Free 32 Cadillacs by Joe Gores

manila folders in the center of his desk,
     stinking of economic brimstone and glowing pinkly from the ghastly financial fires within, made him quickly reach for
his
phone.

C HAPTER S EVEN
    G iselle Marc and Dan Kearny usually shared the day’s first cup of coffee while going over the probable shape of DKA’s day;
     but when the phone rang early on Thursday morning, their chat had degenerated into a verbal brawl because Kearny had asked
     whether Ballard was showing up for work yet.
    “He’s still home, Dan. Still has that lousy headache.”
    “From a concussion?” His voice was disbelieving. “I think he’s on a toot.” Kearny’s slang was mired in the ’40s. He added
     illogically, “And if it is a concussion, he got it falling down drunk in some barrel house. He’s been working too many cases
     with O’B lately—try to bend an elbow with that guy and pretty soon you’re dipping your beak in paint thinner.”
    “You should see the lump on Larry’s forehead.”
    “All I see is his caseload getting fat without him doing anything about it. Hell, he’s got four new assignments without twenty-four-hour
     first report, and sixteen others that—”
    “I could pick up the slack on those unworked first-report cases,” said Giselle quickly around her cup, as if muffling the
     words might keep Kearny from really hearing them.
    “I need you here in the office. Besides, you’ve been acting so unprofessional lately that you can’t keep up with the cases
     you’ve got.”
    “Just what is that supposed to mean?” she demanded coldly.
    Kearny fired up a cigarette, watching her slyly past the smoke. “I hear your galfriend Maybelle is doing more than just
living
in the backseat of that Connie of hers.”
    Giselle dunked a doughnut in frosty silence. Her emotions were still tender from the scene with the Brit, and here was Kearny,
     just as she’d known he would, zeroing in on the very thing that had caused that painful rift in her personal life.
    “She’s on the hustle.” When Giselle didn’t dignify this with a reply, he added, “The Mary Magdalene lay. And eventually I
     gotta tell the bank about it.”
    Giselle stood up abruptly; she didn’t want to think about May-belle losing her car all over again, this time for good.
    “I have to get to work,” she said. Which is when the phone rang. Already on her feet, she snatched it up and snapped into
     it, “Daniel Kearny Associates.”
    “Tellkearnyineedhimuphererightawaynohesitationsnoexcuses rightnowfiveminutesorimcallingholstromautorecoverybureau…”
    She picked out a word here and there from Stan Groner’s long high scream of anguish, enough to know Kearny was wanted at the
     bank and wanted
now
.
    She said, “I can’t understand a thing you’re saying, but I recognize your note of hysteria.”
    “Goddammitgisellewereouthundredsthousandsmillions…”
    “I still can’t understand you but we’ll get on it right away,” she said crisply, and hung up.
    “Get right on what?” demanded Kearny. “Who was that?”
    “Wrong number.”
    “
Wrong number?
I just heard you say that we’ll…”
    Giselle was already gone down the office with long, clean-limbed strides. She’d handle this one herself, and show Kearny just
     who the real professional was around here. She made an abrupt left turn through the sliding glass door to the back office
     that was her domain, then kept on going right out the back door and into the storage lot where her company car was parked.
    Kearny morosely smoked another cigarette, stubbed it, took a slurp of coffee. Stone cold. The phone rang just as he reached
     for it to bitch at Giselle about the coffee, so he snatched it up to snarl at it. It snarled at him first.
    “DAMMIT, KEARNY, WHY AREN’T YOU HERE YET?”
    “Fine, Stan, thanks for asking. How’s the family?”
    “DAMMIT, I TOLD GISELLE I NEEDED YOUR BUTT HERE RIGHT—”
    “
Giselle?
When?”
    Some of the hysteria was fading from Groner’s voice. He