“That’s probably true.”

“But today, okay, today we’re auctioning off some big stuff, and we’re doing it the way you’re probably more familiar with, with an auctioneer, right? Mostly cars, SUVs, couple of boats, good stuff, really really good stuff. Come on, we’ll go out into the paddock, out in the paddock, I’ll show you.”

We wandered out into what looked like a used-car lot, with the odd boat, motorcycle, and RV tossed into the mix.

“So, who’d this stuff used to belong to?” I asked, scribbling into my notebook.

“We’ve got goods here that belonged to biker gangs, mean ones, you know, mean bikers, and drug smugglers, big-timers who got away with it for a long time, and small-timers who thought they could make it big but were a bit too stupid to do this kind of thing without getting caught. Even some CEO types, stock fraud guys, get their fancy Beemers and boats seized. I know the history of everything out here. Make it my business to. It’s interesting, you know? You got your whole crime microcosm here, wrapped up in these cars.”

“I’ll bet,” I said.

“Ask me anything,” Eddie said. “Go ahead, go ahead, ask me anything about anything you see. Go on.”

“Uh, okay,” I said. I pointed to a shiny red Mustang. “What’s the story there?”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, okay, okay, I know,” he said quickly. Eddie seemed to be running on premium unleaded. “Bobby Minor, twenty-four, bought the thing from money he made dealing crack on the north side, it’s got a V8 under the hood, barely 15,000 miles on it. Go ahead, check the odometer, go on, check it, see if I’m right.”

With some reluctance, I opened the door and glanced at the dash. The car had 14,943 miles on it.

“Pretty good,” I said.

“Ask me another,” he said. “Go on, ask me.”

I didn’t know how long I wanted to play this game, but figured I could go another couple of rounds.

“All right,” I said. “That one.” I indicated a motorcycle.

Eddie, cocky behind the Coke rims, circled the bike. “Harley-Davidson, belonged to a member of the Snake Eyes gang, yeah, that’s right, loosely affiliated with the Hell’s Angels, those Hell’s Angels, ran prostitution, table dancers, that’s what they did. This bike belonged to Buzz Crawley. They called him Nut Crusher.” Eddie giggled. “Guess why? Go on, guess.”

“I think I have an idea.”

“You know why? He’d go visit guys, guys who owed the gang money, grab their boys with a set of pliers, drag ’em around the parking lot that way. Oooh, that would hurt, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t that hurt?” He was smiling big-time now.

“That would hurt.” I had stopped taking notes.