A Temporary Bind, page 1
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
A TEMPORARY BIND
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1985 by James Holding.
Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 1984.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
A TEMPORARY BIND
Didn’t somebody famous once say that all good things come to an end?
Whoever he was, he could have had me in mind. For more than two years I’d been living the good life on my cut of the Pelican Bank robbery—nice little apartment, big fancy car, girls, gambling, all the rest. But all at once my money ran out and my luck, too—as well as my credit, as far as Leo Guardini was concerned. Leo ran a small private gambling club and was holding ten thousand dollars’ worth of my markers—he was getting impatient with me, and Leo is a guy you don’t want feeling impatient with you for very long.
So now all I had left was my car.
* * * *
I maneuvered it through the brick archway at the end of the alley, drove a hundred yards forward, and turned into the entrance of a garage with the name MICHAELS lettered inconspicuously above it.
The garage had been a brewery warehouse before the national outfits put most of the local breweries out of business. Now it was an autorepair and body shop. There were half a dozen cars in the bays being worked on by mechanics, and beyond them I could see somebody spray-painting a newly straightened fender.
I switched off my motor. The nearest mechanic raised his eyes from his work, gave me a sharp glance, then came over to me with a socket wrench still in his hand. He spoke through my rolled-down window.
“What can we do for you?” he asked. His eyes were roving over the car like those of a drunk sizing up a stripper. “What a set of wheels!” he breathed with honest admiration. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I think it may need some work,” I said. “Are you the boss?”
He grinned. “No way. That’s his office over there.” He nodded toward a small partitioned-off cubicle at one side of the garage. “You want to see him?”
“Yeah,” I said.
He raised his voice. “Mr. Michaels! Guy wants to see you!”
I got out of the car and went to meet the tall, shambling, bald-headed man who emerged from the door of his tiny office. “Mr. Michaels?” I inquired when we were close enough.
“That’s me.” Michaels’ voice was warm and interested but his eyes were something else again. There was no color in them at all—they were as cold and colorless as ice water. “Something I can do for you?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Harry Childs seemed to think so.” I watched his expression, but it didn’t change at the mention of Harry Childs’ name. He merely turned on his heel and said over his shoulder, “Come into the office and tell me about it.”
I followed him in. Motioning me to a dirty straight-backed chair beside his cluttered desk, he sank into a swivel chair that creaked protestingly as it took his weight. “You know Harry Childs?” he asked with an air of indifference.
“We graduated from the same college,” I said. “Down in Raiford.” I saw some of the tightness go out of his face at the mention of the state prison.
“Well,” he said, “any friend of Harry is a friend of mine. Mr.—?”
“Jenkins. Woody Jenkins.”
“Okay, Woody. What is it Harry thinks I can do for you?”
I answered bluntly, “Strip my car and put it out on the street.”
He stared. “That beautiful car out there? It lists around twenty-five grand, don’t it?”
“Twenty-four when I bought it two years ago.”
“Do you own it?”
“Lock, stock, and barrel.”
His colorless eyes examined my face. “So?”
“So I need money, Mr. Michaels. Cash. I’m in a temporary bind. So the car has to go.”
He gave me a half grin that didn’t show his teeth. “Oh,” he said, “like that, huh? No problem if we can strike a deal.”
“Good,” I said, feeling vastly relieved. “Let’s talk about that.”
He said slowly, “We strip your car down to the frame and put it on the street for the cops to find after you’ve reported your car was stolen, right?”
“Right.”
“And since it’s a total loss when found, you collect actual cash value from your insurance company, huh?”
“That’s it.”
“Is the car insured?”
“Covered like a tent. Comprehensive, fire, theft—the works.”
“Premiums all paid up?”
“Till the end of the year.”
He took down a book from a wall shelf and consulted it briefly. “Actual cash value ought to be about twenty, twenty-one thousand. That enough to cover the cash you need after my costs?”
“That depends on what you’d charge me,” I said.
“Ten thousand,” he said promptly.
“Ten thousand!”
Michaels said, “There’s a lot of labor involved, Woody. And remember, what you’re doing ain’t exactly legal.”
“But you get to keep the parts and sell them! They ought to be worth a small fortune off a car like mine!”
He shook his head. “They ain’t. I never had a call for parts like yours, Woody—probably never will. I’ve got to be sure of a little profit before I deal.”
I kept quiet.
“See, what it is,” he said, “is that I mostly sell parts for little compacts, Woody—not for big beautiful supercars like yours.” He flashed me a knowing smile. “You’ve already tried the used-car dealers, right?”
I still kept quiet.
“And they offered you peanuts for your fancy car, am I right? Because they couldn’t move it again if they gave it away. Who’s going to buy a used car these days that gets only seven or eight miles to a gallon of hi-test gas?”
He was right again. The best offer I’d had from a used-car dealer was seventy-five hundred.
“Ten thousand,” said Michaels. “Is it a deal?”
I did some quick arithmetic. Say twenty-one for the insurance, less ten for Michaels, would leave me just about enough to pay off my IOUs to Leo Guardini, with maybe a few bucks left over for walking-around money until I made my next score. I said, “If that’s your lowest figure—”
“It’s a fair figure,” Michaels said and rubbed his bald head vigorously. I knew he was lying—it wasn’t a fair deal at all—but I desperately needed the cash.
I said, “Okay, it’s a deal.”
“Fine,” said Michaels. “You got your insurance policy with you? And your registration card?”
I put them on the desk. He studied them. “Cosmopolitan Fidelity.” He nodded approvingly at my insurance policy. “That’s a good solid outfit.” He folded the policy and handed it back to me along with the registration card.
When I’d stowed them away in my pocket, he sat staring at me for several minutes without saying a word, his expression half thoughtful, half assessing. Finally, he slapped the top of his desk and said, “Listen, Woody. You’re a friend of Harry Childs. That’s one thing. He sent you to me, or recommended me, anyway. But that don’t necessarily mean anything much to me, except that on top of that I kind of like your style. You been straight with me—no double-talk, no pussyfooting around. I like that, too.” He paused and looked out his door at the mechanics working away in the garage. “So I’m going to tell you something—just between the two of us, Woody, you know what I mean?”
“I can hardly wait,” I said. “What’s the big news?”
“There’s a better way to work this insurance scam of yours than the way we got it rigged.”
“A better way?”
“Yeah. Won’t cost you any more, either.” He leaned across the desk conspiratorially. “What if you could get the insurance money and still end up owning your car in as good a shape as ever?”
I stared at him. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. It works the same as we planned except for one little difference. After you file your claim for total loss, we haul the wreck in here to my shop and replace everything we took off it. Then we paint it a different color.”
I felt a sudden warm rush of feeling for Michaels. “Hey,” I said, “are you serious?”
“Sure. No problem, long as you make sure it’s me you call to haul away the wreck when the cops find it on the street.”
I said, “And you won’t charge me any more?”
“Same price, Woody. Ten grand.”
“How come, when you’re doing twice the work?”
“I told you. Because I kind of like your style. And also—” he shrugged “—because that cost figure I gave you before was a mite high.”
I began to burn a little. “How high?”
“About five thousand,” he said calmly. “A little margin for safety.” I did a quick mental calculation again, and for the life of me I couldn’t see why this proposition wasn’t better than his first.
We shook hands on it.
“Shall I leave the car here now?”
Michaels nodded. “We’ll have her stripped and out on the streets somewhere by dawn.”
“Where?”
“Better you don’t know. Then you can be surprised when the cops notify you they found it.”
“When do I report that it’s been stolen?”
“Go to the movies or something tonight, and when you come out call the cops and
“Fine.” I stood up. “I’ll let you know when to come and get the wreck.” I was struck by a sudden thought. “What about your boys out there in the shop?”
“Best stripping crew in town. Which makes us the best chop shop south of Jacksonville. Don’t worry about them. They get a piece of the action.”
“Okay.” I lifted a hand in farewell, walked through the shop out into the alley, and picked up a taxi a couple of blocks away to take me home.
* * * *
At nine-thirty the following day, a police officer named Cullen called me to inform me that a patrol car had located my stolen automobile in an alley behind a combination pool-hall and bar inthe Cuban ghetto. At least, said Cullen, they had located what was left of my car. “It’s stripped down to a skeleton,” he said sympathetically.
“Stripped?” I asked, as though I didn’t know what he meant.
“Yeah. Everything salable taken off it.”
“Salable? How do you mean?”
“On the black market, Mr. Jenkins. There’s a black market for everything these days, including auto parts.”
I allowed distress to creep into my voice. “Do you mean my car won’t run?”
“Run? It won’t even walk, Mr. Jenkins. It’s got no wheels, no bumpers, no fenders, no radiator, no engine, no nothing. It’s a very dead duck.”
I swore feelingly, putting my heart into it. “What do I do now?” I asked.
“Sell it for junk is my advice. It’s insured, I hope?”
“Of course,” I said, “but—”
“Then your insurance company will handle everything for you. Have you reported the theft to them yet?”
“I was about to call them when you called me.”
“Do it now, then. I’m sorry to give you such bad news, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Not your fault,” I told him. “Thanks for calling. And I hope you catch whoever—”
“We’re trying,” he said without much conviction.
* * * *
I called Michaels and told him about my conversation with Officer Cullen.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll send a wrecker out for your car right away.” He laughed. “You don’t need to tell me where it is.”
“And now what?” I asked.
“Call your insurance company like the cop said. Tell them I’m hauling in the wreck and their adjuster can look it over at my shop any time after noon today.”
“Okay.”
“Ask for a Mr. Reilly at Cosmopolitan Fidelity,” said Michaels. “I’ve dealt with him a few times before.”
“Reilly,” I said. “I’ll do it. Thanks, Mr. Michaels.”
I hung up and called Cosmopolitan Fidelity and asked for Mr. Reilly. When he came on the line, he said “Reilly speaking” in a brisk no-nonsense voice. “What can I do for you?”
I introduced myself, I reported the theft of my car last night and its recovery by the police this morning, and told him it would be available for him to examine at Michaels’ garage that afternoon.
“What do the police say?” he asked.
“They called it a ‘dead duck.’ A total loss.”
“Mmmm,” said Reilly, “Well, I’ll have a look at it. I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Jenkins, about filing your claim.”
“When?” I asked.
“As soon as I find out if the police know a total loss when they see one. Goodbye.”
It didn’t sound promising, but I decided not to worry about Mr. Reilly’s verdict. If Michaels knew what Reilly would accept as “total,” as he must because he said he had dealt with Reilly before, we were going to be all right.
* * * *
A week went by, I had a call from Mr. Reilly, telling me he had approved my claim of total loss and would start processing it at once. I had a call from Mr. Michaels to tell me he would have my car reconstituted as good as new in a day or so. I went one evening to Leo Guardini’s gambling club to explain the situation to him and assure him on my solemn oath that he would get the money I owed him at last. And on Friday morning, I got another call from Reilly that my claim had been processed and that he was putting my check in the mail for me.
“How much?” I asked.
“Twenty even,” he said.
I thought about Mr. Michaels and Leo Guardini and said, “Would it be possible for you to give me the settlement in cash, Mr. Reilly?”
He hesitated for an instant before he said, “I guess that could be arranged. In that case we’d need your signature on a release form. Usually, your endorsement on our check would constitute a release.”
“I’ll be happy to sign your release as soon as I get the money. Shall I stop by your office for it?”
He said, “Wait a minute, Mr. Jenkins. Let me look at my schedule.” Several moments of silence. Then, “If you like, I can bring you the cash personally this afternoon—save you the trouble of coming here. Will you be home around five?”
I said I would and thanked him for his consideration.
* * * *
He was as good as his word. At exactly five o’clock, he knocked on my apartment door. I let him in, invited him to sit down, and offered him a drink, which he declined. He had a small leather briefcase with him. He opened it and took from it a sealed manila envelope and a document I assumed was his release form.
He slit open the sealed envelope with his finger and emptied its contents on the end table beside his chair. “Will you please count this, Mr. Jenkins?” he said.
It was a pleasure and it didn’t take me long. The money was in nice new one hundred dollar bills. “Twenty thousand even,” I said when I finished counting. “You want me to sign your release now?”
“Please.” He had a pen ready in his hand. I signed without reading it. He put the release form back into his briefcase and his pen back in his pocket. “I guess that’s it, then, Mr. Jenkins. It’s been a pleasure working with you.” He was getting to his feet when a knock sounded on my door.
“Probably our maintenance man.” I went to the door. “I’ve got a leaky faucet in my bathroom.”
I opened the door. It wasn’t the maintenance man who stood in the hall. It was Mr. Michaels. Before I could warn him, he said heartily, “Hi, Woody. I brought your car over for you. All finished. Back together as good as new, and the new color—” He broke off abruptly as I scowled and put a finger to my lips.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Michaels. I’ve got company. But he’s just leaving. Come on in.”
Michaels’ ice-water eyes took in the money on the table and Mr. Reilly’s suddenly suspicious expression in a single quick glance. He said, “I’m sorry to interrupt you. How are you, Mr. Reilly? Go on with your business, please. Don’t mind me.”
“Hello, Mr. Michaels,” Reilly said stiffly. “I thought we’d finished our business, Mr. Jenkins and I, but now I seriously doubt it.”
“How come?” I asked. “I’ve got my money and you’ve got your release. Isn’t that all of it?”
“No,” Reilly said grimly. “I must infer, from what Mr. Michaels said to you at the door, before he realized I was within earshot, that you and he have been engaged in an attempt—almost successful—to defraud my company.”
I loosened my collar and tie and threw a dirty look at Michaels. “I don’t get it,” I said.
“Mr. Michaels spoke of putting your car back together again as good as new. And something about a new color. Those words smell strongly of insurance fraud to me.”
I said, “There’s nothing illegal about spending my insurance money to have my wrecked car fixed up again, is there? Instead of selling it for scrap?”
Mr. Reilly pointed contemptuously at the money on the table. “You mean with this? Twenty thousand dollars? To buy the necessary parts and put your car back in running order and repaint it? Are you kidding?” He was sarcastic now. “Did you know, Mr. Jenkins, that it costs more than twenty-five thousand dollars in parts and labor to rebuild a little six-thousand dollar compact that’s been stripped as yours was?” He turned toward Michaels. “Isn’t that so, George?”
George? Faint warning bells rang in my head.
I said, with an accusing look at Michaels, “Is that true?”
Michaels nodded carelessly. “Yeah. It’s true.”
“Then why—?” My voice trailed off. I looked at them in silence for a matter of thirty seconds or so. Finally I said, “You set me up, didn’t you? The two of you?”
