Delayed on the way to San ... (Diego) Chapter 1

Dear Wolf,

No we had not made other plans. In fact, we fully intended to be there when events beyond our control forestalled our arrival.

We had landed at the airport. When our limousine was not there to pick us up we went to the rental agency to inquire. This company is very exclusive and not found at the airport terminal or even on the off access area. We took public transportation to get there, which in San Diego is an adventure in itself. After trundling our luggage down a sidewalk that was chipped, scarred and otherwise in need of serious repair I lost a wheel on my large valise as it descended from said curb onto the roadway, or more correctly, into the pot hole in the roadway.

I was considering leaving my luggage there and coming back for it after acquiring said transportation, but Hank pointed out that although the man lying on his side with his face pushed up against the bottom of the chain link fence and the weed strewn edge of the sidewalk might in fact be passed out; it was not a sure thing. The evidence of cars on blocks rusted and burned also steeled my resolve to drag the case on the one good wheel the remaining half mile to the agency, where to my chagrin and embarrassment I learned that Hank’s credit card had been rejected.

“I’m sorry Mr. Ortiz, but that card was reported stolen and it’s over the limit anyway,” said the young lady standing on the milk crate behind the counter in the mobile trailer that served as the office.

“Mr. Ortiz?” I thought to myself. “How did they pronounce ‘Murphy’ as ‘Ortiz’?” I thought it best not to ask.

“I’m afraid under the circumstances that your credit is no good here. You will have to pay cash,” said the woman in a matter of fact way. Her eye shadow was black and heavy, much to heavy for her age, but it did go with the outrageously long eyelashes and fingernails, which I assumed were both pasted on.

“Oh well, I see,” said Hank diving into his pockets as if there was something in there worth pulling out. “Then I guess my friend over here will have to ...”

“He will have to pay cash too. We will not accept your credit. In fact you will have to pay for the whole car - cash. After the last incident, we do not want to take any chance.”

“Cash? For the whole car? Certainly, you are joking,” I said, but her deadpan look made it clear she wasn’t. She looked at me and took another slow chew on her gum. There was no expression in her face.

I gulped, “How much are we talking?”

“Five hundra dollar,” she said.

“And we own the car?” 

“If you don’t bring it back.”

“And if we do?” asked Hank.

“We give you back your money, less the daily rate and gas,” she said.

“Can we take out insurance?” I asked.

She seemed startled by the question. “I guess so. But why? The car is so old.”

“Just in case,” I said. “Even though we are both safe drivers you never know if some nut will hit you and run off without giving you their information.”

She looked at me with a look that stilled her gum chewing. She seemed unsure what to do. After several long still seconds passed she shrugged. “Up to you,” she said, and started typing on her keyboard. She asked for driver’s licenses and an address where we were going and when we planned to be back. Somehow, he had forgotten about Mr. Ortiz when Hank Murphy handed over his license. She only looked at the picture. 

It was when I began to write out a check that she said. “Cash. No check.”

“Miss, we don’t carry that kind of money around with us. It’s unsafe, “ said Hank.

He neglected to point out that the other reason was that he didn’t have that kind of money to carry around.

“There’s an ATM over at Claremont,” she said.

“Isn’t that quite a ways?” I asked.

“Two miles,” she said nonplussed.

With a sigh of exasperation she turned and stepped off the milk carton and went through a door behind her that led to an adjoining shed set at right angles to the trailer. She was holding our check in her hand. There was a conversation between her and a man. It was muffled, but I could tell it was in Spanish.

Moments later, a man came through the doorway holding our check. He was in his mid-forties and his shirt, which was a size too small, had ridden up to reveal the mid-stage of a protruding stomach. It was hairy with a slight amount of sweat on it. In fact, he had sweat everywhere. His shirt had faint streaks of dirt, dried sweat, and white deodorant marks. His pants showed a shine on the thighs where he had no doubt wiped his hands after eating chicken like the drumstick he held in his other hand, which he held to his mouth and was gnawing on when he cam through the doorway. He was, exactly the kind of fellow you’d expect to find in such an establishment. 

He took a final bite of the drumstick and placed it distractedly in the ashtray on the counter. He rubbed his hand on his pants and then ran his fingers through his hair.

“This check. Is it good?” He asked.

“Of course, it’s good,” I retorted, slightly offended by the question. I was in fact trying to mentally balance my checkbook in my head and was not sure as to the validity of my statement. If it wasn’t good I concluded; it was darn close.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But, I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t mind picking up a package for me and delivering it to a friend; I’ll accept your check.”\

“Deal,” said Hank.