The ransacking of Frederick’s made the local NBC and ABC newscasts. Both segments were short, long on snickering innuendo and short on factual details, but they received prominent placement and were repeated on both eleven o’clock newscasts. I taped all showings.
The CBS station didn’t lower itself to cover such sensationalism.
I wrote the letter that night, Philipe read it, we all signed it, and I sent it off.
We waited.
A day. Two. Four. A week.
There was nothing on the news, no follow-up story on television or in the papers.
Finally, following Philipe’s directions, I made an anonymous call to the Beverly Hills Police Department from a pay phone outside a 7-Eleven. I claimed responsibility for the looting of Frederick’s of Hollywood in the name of the Terrorists for the Common Man.
The sergeant on the other end of the line laughed at me. “Nice try, bud. But we caught the perps on that three days ago. Better luck next time.”
He hung up.
Slowly, I placed the receiver in its cradle. I turned to face the others. “He said that they caught the guys who did it three days ago.”
“That’s impossible!” Junior said.
Steve frowned. “Call them back. Tell ’em they got the wrong men.”
Philipe shook his head. “That’s it. Case closed.”
“I don’t even think they got my letter,” I said.
“They got it,” Philipe said softly. “They just ignored it. I was afraid of that.”
He walked away from us, into the 7-Eleven, and we stood there, confused and silent, waiting for him, as around us a group of kids who’d gotten off school went into the convenience store to play video games, paying no attention to us at all.
Six
Philipe went out alone that night and did not return until it was almost dawn, but he was back to his normal self the next day. We’d spent the night at my apartment, and in the morning we went outside before deciding where we were going to eat breakfast. I’d been home so infrequently the past few months that I never bought groceries anymore, and there was no food in the apartment. Philipe, as always, took charge of the situation. “All right,” he said, and there was no trace in his voice or attitude of the melancholy defeatism of the night before. “We have three choices. We can grab some fast food. We can go to a coffee shop.” He paused. “Or we can get new cars.”
Buster frowned. “New cars?”
Philipe grinned. “Our wheels are looking pretty raggedy. I think it’s time we get some new ones. I myself would like a Mercedes.”
“What do you mean?” Don asked. “We’re supposed to steal ourselves some cars?”
“I have a plan,” Philipe said. “I’ll tell it to you over breakfast.” He looked around the group. “Who votes for Jack-in-the-Box; who votes for IHOP?”
He did indeed have a plan. And it was a good one.
We ate breakfast at the International House of Pancakes, commandeering two tables that we pushed together in the rear of the restaurant, and he explained what he wanted to do. The plan was definitely workable, brilliant in its simplicity, and it was exciting to realize that we were probably the only people in the world who could pull it off.
After breakfast, we went looking for cars. The dealerships were closed, would not open until ten, but that did not prevent us from doing a little window-shopping. We drove to the Cerritos Auto Square, a two-block section in the city of Cerritos that had been specifically set aside for car dealers. We walked past the Mazda showroom, the Jeep dealer, Porsche, Pontiac, Mercedes, Nissan, Volkswagen, Chevrolet, Lincoln, and Cadillac. By the time we finished walking past the Cadillac lot, it was ten o’clock and the showrooms were opening for business.
“We drove here in three cars; we’ll pick out three new ones today,” Philipe said. “Has everybody decided what they want? I’m still going with the Mercedes. I like the light blue one we saw.”
We decided on the Mercedes, a red Jeep Wrangler, and a black 280Z.
We paired off. Philipe and I would get the Mercedes, Bill and Don would take the Jeep, and John and Steve would go for the Z. The others would drive our old cars home.
“How come we’re not in on it?” Junior complained.
“Next time,” Philipe promised.
We split up, and I accompanied Philipe to the Mercedes dealer. Salesmen were pouncing on people the second they stepped onto the lot, but we had no such problem. Philipe, in fact, had to hunt down a salesman in the office, an oily sleaze wearing an inappropriately expensive suit and a gaudy set of large gold rings. He introduced himself as Chris, enthusiastically pumped both of our arms, asked what sort of car we were interested in. Philipe pointed toward the blue car we’d looked at earlier. “That one there,” he said.
Chris looked him over, took in his jeans, his faded T-shirt, his windbreaker, and smiled indulgently. “That’s our top of the line. May I ask what price range you’re looking at?”
Philipe turned away. “I came here to buy a car, not be harassed about my appearance.” He motioned for me to follow him. “Come on, let’s go to the Porsche dealer.”
“I… I’m sorry,” the salesman said, his phony smile faltering.
“It was a toss-up anyway. You just threw it into the Porsche’s corner. Thanks. You made my decision for me.”
“Wait!” the salesman said.
“Yes?” Philipe looked at him coolly.
“Give us another chance. I know you’d be much happier with a Mercedes-Benz, and I can really get you a hell of a deal.”
Philipe appeared to think for a minute. “All right,” he said. “Let’s test-drive that blue one there.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll just go get the keys.”
Philipe and I looked at each other as Chris hurried into the office. I quickly turned away so I wouldn’t burst out laughing.
The salesman sped back, almost out of breath. He handed the keys to Philipe. “Let’s take her for a spin, Mr…?”
“Smith,” Philipe said. “Doug Smith.”
We walked across the lot and got into the car, Philipe in the driver’s seat, the salesman in the passenger seat next to him, me in the back. Philipe and I put on shoulder harnesses. The salesman did not, obviously wanting room to move around in order to properly deliver his sales pitch. Sure enough, he shifted his position, half turned toward Philipe. “Air-conditioning is standard,” he said. “As is the AM/FM radio/cassette player.”
Philipe started the car.
“Pull out there,” he said, pointing to the lot’s front gate. “We’ll go around the block.”
Philipe followed his instructions. The salesman droned on about the car’s features.
We came to a stoplight. “Hang a left here,” the salesman said. He grasped the dashboard with one hand as Philipe maneuvered the turn. “Note how she handles on the curve.”
Philipe slammed on the brakes.
Chris flew sideways, nearly thrown out of his seat, hitting the side of his head on the padded dash.
“Good brakes,” Philipe said.
The salesman, obviously shaken, was moving back in his seat, trying to regain his composure. “You shouldn’t — ”
“Get out of the car,” Philipe said.
“What?”
