The Big Enchilada

used car lot, drive-in theatre, drive-in bank, drive-in supermarket, and drive-in mortuary—“Eternal Rest While-U-Wait”—I figured it couldn’t happen soon enough.
    I made pretty good time going across to the freeway, but as often happens, traffic slowed to a bumper to bumper crawl once I got on it. None of this made any sense to me. Here was the one city in the world Resigned as the exclusive domain of the automobile, with an extensive and elaborate highway system, and most of the time all you could do was about twenty miles an hour going into town. Rush hour was a bit slower. Another triumph for the planners and all the other assholes who think they know the answers because some machine told them which end of the pencil to sharpen.
    We were moving about as fast as shit in a clogged sewer, but there was nothing I could do about it except relax and wait. I can do that when I have to, but some red-necked turkey in the car next to me had on a quadraphonic speaker system that was playing country-and-western garbage loud enough to be heard in Oklahoma.-He was wearing a Hawaiian-patterned rayon shirt and puffing on a fat cigar which he didn’t bother to remove from his mouth when he drank from a can of Lucky Lager. I scowled across at him and he laughed like he thought he was some king of the road. Since the traffic wasn’t moving and it looked like I might be next to him for some time, I asked him to turn it down. He laughed again and told me to fuck off. It was too hot to put up with something like that. I reached across, opened the glove compartment, and pulled my piece from the holster.
    “Hey, asshole,” I shouted at him.
    He turned and started to say something when I stretched my arm out and pointed the gun at his head. His mouth fell open and the cigar dropped out. His eyes grew wide and his lips moved, but no sound came out.
    “Would you please turn it down,” I repeated.
    This time I had his attention. Without taking his terrified eyes off the gun, he leaned across the car, turned something, and the sound died away with an abrupt whimper.
    “Thank you.” I retracted the gun.
    I turned back to the front, but I could tell that the turkey continued to stare at me, unable to believe what had just happened. What I did was, of course, grossly illegal, but who was to know. It worked, that was the main thing.
    The guy suddenly gave a squawk of surprise and pain, and started bouncing around crazily. I guessed his cigar had started to bum him. Just then the traffic opened up, and I was able to pull away as the guy was frantically burrowing between his legs for the cigar.
    About the time I got over the hill, the jam-up had thinned and I was able to make better time the rest of the way into town. I got off at Wilshire and headed for the fancy Beverly Hills building where Maycroft had his office. It was one of those prestige addresses where all goods and services cost about fifty percent more than they would have a few blocks away. They weren’t any better, they just cost more.
    As soon as you walked in the entrance, you knew you were in a fancy place. You could tell because the air conditioning made it about ten degrees colder than was really comfortable. On an ordinary day it would have been unpleasantly cool, but in this weather, coming in from the stifling heat, you immediately felt chilled and clammy. But I guess money, like lettuce, wilts if it’s not refrigerated.
    I took the express elevator up to the twenty-fifth floor. Music played softly above the quiet hum of the elevator. For some reason the ceiling of the car was mirrored. Before I could come up with a plausible explanation for this odd feature I had arrived at my floor.
    There were only two offices on the floor. One was the Eye of God Religious Foundation, Inc. I didn’t know what they did, but they must have had access to the Purse of God to occupy this address. On the other side of the' corridor, tiny raised letters on the wall spelled out SPODE , MAYCROFT AND BURBARY . If you were more than a couple of feet away, the letters would just look like specks on the wallpaper. There seems to be some sort of theory in effect that says the bigger the operation, the smaller and more discreet the sign announcing it should be. If I followed that rule, I’d have to use the whole side of my building. Of course it’s all bullshit, but jerks who are impressed by the swell address will be doubly impressed by the tiny letters.
    I opened a door that seemed