Identity Theft, Inc. by Glen Hastings

Author:Glen Hastings
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Wheel/Weiser

Hot cars

California and Mexico, 1995

IN THE SUMMER OF 1995, WE FLEW FROM ATLANTA TO SAN Diego. Bones rented a car at the San Diego airport with a credit card and Georgia driver's license that said he was Harlan Abramson. We lodged in a hotel on the same credit card, then the next day we rented an apartment in Del Mar. We were loaded with credit cards that had come to us by way of three Pacific Northwest executives we had transferred to Atlanta. We did not return to California because we'd been homesick.

We had a new idea.

It was audacious, crazy and made “adventuresome” look like running a red light. In fact, it was life-risking. But we embarked on it anyhow. That it was my idea was not incredible. I was beginning to think I was indestructible.

After receiving a furniture delivery on yet another Georgia man's credit card, Bones and I drove into Mexico. We found our favorite parking spot along Tijuana's main drag. A few minutes later we stood in the Ralph Lauren outlet.

Alberto was surprised to see us; Nina wasn't there. “Amigos, you guys got another shipment so soon! I wasn't expecting you. Why didn't you call? I don't have the truck to go to San Diego today.”

“Forget the truck,” Bones said.

“No shipment?”

I shook my head. “Alberto, remember you told us you could arrange a buy for whatever merchandise we brought you?”

Alberto suddenly became rigid and took a step toward me. He gave a sharp chop with his right hand, the fingers fused together. “Hey, man, I don't deal drugs!”

Since I'd known him, Alberto never showed himself so demonstrative about anything. He'd always been as cool as a Mexican breeze. But now he got fiery, as if all of a sudden he'd found morals.

“Calm down,” Bones said with authority.

“It's not drugs,” I said. “It's hard merchandise.”

“It's big,” Bones added. “You said you could handle anything, big or bigger.”

Alberto chilled out. “What the fuck is it, man, a yacht?”

Bones and I exchanged a glance and laughed. So did Alberto, but he thought we really were talking about a yacht.

“Almost,” Bones said.

“Alberto,” I said in a lowered tone, even though no customers were in the store. “I'm talking about a Rolls Royce.”

“You mean like in luxury car?”

“Now we're connecting, Alberto.”

“Can you set it up?” Bones asked.

Alberto gave us a smarmy look-over. “You want to sell a hot car?”

“For starters,” I said slyly.

“You want to sell…two cars?”

“Let's start with one,” Bones said firmly. “Can you set it up?”

Alberto laughed. “You two gringos are really something, maybe loco. You have the Rolls now?”

“Si, señor,” I lied.

“Then I will set it up. Go to a bar and have a margarita. Come back in two hours.”

We went to the bar and had two margaritas. When we returned to his shop, Alberto was all smiles.

“You know the race and sports book next to Agua Caliente?”

We knew it well. Agua Caliente was Tijuana's racetrack. If you didn't want to go watch the horses live, you could hang out and watch the simulcast at the race and sports book just down the road.

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