She showed up in the same pink linen jumpsuit she had worn to Tony Harker's motel.
'Nice cut,' Rathbone said, inspecting her. 'But I told you I don't like those sorbet colors on you.'
'Want me to change?'
'No. Where did you buy it?'
'At Hunneker's.' 'How much?'
'About two hundred with tax,' she said.
'You still have the sales check?'
'I guess so. Why? Are you going to return it?'
'Not exactly. How did they wrap it when you bought it?'
'What's this-Twenty Questions?'
'Come on,' he said, 'how was it wrapped?'
'In tissue paper and then put in a Hunneker's bag. A plastic bag.'
'Still got the bag?'
'Yes.'
'Get it and the sales check. I'll meet you downstairs and we'll get this show on the road. We'll take your car.'
They drove over to Pompano Fashion Square and found a slot in the crowded parking lot.
'Stay in the car,' Rathbone ordered, 'but keep the doors locked. I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes or so. What floor did you buy the jumpsuit on?'
'The second. Sportswear.'
He headed directly for Hunneker's, the plastic bag and sales check folded flat in his jacket pocket. The store had big plate-glass windows with gilt lettering: j.b. hunneker's. satisfaction guaranteed or your money cheerfully refunded.
He took the escalator to the second floor and wandered about until he located the Sportswear department. It didn't take long to find a rack of jumpsuits exactly like the one Rita was wearing. He looked about casually. Then, finding himself unobserved, he took a pink jumpsuit off the rack, folded it into the plastic Hunneker's bag, and approached the service desk.
'I'm sorry,' he said to the woman behind the
counter, 'but I bought this for a birthday gift, and my wife doesn't like the color.'
'What a shame,' she said. 'Would you like to exchange it for another color?'
'No, I think I better let her come in and pick out what she wants. Could I get a refund, please. Here's my sales check.'
He was back in the car in fifteen minutes. He told Rita what he had done, and she laughed.
'You don't miss a trick, do you?'
'Not if I can help it. I'm certainly not going to shell out two hundred for something I don't like.'
'Do I get the money?'
'I think not,' he said. 'You keep your jumpsuit and I'll keep my money. It's a win-win game-the kind I like. Now move over and let me drive.'
He maneuvered the Chevy out of the parking lot and turned northward on Federal Highway.
'We're going to a bookstore on Sample Road near 1-95,' he told her.
'Oh? Going to shoplift a couple of books?'
'No,' he said, 'I'm not into boosting. This is an interesting place. It's owned by a man named Irving Donald Gevalt. He deals only in rare books and antique manuscripts.'
'And he makes a living from this?'
'He owns two motels, a fast-food franchise, and three condos on the beach. But he didn't get all that from pushing rare books; he's got a very profitable sideline. He's in the game, and all the sharks call him ID Gevalt. He's the best paperman in south Florida. Social Security cards, driver's licenses, military discharges, voter registrations, passports, visas-you name it and ID can supply it. That's why we're going to visit him, to fix you up with an identification package for that little job you're going to do for me.'
She turned to look at him. 'Hey, wait a minute. You didn't say anything about forged papers. I don't like that.''
'They're not forged,' Rathbone said. 'Everything ID Gevalt handles is strictly legit. That's why he gets top dollar.'
'So where does he get the documents-from stiffs?'
'Sort of. He's got freelancers working for him in a dozen cities. They go through old newspapers in their hometowns and clip out items about infants and little kids who died twenty, thirty, forty years ago. They send the name, address, and date of birth to Gevalt. He writes to the Department of Birth Records in those cities, requesting a copy of the dead kid's birth certificate. Costs him from two to ten bucks, and they never ask what he wants it for. So now he's got a legitimate birth certificate of someone who's been dead for years. The certificate is the key. With that Gevalt can get a Social Security card, voter's registration, even a driver's license, by hiring someone to take the test under the name on the Certificate.'
'A slick operation.';
'Like silk. How old are you, Rita-about thirty-five?'
'That's close enough.'
'So we'll buy you a package of identification for a white female about thirty-five years old.'
'And what do I do with that?'
'Tell you later. Here we are.'
The Gevalt Rare Book Center was located over a shop that installed domed plastic ceilings for condo kitchens and bathrooms. There was a steep outside staircase leading to the second floor. The center was a dusty jumble of books, magazines, newspapers. It was comfortably air-conditioned, but smelled mildewy.
'David!' the old man said, coming forward with an outstretched hand. 'Good to see you again!'
'ID,' Rathbone said, shaking the proffered paw gently. 'You're looking well.'
'Liar,' the geezer said. 'But I'm surviving. And who is this lovely lady?'
'A dear friend. Rita, meet the famous Irving Donald Gevalt.'
The gaffer bent creakingly to kiss her hand. 'Famous, no,' he said. 'Notorious, possibly. Rita, you are a sylph.'
'I hope that's good,' she said.
'The best,' Gevalt assured her. 'The very best. David, this is a social call?'
'Not exactly. I need a package for Rita. Birth certificate, Social Security, driver's license. And any extras you might have.'
The old man pushed up his green eyeshade and stared at Rita through rheumy eyes. 'Middle-thirties,' he guessed. 'Could be Hispanic. I think I have something that will just fit the bill. Excuse me a moment, please.'
He shuffled slowly into a back room, closing the door carefully behind him.
Rita looked around at the stacks of books and journals. 'Does he ever sell any of this stuff?'
'Occasionally,' David said. 'Mostly by mail order. It's a good front. And he knows the rare book business. I heard he's got the world's best private collection of Edgar Allan Poe first editions and original manuscripts.'
Gevalt was back in a few minutes with a worn manila envelope. 'Gloria Ramirez,' he said, 'from San Antonio, Texas. I think Gloria will do splendidly. Would you care to inspect?'
'Of course not,' Rathbone said. 'I know the quality of your work. The usual, ID?'
'Ah, I am afraid not. With this dreadful inflation, I have been forced, regrettably, to raise my fees. Two Ks, David.'
Rathbone took out his stuffed money clip and extracted the two thousand in hundred-dollar bills. 'A business expense,' he said, shrugging. 'I'll write it off as entertainment.'
'Of course,'' Gevalt said with a gap-toothed grin.' 'That is what life is all about-entertainment. Am I right?'
The door to the back room opened, and a young blonde, no more than nineteen, stood posed, hip-sprung. She was wearing a tiny black bikini that seemed to be all fringe.
'Lunch is ready, daddy,' she said.
'In a moment,' Gevalt said, and led the way to the outside door. 'Do come back again, David, and you also,
