“All right,” I said. “That one.” I indicated a motorcycle.
Eddie, cocky behind the Coke rims, circled the bike. “Harley-Davidson, belonged to a member of the Snake Eyes gang, yeah, that’s right, loosely affiliated with the Hell’s Angels, those Hell’s Angels, ran prostitution, table dancers, that’s what they did. This bike belonged to Buzz Crawley. They called him Nut Crusher.” Eddie giggled. “Guess why? Go on, guess.”
“I think I have an idea.”
“You know why? He’d go visit guys, guys who owed the gang money, grab their boys with a set of pliers, drag ’em around the parking lot that way. Oooh, that would hurt, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t that hurt?” He was smiling big-time now.
“That would hurt.” I had stopped taking notes.
“You see that Land Rover? That got taken away from the Jamaicans; that little silver car, that was in Lenny Indigo’s driveway before they put him away; that one, that green Winnebago there, that was—”
“You really know your stuff, Eddie, no doubt about it. I think what I’m going to do is, talk to some of the people who’re planning to bid on something, get a bit of color for my story.”
“Oh, good idea. But you need anything else, I’m always here.”
“Don’t you ever go home?” I asked.
He grinned, leaned in toward me. “You knew my wife, you’d know why I’m here all the time. Like to avoid going home as long as possible, you know? You married?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about, right? You know what I’m talking about, oh yeah, I can see it.”
“Well, thanks again,” I said, and broke away.
I’d called The Metropolitan’s photo desk ahead of time to arrange for a photographer to meet me here. I’d been a reporter-photographer myself on another paper a few years back—what they called a two-way—but my new employer was content to limit my skills to writing.
I spotted Stan Wannaker, one of the paper’s most distinguished shooters, who you’d be more likely to run into in Afghanistan or Pakistan or one of the other “stans” where people are always shooting each other and blowing up things because they don’t have access to cable. He was evidently slumming it to be covering something as mundane as a police auction alongside a lowly reporter like me.
“Hey, Stan,” I said, interrupting him as he snapped a couple of frames of a guy inspecting a Lexus.
He glanced away from the viewfinder. “Hey, uh, Zack, right?” He reached into his pocket where he’d stuffed a folded blue assignment sheet, opened it up and confirmed that I was the reporter he was supposed to meet. I was still relatively new on staff, and this was the first time I’d linked up with Stan. Given that I’m not exactly a foreign-correspondent type, what with my aversion to getting sand in my shoes or visiting nations where intense heat is likely to cause me a rash, our paths had not crossed.
“How come they’ve got you doing stuff like this?” I asked.
“I’m in town for a while, catching my breath,” he said. “Until all hell breaks loose someplace else, which shouldn’t be long.” Stan’s in his early forties, unmarried, lives in a tiny apartment someplace in the city, and isn’t saddled with the kinds of obligations that might keep the rest of us from leaving at a moment’s notice for the North Pole or Taiwan or the Falkland Islands. His jeans and multipocketed jacket hung loosely on his thin frame.
“So, what kind of shots you looking for?”
I shrugged. “I just got here. I’m gonna talk to people, see what they’re looking for.”
“Well, give me a shout if you need me. I’ll wander.”
I found Lawrence checking out a Saab convertible, then looking it up on the sheet he’d been given listing the items available for sale.
“Interested?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“I’m going to talk to some people,” I said.
“Knock yourself out. Auction doesn’t start for another half hour.”
I meandered with my notebook open, pen in hand, chatted people up. Some were civil servants of one stripe or another—cops or firefighters or clerical workers—who had an inside line on when these kinds of auctions were held and made a point of attending them. And there were general members of the public who were on mailing lists, or signed up at Internet sites that, for a fee, let one know when and where these types of sales were going to be held.
One guy, an accountant, told me he thought it was cool that his current car, a Lexus, was once owned by some notorious cocaine dealer. “Gives me something to tell my lady friends, gives me a little cachet,” he said. Sort of like being a badass by association, which struck me as pitiful.