vice Squad.. hmmm..well..Vice, Drugs, Gambling, Prostitution, Napalm.. I’d say Dade County has it all!”
And with this he guffaws again like he’s the main attraction at ‘Psycho’s’ Comedy Club. He throws the I.D down on the floorboard of the cruiser and spots the shell casings and quik-cuffs. “WELLL... what else we got here..” He flumps down on the seat and scoops up a few of the shells. “ Ya sure you wanna mess with those, buddy.” I say in vain. Jack is already mauling them, eyeballing the hole and sniffing them as if he could really discern anything worth knowing.

“ 9mm and they arent’ that old,” he says. “Maaaybe.. two, three weeks at the outside.” Now it’s my turn to laugh. “ Oh fuck you, ‘Fatlock...” I said, “ like you’re a bloodhound in your spare time...the only thing you could tell with that misshapen schnozz of yours is if ..” Jack peers up at me. “ speaking of blood...” he trails off and points towards the headliner.

“ OK!” I say. “ I’ve seen enough.. how about a nice Chevy Impala.. I saw one on the way in..it’s near the coke machine.” Jack slides out, sort of ducking as he squints at the headliner. I hate this...because now I know he’s not fooling.

“See for yourself smartass,” he says. “ I know what dried blood looks like.” Not wanting to believe, or even see, I walked around to the passenger door and popped it open. Sure enough.. on the headliner, just above and slightly behind where the drivers head would be, was a spattering of brown stuff. I felt a wooze of nausea, and backed out of the hole. “OK..so there’s some salsa on the ceiling.. big deal.. De La Picshitter likes hot food....long stakeouts....it’s not that unusual.” Jack doesn’t appear to be listening to me as he leans over the windshield, poking at the rubber seals with his razor knife.

“ New windshield, dude.” His voice glances off the glass. The paint on the car was shiny, as I’d noticed before.. but now I saw that it was a little tooo shiny. A re-paint. So.. new paint, new windshield, chewed up steering wheel some shell casings, I.D., some cuffs on the floor and a little gray matter on the upholstery. “Dead guy at the wheel.” Jack says and now I’m thinking he’s right. Whewf. I’d seen enough for sure now.. I just closed the car door and walked away.
The J followed me out to a clearing in the sea of wrecks and we stood like deposed kings surveying the wreckage of battle. The wump of the Auctioneer’s bad microphone drew our attention. He was really whipping it up, the sound taking on a higher pitch with each new rattle of numbers and bullshit. I flipped through the auction list knowing we’d seen all the cars and Jack said, “ Aaahh.. lets go over and check out the action for a minute.”
We started towards the metal shed and I noticed a grizzled looking oldster with his own clipboard moving along with us, closing on our position. I figured he would say something but Psycho beat him to it.
“ HEY.. Ahhhh.. you must come out here alot... whats the inside shit on these deals?” I always stifle a chuckle when I hear Jack address strangers with questions. He almost always come out of left field, leaving it up to the hapless target to make heads or tails of what he’s asking.

The old guy was less audible now that we were near the killing floor. “Uh..this is jus’ a regler auction..ya know..jus’ a auction for used veeehicles.” He said that last word like he’d made it up. “Ya git yer number and you find what cha want and then ya bid on it.” We continued sauntering towards the din and Jack piped,
“YEAH.. but.. I mean.. how do you get a good deal?.. you know..I want the hot tip here!” Jack smiles, his shades tilted and crooked. The old guy laughs rheumatoidally, hacking into his fist. “ Aheech..ya just hafta beat the dealer!” And this is about all he had for us. He turned and walked to a drinking fountain and P.J and I waded into the throng.

The Auctioneer stands on a raised platform with stairs on either side, flanked by girls with clipboards. He looks like a gold medalist giving a thank you speech except it’s at high speed and it’s nearly indecipherable. He is overly coiffed, skinny and has on cowboy boots, a flashy shirt with studs and a Texas necktie. I’m sure his name is ‘Westy’ or ‘Twigs’ or something. The girls scribble rapidly as he shoots down each auto offering, the cars moving through nearly non-stop at a 1/2 a mile per hour.
The noise is bothersome and I’m looking for an escape when Psycho tugs at my shoulder.

“HEY BRO... CHECK OUT THE DUDE!” Even mixed with the cacophony of idling cars, auctioneer and crowd, Jacks voice still nearly punctures my eardrum. I wince and he points at a guy on the floor. “ HE’S A ‘PLANT’ MAN!... HE’S WORKIN’ WITH THE AUCTION GUY!” I squint through the exhaust-laced haze and see another ‘dandy’, though this one looks more like a Harvard beach preppie with a sweater tied around his waist and sunglasses perched on his head. He has the same blow dried hair though and I can see that he is indeed locking eyes and exchanging hand signals with Twigs up there on his podium.
The timing is the giveaway because just as soon as Prepster raises or drops his hand with some fingers sticking out, then Twigs yells something that sounds like ‘ZZZZOOLD’, and then a number and then the clunker moves out. I am fairly enthralled with this collusive shuffle and I discern eventually that what is happening is, Preppie is controlling the final sale price by driving it up. In fact, one car that goes through the chute, an 89 Dodge Sedan (beat up worse than a red-headed step-child) gets the Zzzzold signal at what sounded like $6500 dollars.
I leaned toward Jacks ear and tried not to yell, “ Did you HEAR that!... that thing was trashed.”
“YEAH.. YEAH, it was worth about $500 bucks MAX!” I pondered this thinking maybe I misheard the sale price. Then I walked over to a table staffed by young gals. One of the pedestal girls was handing a sheet to one of the table girls and she was attaching it to her clipboard. I stood proxy to the table and tried to make out the sale prices. There it was, 89 Dodge Step-Child, $6500 bucks. I shook my head and re-joined Jack. He turns towards me, spewing in astonishment, “ THAT FLOOR GUY.. HE’S JUST HOSING THESE FUCKERS!”
I spun around and made for the swinging doors, Jack trailing me. We tossed our bid numbers on the counter as we made our way out of the building, laughing at the absurd idea that we could get a fair shake here on a used Police vehicle. We piled into the ‘83 Diplomat and bowled down the lane for home. “The old cruiser is looking pretty good now I’d say,” I offered but Jack was already zoning out on a new plan, his beady eyes narrowed in that squint that says, ‘sorry buddy.. I’m not here right now...call me later.’

END.
SAR 2001