Wuthrich jumped as though someone had stuck him with a red-hot sliver of iron. He was up and out of his chair and scurrying across the living room like a startled chipmunk. Shurtliff looked up in time to see Jessica give him a tiny smile of triumph and disappear. Disgusted he stood up abruptly. “I need a smoke.”
“Not in here, you don’t!”
“I’m well aware of your habits, Mr. Gerritt,” he muttered. “I’ll be outside.”
He moved to the door, not waiting for Gerritt’s permission. As he opened it, Gerritt spoke softly. “Michael.”
Shurtliff stopped, not turning around.
“When you hear the crack of the hammer and the cry of ‘Sold!’ then you can talk to me about bankruptcy. But not before, Mister. Not one minute before.”
Shurtliff paused for only a second, then walked out, shutting the door firmly behind.
Chapter Eight
This close to the coast, the sky was gray and overcast, with just a trace of mist in the air. Marc was driving the Mercedes convertible slowly down Sepulveda Boulevard in Culver City when Brett leaned forward pointing. “There it is, Dad!”
“Where?” Matthew cried.
“See the red-and-blue sign? On the other side of the street.”
Marc saw it then, pulled into the left lane, and started blinking. Even this early on a Saturday morning, the noise of the traffic on the San Diego Freeway, which ran parallel to them, was a steady roar.
“Edwards Automotive.” Brett read slowly as Marc waited for a break in the oncoming traffic. “Yup. That’s it, Dad.”
“Yes, it is.” He made the turn and drove through the chain link gate that had been pulled open. “Look, Alex is already here.”
“I see the Lamborghini!” Brett shouted excitedly.
“Where?” Matt said, not knowing what he was looking for.
“The blue car, Matt. Isn’t it cool?”
“I dubs it!”
A Ford pickup was parked next to the sports car, and Marc pulled in alongside it and shut off the motor. Edwards Automotive consisted of a small fenced yard with several cars parked around the perimeter, some in the process of being dismantled. The building itself had three high garage doors marking the repair bays, and a regular door on one end, with “Office” written on it. Above the larger doors, in red-and-blue letters ran the options: “Tune-ups—Alignment—Major and Minor Repairs—Radiators—Transmissions.”
As they got out, Alex Barclay came out of the office door, followed by a black man in coveralls. Alex was dressed casually—gray plaid shirt, heavy-knit white cardigan sweater with shawl collar, white trousers, and grey mesh duck shoes. The top two buttons of the shirt had been left open. A gold necklace lay against the thick tangle of black and grey hair on his chest. It was, Marc supposed, what some of his students would call laid back and mellow. And it reeked of money.
“Good morning, Marc,” Alex called. “Looks like you found it.”
Marc took Alex’s outstretched hand, and they shook firmly. “Yes, your directions were easy to follow.”
“Good. Harv, this is Marc Jeppson. Marc, meet Harvey Edwards, the best darn mechanic west of the Mississippi.”
“Well, at least west of the Colorado,” Edwards said with a grin. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jeppson.” His voice was a rich tenor and pleasant. He was close to forty, built like a long-distance runner, and had quick dark eyes. They shook hands, Marc finding himself liking the man almost instantly.
“These are my sons, Brett and Matthew.” He turned, but there were no boys alongside. He looked around in surprise as Alex chuckled deeply. Both boys were at the Lamborghini, Brett pointing out the features in a low voice.
“Brett, Matt! Come over here.”
They came over immediately, Brett looking sheepish. “This is Brett, and this is Matthew. Boys, this is Mr. Barclay and Mr. Edwards.”
They shook hands shyly, then Brett glanced quickly over his shoulder. “You sure have a neat car, Mr. Barclay.”
“Why thank you, Brett,” Alex said seriously. “Would you like to sit in it?”
Brett’s eyes widened in disbelief. Matt’s head bobbed up and down like a piston.
“Oh no,” Marc said quickly. “You just look at it from outside.”
“Come on, Dad,” Alex chided. “A couple of good-looking boys like these two won’t hurt anything. Will you?”
The deep sobriety as they both shook their heads caused Edwards to laugh in delight. “Well, you’ve got to admit,” he said, “they know class when they see it.”
“Go on,” Alex said, waving his arm. “It’s all right.”
“Brett, watch Matt!” Marc called as they darted away. “And don’t touch anything.”
“They’ll be fine, Marc. Those are two fine boys you have there.”
Edwards clapped Marc on the shoulder. “Well, let’s go in and take a look at this car of yours.” He turned and went through the office door. As they followed, Marc noted the sign in the window giving the hours of business. The last line read: Closed Saturdays and Sundays. Closed Saturdays for everyone except Alex Barclay, Marc decided.
The repair area was neat and well kept, with tools and other equipment lining the walls. They were the only ones in the shop. Marc’s Volkswagen was on one of the hoists, about three feet off the ground.
Edwards slapped it on the rear fender. “This look familiar?”
“Afraid so. How bad is it?”
“Well, let’s just say if I were a doctor, I’d call in the family to break the news.”
Marc’s face fell.
“The engine is gone.”
“Great!” Marc muttered, eyeing the rusting fenders.
“So it’s beyond hope?” Barclay spoke up.
“No, I said this engine has had it. But I’ve found a good rebuilt engine. They’ll deliver it Monday. I can have it in and running by next Friday.”
“Great!” Barclay said. “That’s really great, Harv.” He turned to Marc. “See what I mean?”
“But I can’t—” He stopped as both men looked at him. “Look, I really appreciate this, but a new engine will cost more than the car is worth.”
“If you’re talking resale value,” Edwards agreed. “But with it you can get another fifty to seventy-five thousand miles.”
“I know, but what’s a new engine going to cost?”
“Is that your only concern?” Edwards said with a slow smile. “The money?”
Barclay watched, amused. Marc looked down. It grated on him to have to admit it in front of Barclay, but reality was reality. “Yeah,” he said shortly, “that’s a problem.”
“Well, then, let’s negotiate a price you can live with.”
“Look,” Barclay said quickly, “while you two are doing that, I need to make a call. Can I use your phone, Harvey?”
“Sure thing. You need a book?”
“No.” Barclay turned on his heel and went in the office.
“Well, let’s see what we can do, Mr. Jeppson,” Edwards said, his smile even broader than before. Marc had the distinct impression Edwards was enjoying this.
“Really,” Marc went on. “I appreciate your looking at it, but…”
“Are you familiar with Griswold’s?” Edwards asked, still smiling.
“What?”
“Griswold’s Restaurant. Do you know it?”
“Yes. In fact, there’s one not far from our home.”
“I know. Mr. Barclay said you were from Claremont.”
“Yes, I’ve eaten there several times.”
“Is it as good as they say?”
“I like it very much.”
“Good. How about this? If you and your wife treat me and my wife to dinner at Griswold’s, my crew and I will put a new engine in your Volkswagen. Does that sound fair?”
Marc just stared at him.
Edwards laughed right out loud. “I’m deadly serious.” Then he held up his hands. “Look, before you answer, let me tell you a story. A true story, in fact.”<
br />
“Okay.” Marc was still reeling, trying to catch up with what the man was saying.
“Three years ago, this guy comes in to my garage. He said his gas tank had a leak in it. I checked it out, found that it did, and fixed it. I billed him something like thirty-three bucks. Okay?”
Marc nodded.
“Two weeks later this guy’s wife is rear-ended by a delivery truck. The car bursts into flames. She escaped but had secondand third-degree burns over a good part of her body. She was hospitalized for several months. Next thing I know, I was slapped with a three-and-a-half-million-dollar law suit for negligence and malicious dereliction of duty.
“Things started to unravel pretty quickly then. Within two weeks, my insurance company had managed to wiggle out on a technicality. I’m on my own, they politely inform me. The other guy’s lawyer, dripping with sorrow for my plight, generously offers to settle out of court for half a million bucks.”
The smile had disappeared, and a deep bitterness had hardened Edwards mouth. “Three different lawyers told me I didn’t stand a chance of winning, that I was crazy not to settle. You with me so far?”
“Half a million!” Marc echoed.
“Right. It meant my garage, my home, my savings—a life’s work and then some.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, one day I was working on a car for one of my regular customers. By now I have ulcers, I’ve lost twenty pounds and look like an anemic zombie. So this guy asks me why I look so terrible. Before I know it, I’ve spilled out the whole story to him, him all the time nodding, first with sympathy, then with anger.”
Suddenly Marc saw where all this was leading. “Alex Barclay!” he blurted.
“Exactly,” Edwards said. “He left that day without saying much more. But that afternoon, I got a call from one of the most prestigious law firms in Los Angeles. They send a lawyer out. He takes everything down, nods, makes notes, nods, makes notes, shakes my hand, says, ‘Mr. Edwards, we think we can help you. You’ll hear from us.’”
He stopped, his eyes glistening. “Three weeks to the day, the same lawyer comes out again, shows me a paper. It’s from the law firm of the guy suing me. The suit has been dropped. All action on their part is suspended. The lawyer shakes my hand, says, ‘If you hear anything more—anything at all—let me know.’ He waves good-bye and drives away, leaving me standing there bawling like a baby.”
“There were no legal fees from the firm?”
“None. At least not for me. I don’t know what they did or how they did it, but it was done!”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that! Ever since then, I’ve been trying to find a way to say thank you to Mr. Barclay. I give him free service, but shoot, he only drives brand-new luxury cars. I change his oil and give him a tune up now and then, but that’s all. Your little VW is the first real chance I’ve had to pay the man back. There’ll be no cost to you, and no cost to him. Do you understand, Mr. Jeppson?”
“I understand,” Marc said softly, looking past Edwards to where Barclay was talking on the phone. “I understand even more than you think.”
“Good. The dinner at Griswold’s isn’t necessary. The engine is on me, either way.”
Marc stuck out his hand. “Harvey, my wife died a couple of years ago, but I think I know a young lady who will join me, and we would be delighted to spend an evening with you and your wife. And the dinner is on us.”
Edwards grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Then, Mr. Jeppson, it looks like you and I have a deal.”
Valerie was at the sink, peeling potatoes, when she heard a car door slam and Brett’s voice crying, “Mary! Mary!”
Her mother looked up from her needlepoint. “What’s that?”
“It sounds like Brett.”
There was a pounding on the back door, and Valerie wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to open it. Matt and Brett were there, grinning like they had just won a year’s supply of jelly beans.
“Valerie! Come and see!” Matthew grabbed her hand and started tugging on it. “Come and see what Daddy’s got.”
“Come on, Mary,” Brett joined in. “You’ll never believe it.”
As they came out the door, Valerie stopped. Marc was leaning with casual nonchalance against the blue Lamborghini parked in the driveway. Matt dragged her forward again. “Isn’t it cool, Valerie?”
Brett, striving to be more adult, simply went and stood by his dad, beaming proudly.
“Well,” Valerie said, as she walked around it slowly. “I suppose a Mercedes convertible is a little tacky.”
Marc grinned, no longer able to contain himself. “I fought him, believe it or not. But saying no to Alex Barclay is like spitting into high surf. You may feel a little better for doing it, but it doesn’t make a whole lot of difference.”
“You mean he let you borrow this one too?” Mary said.
“Yup,” Brett said matter-of-factly. “Ours won’t be done until Friday.”
“Which is a story in and of itself,” Marc said. He quickly told Mary and Valerie about Harv Edwards.
“I can’t believe it,” Valerie said when he finished. “A new engine for two dinners.”
“Remember what Alex said in the lecture about creating leverage? I think we just witnessed it in action. Harvey Edwards was actually delighted to find a way to repay Alex.”
“He took us to his warehouse,” Brett broke in, his eyes shining. “I got to shoot an Uzi!”
“A what?” Mary said.
Matt stuck out his chest proudly. “Even I know what an Uzi is.”
“Well, I don’t, so you’d better tell me.”
“An Uzi is a gun,” Matt said solemnly. “It shoots real fast.”
Brett nodded. “It’s the world’s best submachine gun. It’s made in Israel. It’s named after the man who made it.”
“He shot a submachine gun?” Valerie turned to Marc in surprise.
“Among other things,” Marc answered. He nodded to Brett to continue, not wanting to lessen his moment of glory.
“Mr. Barclay sells all kinds of guns,” Brett went on. “He’s got a whole firing range in the basement of his warehouse. I shot pistols and rifles and submachine guns. It was so neat! You should have been there.”
Matt was tugging at Valerie again. “I got to put ear muffs on while Brett and Daddy shot the guns.”
“Well,” Mary said, shaking her head at Marc, “I’m glad that at least you had sense enough not to let Matthew shoot them.”
“Matt got to drive the boat instead.”
“The boat?”
“Yeah!” Matt’s eyes were round and shining with excitement. “It’s a great big boat, and I got to steer it all by myself.”
Marc’s face still registered disbelief. “He took us down to the marina. You wouldn’t believe it. This is not some motorboat. It’s a small yacht. I mean, a full-blown yacht. It sleeps ten comfortably.”
Valerie went down to one knee so she was looking Matt in the face. “You’ve had quite a day of it, haven’t you?”
He nodded solemnly. “And besides that, Jackie took us to lunch, and I got my very own can of pop.”
“Jackie?” Valerie looked up at Marc, who nodded.
“She’s Alex’s secretary,” Brett supplied. “She’s really nice.”
“And she’s pretty too,” Matt said.
Valerie straightened. “I know,” she said slowly. “I met her last night.”
Matt tugged at her again, and when she leaned down, he put his arms around her neck and whispered in her ear, loud enough for all of them to hear, “I think you’re pretty too.”
“Well, thank you, Matthew. What a sweet thing to say.” She hugged him back, and he ducked his head in embarrassment.
“I’m really hurt,” Mary said, making a long face. “I thought you were my boyfriend.”
Matt immediately pulled away and darted to her side. “You’re not just pretty,” he said loyally. “I love you.”
> “Oh, brother,” Marc laughed. “Talk about the diplomat.”
Brett tapped Marc’s arm. “Can I go tell Jed now, Dad?”
Marc shook his head. “We’ll be going home in just a minute.”
“It’s only a couple of blocks,” Brett pleaded. “Please!”
“Oh, I don’t care. Go on!”
Brett gave a whoop and was off on a dead run.
“Well,” Marc said, as he turned back to Valerie, “I came over to see if we might take a rain check on that racquetball tonight.”
There was one brief look of surprise and disappointment, then she recovered. “Sure. That’s fine.”
“Trying to wean you away from your running habit with racquetball is the easy way out. Wanna go cold turkey?”
She looked at him quizzically.
“How about spending an hour or two perfectly motionless in the bucket seat of a Lamborghini Contach Five Thousand?”
Valerie’s eyes were sparkling, though she kept her expression sober. “Could I think about jogging just a little?”
“No way. Cold turkey is cold turkey.”
“I’ll come over and stay with the boys,” Mary said, trying not to appear too pleased.
“No,” Marc said. “I can get a baby-sitter.”
Mary put her arm around Matt’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “Nonsense. After the compliment Matt just gave me, I wouldn’t think of sharing this boy with anyone else.”
“Well, all right,” Marc said.
“Yippee!” Matt yelled, throwing his arms around Mary’s legs.
Valerie turned back to Marc. “What does one wear to go riding in a Lamborghini?”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry, Miss. Alex Barclay is Lamborghini people. Marc Jeppson is pure Volkswagen Beetle.”
Chapter Nine
Quinn Gerritt, president and CEO of Gerritt Industries, was at the window of his office, staring down at the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard thirty-three stories below him. It was a gray, drizzly November morning, and the cars were moving slowly, though his thoughts were far from centering on the traffic flow. The intercom buzzed, and he moved to his desk and punched a button.
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