"What do you think?" Raymond asked me.

I couldn't imagine why my opinion mattered. "Looks better than anything I ever drove."

He stuck a finger in the key ring and flipped the keys into his palm. "Hop in. Bibianna goes with him."

I glanced over at the dark green Ford where Bibianna sat. She was perched up on the backseat, using the rearview mirror to braid her dark, glossy hair. "Fine with me," I said.

I got into the Caddy.

Raymond got in on the driver's side and slipped his seat belt on. "Buckle up," he said. "We're going to have an accident."

"Is this car insured? We just bought the damn thing," I said with surprise.

"Don't worry about that stuff. I can call my agent later. He does anything I want."

I buckled up, trying to picture myself in a neck brace.

The transmission was automatic. The car had power locks and power brakes, power windows. Raymond started the engine, which thrummed to life. He adjusted the rearview mirror and waited while a silver Toyota passed at cruising speed before he pulled into the lane of traffic.

I tried the power windows, which went up with a quiet hum. "How do we do this?" I asked.

"You'll see."

We seemed to drive randomly, taking Venice Boulevard through Palms, turning right on Sepulveda into an area called Mar Vista. These were neighborhoods of small stucco bungalows with small yards and tired trees with leaves that were oxygen-starved from all the smog in the air. Raymond watched the streets like a cop looking for the telltale indications of a crime in progress.

"What makes this a drive-down?"

"That's just what we call it when we're out cruising for an accident. Car's called a bucket. I got a fleet of buckets, a whole crew of drivers doing just what we're doing. You're a ghost."

I smiled. "Why's that?"

"Because you don't get paid, therefore you don't exist."

"How come I don't get paid?"

"You're a trainee. You're just here to beef up the head count."

"Oh, thanks," I said. I turned and looked out the window on the passenger side. "So, what are we looking for?"

Raymond glanced at me sharply, suspicion etched in his "I'm just trying to learn," I said.

"A victim. We call 'em vies," he replied in belated answer to my question. "Somebody running a stop sign, backing out of a drive into the right-of-way, pulling out of a parking space…"

"And then what?"

He smiled to himself. "We hit the guy. You want to catch the rear quarter panel because the damage shows up nice and nobody gets hurt."

We drove around for an hour, unable to conjure up a traffic offender for the life of us. I could see that Raymond was impatient, but oddly enough, there was no twitching whatever during the time in the car. Maybe work was soothing to his battered nervous system. "Let me try," I said.

"You serious?"

"If I score, I want the money. What's it pay?"

"A hundred bucks a day."

"You're full of shit. I bet you make a fortune and I want a fair shake."

"Pushy bitch," he said mildly.

We traded places. I took a moment to slide the front seat a little closer to the gas pedal and the brake. I eased the Caddy into traffic. By then, we'd worked our way up Lincoln Boulevard to the outskirts of Santa Monica. At Pico, I cut left, picking up Ocean Avenue at San Vicente. Raymond hadn't paid much attention, but when he saw the direction I was taking, he looked at me with surprise. "What's wrong with Venice?"

"Why not Beverly Hills?" I asked. At first the idea seemed to unsettle him, but he could see the possibilities. We worked our way up to Sunset Boulevard and headed east, passing the northern perimeter of the sprawling UCLA campus. Just past the Beverly Hills Hotel, I took a right onto Rexford. I found it soothing to cruise along the wide tree-lined streets. This was an area known as the "flats" of Beverly Hills. The houses were oversize and filled the lots from side to side. All the lawns were green, the shrubs trimmed, gardeners blowing errant leaves down the driveways. Shade trees were planted along the grassy stretch between sidewalk and street, sycamores interspersed with oaks. High fences shielded the backyard tennis courts from sight. Now and then, I caught a glimpse of a swimming pool and cabana. The stoplight at Santa Monica Boulevard was green. I drove the Caddy sedately into the heart of the Beverly Hills shopping district.

Technically, I knew I was skating on thin ice with this drive-down. The only thing I remembered about undercover work from police academy days is that it's against "public policy" for an officer of the law to participate in the commission of a crime or incite someone to do so. Happily, I wasn't actually an officer of the law, and if it ever came right down to it, it would be Raymond's word against mine. Helping Raymond stage a few fraudulent accidents seemed to me the quickest way to persuade him I was on the up-and-up.

Raymond stared out the window, his manner uneasy. "You're never going to find any business up here."

"Want to bet?" I had just spotted a late-model Mercedes pulling out of a parking lot in the middle of the block, left turn signal blinking. The car was a four-door sedan, a conservative black with a vanity plate that read BULL MKT. The woman driving was probably forty years old, with a cap of blond hair and big round sunglasses pulled down toward the tip of her nose. I slowed the Caddy, mentally apologizing for my sins in advance. I came to a full stop and politely waved her out. She gave me a quick wave and a smile, showing perfect caps. "What are you doing!"

"Yielding the right-of-way," I said with innocence. As soon as the Mercedes eased into my path, I gunned the Caddy and rammed the left rear quadrant with a thump. It was just like bumper cars and I felt the same sick charge, half guilt, half thrill. The indentation was nicely placed. The woman shrieked and turned to look at me openmouthed with astonishment.

Raymond was out of the Caddy in a flash. "What the fuck are you doing? You pulled out right in front of us!" I got out and moved to the front of the Caddy, where I checked the broken headlight and flaking bumper. Not bad. The damage to the other car was six grand at least. The blonde had recovered from her initial dismay. She got out of the Mercedes and slammed the car door. She was dressed for tennis, little white skirt, green-and-white-striped Polo shirt, long, tan legs, little socks with jaunty green pompoms sticking out above her spotless white tennis shoes. The Mercedes's left rear quadrant, recently a pristine shiny black, now sported a dent of substantial proportions, fender crumpled, chrome sticking out like a horizontal antenna. The rear door would have to be pried open with a crowbar. I could see the color rising in her face as she surveyed the damage. She turned and jabbed an angry finger in my face. "You fucking asshole! You sat there and motioned me out!"

"She did not!" Raymond said.

"She did, too!"

"Did not," I inserted to show where my loyalties lay.

Raymond said, "Look at my car! We just bought this car and now look what you've done!"

"Your car! Look at mine!"

I put a hand against my neck and Raymond turned to me with concern.

"Are you okay, hon?"

"I guess so," I said without conviction. The neck roll I did was accompanied by a wince.

Raymond dropped his irate manner and substituted an air of studied calm that was more effective in its way. "Lady, I hope you got good insurance coverage…"

The afternoon was marked by Raymond's intermittent demolition derby, surreal in its fashion, depressing in its effect. We backtracked from Beverly Hills into Brentwood, through Westwood, and then south into Santa Monica again. We sought out areas congested with traffic, watched for minor violations, inattentiveness, and lapses in judgment. Raymond kept a meticulous record of each accident we staged – four in all – noting time and location, the other driver's name and insurance company.