Muller, Marcia - [McCone 05] Leave a Message for Willie [v1.0] (htm) Read Free

one."
    He reached out and smoothed down my hair. "For a new
homeowner, you're pretty cavalier about getting the place in shape."
    "Yes, I am, aren't I?" Much as I loved my new home,
there were a great many things that interested me more—
including Willie Whelan's problem.

2

    I dropped Don off at my house and then drove across town to the
address Willie had given me. It was on the section of Arguello
Boulevard that stretches between Kezar Stadium and the University of
California Medical Center, on the fringes of Golden Gate Park. The
neighborhood serves as home for an odd mixture of middle-class
professionals, students from the Med Center, and bohemian types who
spill over from the nearby Haight-Ashbury. While most of the
buildings seem well-maintained, the mouldering shell of
long-abandoned Polytechnic High School and the crumbling stadium cast
a seedy pall over the area.
    I parked and got out of the car, looking for signs of the man
Willie had described, but saw no one remotely resembling him on the
street. Then I crossed toward my prospective client's house, a
stucco-and-beam Edwardian that had probably been built around the
turn of the century. It was three stories, with the main floor
several steps up from the sidewalk, and a garage underneath. As I
approached, I saw that the garage door was up, and I glimpsed Willie
standing just inside of it. He waved and motioned for me to come in.
    The garage took up the entire basement and must have been close to
a thousand square feet. Its walls were lined floor to ceiling with
merchandise on makeshift plywood shelving. A long clothes rack held
expensive-looking suits, coats, and dresses. Most of the goods on the
shelves—small appliances, housewares, TVs, video recorders,
cameras, and sound equipment—was new and still in the original
packaging, but I spotted a group of more interesting older things—
other pedestal sinks, some stained-glass panels, an ancient pinball
machine, and a Victrola.
    Two men in work clothes—presumably the truckers Willie had
mentioned—were sitting on a pair of mismatched kitchen chairs
in the space where a car would normally have been parked. When I
entered, they stood up, shuffling their feet and glancing warily from
me to Willie. He held up a hand and said, "Relax. She's okay,"
and they returned to their seats.
    To me, Willie added, "I've still got some dealing to do. Look
around, why don't you?"
    I nodded and, marveling at the quantity and variety of
merchandise, wandered off toward the back of the garage.
    While the light up front came from fluorescent fixtures, here it
was filtered through two wire-mesh-covered windows that looked out on
a yard. I glanced through them and saw a sun-parched lawn and
crumbling cement birdbath. There was a cluttered desk to one side of
the window, and a two-year-old Japan Airlines calendar—a feeble
attempt at decoration—on the wall above it. Next to the desk
stood an old refrigerator, its motor wheezing and grunting as if it
might give up the effort at any moment. I stood and examined the
costume jewelry in a glass case that separated the office area from
the rest of the garage, listening to Willie's conversation with the
truckers.
    "Yeah, Joey, these suede jackets are nice. Real nice. But
it's hotter than the hinges of hell out there. Who's gonna buy a
suede jacket in this heat?"
    "In the fall—"
    "Sure, in the fall. Then they'll move. But in the meantime, I
got a dozen jackets laying around here taking up space."
    "Willie, that's top-quality suede."
    "I'm not questioning the quality. I'm saying I can't move
them now. Bring them back, maybe in a couple of months. Then we'll
talk.
    "I can't keep them around either. Not at the price you're
asking. Ties up too much of my capital." There was a long pause.
"Tell you what I
can
do: I can take them off your hands
for half of what you're asking."
    "Aw, come on, Willie!"
    "It's the best I can do. I don't know, Joey, maybe you can
find somebody else who's willing