BEFORE HE’D RENTED THE Camaro, he’d gone to the airport newsstand and bought three California travel atlases, each one with a listing for Borrego Springs. He’d put both suitcases in a locker and taken the atlases into a restaurant, where he ordered a late breakfast. While he ate, he studied the atlases, then checked the road map “Carter” had given him. Conclusion: if Santa Rosa had been a problem for a black face, Borrego Springs would be worse. Because the smaller the place, the richer the place, the worse the problem got.
But for every problem there was an answer—two answers, to this problem. He could blend in, disappear into the background, play the part of a laborer, or a porter. Or else he could come on strong, play it big, stand out. He’d been in Palm Springs once, on vacation. He’d stayed at the Sheraton, in a suite. Played golf. Spent a hundred dollars for dinner, spent three hundred dollars for a girl, a white girl. He’d seen Flip Wilson at a club, not performing, just living it up, the big shot, people hanging around him, like he was a boxing champ. So Flip had fitted in, playing it big.
In Santa Rosa, he’d tried to blend in, disappear. He’d imagined he was a waiter who worked in a big hotel in San Francisco, made good money, decided to take a drive up north, maybe to see the redwoods. It was something else he’d learned from Venezzio, the importance of playing a part, being ready if a policeman ever pulled him over—ready with a story, ready with a gun, too. Decide who you are, Venezzio had said, and stick to it. If you’re a garbage man, dress like a garbage man, act like a garbage man—think like a garbage man. Like an actor does, learning a part—or a football player does, psyching himself up for the game, visualizing himself in the end zone, spiking the ball.
During breakfast at the airport, studying the atlases, he’d thought about it, concentrating as hard as he’d ever concentrated in his whole life. He could have been a novelist, concentrating on a character he was creating. And finally he’d got it, settled on his story. He’d be a real estate salesman, from San Francisco—a smooth, cool real estate salesman who worked for a big company—Coldwell Banker, he’d decided, very upscale. He’d be their token black face, make about seventy-five thousand a year, selling big buildings, scheduled to move up into management, a real smooth operator.
He’d found a men’s wear shop at the airport. He’d bought two pairs of Bermuda shorts, four lightweight sports shirts, and a thirty-dollar straw hat, narrow brimmed. After considerable thought, he’d decided on running shoes. He’d made sure the shirts had long, square-cut tails, and were cut full enough to cover whatever he’d carry in his belt. At the shop next door, he’d bought a pair of designer sunglasses, heavily tinted. Then he’d gone to Hertz, and decided on the black Camaro, for just a touch of flash. Because a black working for Coldwell Banker, making it big, he’d want a touch of flash, a little show.
Easing the Camaro into a turn on the two-lane road, he took his foot from the accelerator, slowed the car enough to look out over, the desert, still several miles ahead. For most of the drive south from L.A., the smog had been so bad that his eyes had watered. Only when he left the freeway and began climbing the western slope of the low mountain range that separated the Los Angeles basin from the desert had the sky turned a true blue. And now, on the eastern slope of the mountains, the air was so clear he could see for miles across the desert looking east. One range of mountains, just four thousand feet high, had made a big difference in the terrain, too. The western slopes had been lush with thick-growing trees and bright green grass. But the eastern slopes were dry as dust, with sagebrush as far as the eye could see. Between the ridge of the mountains and the Salton Sea, according to the travel atlases, the only underground water was in Borrego Springs, just ahead. He was facing forty or fifty miles of desert. No water, just sand, sagebrush, cactus, and the strange, stunted trees that grew in the desert.
Still driving easily, rhythmically, he was conscious of the pleasure the Camaro gave him as he swung it smoothly from side to side, testing his skill in the curves. The highway ahead was straightening as it descended. Soon he would be on the desert floor, where there were no hills, and the roads were straight as strings.
The first car he’d ever owned had been a Camaro: a bright red Camaro with black striping, brand-new, bought right off the showroom floor. He’d been nineteen years old, just passed his birthday, when he bought it. And ever since, for nine years, every year, he’d bought a new car: another Camaro, then a Corvette, then a 280Z. All of them had been customized, some touch that was only his, even if it was just a striping job, with his initials on the doors. Every year, he used to buy a different car, never the same kind of car two years in a row.
But now he drove BMWs, only BMWs—conservatively painted BMWs, none of them customized, nothing flashy. When he’d bought the red Camaro—for cash, a big wad of cash—he’d gotten all dressed up: wide lapels, narrow tie, everything cool, lots of flash, like he was going out with the most beautiful woman in the world.
But when he bought his last car, the 633CSi, he’d worn a three-piece suit, everything button down. And he’d paid by check, just wrote out a check with his Cross pen. The salesman, too, had used a Cross pen. But the salesman’s pen had been silver—and his was gold. They’d laughed about that, he and the salesman, one of them black, from the slums, the other one white, probably a Harvard man, the way he talked.