The salesman looked sour. He said, “Perhaps you’d prefer to talk with Leo? He can explain our operation to everyone’s satisfaction, I’m sure.”
“I don’t need any explanations,” Jan said. “I’m a businesswoman. And Mr. Brock Callahan can go sit in the car until we’re finished. It’s not his money.”
The glazed eyes of the salesman showed interest. “Brock Callahan, the Ram tackle?”
“The former Ram guard,” Jan said, “now gone to seed mentally and physically.”
The man put out his hand. “It’s a pleasure and a privilege to shake your hand, Rock. Boy, you were a dynamo.”
I shook his thin, dry hand. I said, “Thanks. Let’s all be friends now, and find a thirty-four-hundred-dollar Eldorado.”
He laughed heartily. “After you meet the boss, we’ll find you a Rolls Royce for two bills. Boy, the boss thinks you’re the greatest thing since television.”
“Since …?” Jan said. “Brock predates television by decades.”
“A pair of comedians,” he said. “Oh, Leo will love this.”
In his small office, hung with sales charts, Leo looked thinner than he did on television. And older and more cynical.
The salesman said, “Leo, I want you to meet one of your idols, that great guard, Brock ‘the Rock’ Callahan.”
Leo extended a strong, bony hand and said sincerely, “It is an honor. I’ve seen you many times with the Bears. What are you doing in our fair city, Mr. Callahan?”
The salesman laughed. “That makes three comedians. One of the Ram immortals, as if Leo didn’t know, huh?”
Leo laughed. “I’ll say. I guess everybody knows you, Mr. Callahan.” He looked at Jan. “And this is Mrs. Callahan?”
“Not by a jugful,” Jan said. “I came here for a car.”
“A thirty-four-hundred-dollar ‘56 Eldorado,” I added.
Leo looked at the salesman briefly and down at his desk. He frowned.
The salesman said, “I thought we could work out a deal. You know, an endorsement by a Ram immortal? Like ‘I wouldn’t think of going to anyone but Loony Leo — Brock “the Rock” Callahan’ in script, something like that?”
Leo continued to frown, but his eyes showed interest.
“The Rams, they draw in this town,” the salesman went on. “They’re big, boss, and respected.”
Leo’s face showed more interest.
“And Brock would know the others,” the salesman went on. “Like Hirsch and maybe Waterfield, you know he’s married to Jane Russell, boss, and Tom Fears and …”
“I don’t want a car,” I said. “My car suits me just fine. It’s Miss Bonnet who wants the car, a ‘56 Cadillac Eldorado for …”
The salesman raised a hand. “Now, Brock, I told you that car sold seventeen minutes after it appeared on the program. And the kind of deal we’ll give you, it would be criminal to turn it down. We could even arrange to …”
“I’m not in the market,” I said.
The salesman looked at Leo and at me and sadly out the window. Leo looked up with a gentle smile.
Jan said, “Why is he getting all the attention? I’m the customer.”
Leo said softly, “We have been neglecting you, haven’t we, Miss Bonnet? Exactly what kind of car did you have in mind?”
“A Cadillac convertible,” she said.
“And what are you driving now?” he asked quietly.
The salesman answered for her. “A ‘54 Chev Bel-Air, boss. Clean. I told her we could go to eighteen hundred on it.”
Leo nodded. “Could our service manager have the key in order to run the motor? We’ll work out a deal, all right, Miss Bonnet.”
That was another gimmick, getting the key. It would take two strong men, armed, to get it back. I said, “I’ll be glad to run the engine for him while Miss Bonnet looks over your Cadillacs.”
Leo said genially, “Our service manager likes to drive the car himself. Certainly you can find nothing wrong in that, Mr. Callahan.”
“Not as long as I get the key back the second he’s finished,” I answered. “I did some work for the Better Business Bureau and they told me about that key gimmick.”
There was a sudden coolness in the air. Leo raised his eyebrows. “Gimmick …? I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ll go with him.”
Both the salesman and Leo were smiling now, though the coolness persisted in the room. Their smiles seemed — anticipatory, as though they had the kind of lamb they relish, a wise guy.
Jan said, “If you gentlemen are embarrassed, consider my position. I brought him.”
“We’re not embarrassed,” Leo said. “Mr. Callahan is simply taking precautions any sensible buyer should take. I’m well aware of some of the sharp practices of my — competitors.”
He should be; he invented them.
So I went along with the service manager, while Jan went back to the lot with Leo and his salesman.
The service manager was a lanky, horse-faced man with a missing index finger on his right hand. As he drove Jan’s car around the block, he listened carefully to the engine and made a couple panic stops to try out the brakes.
When he came back, he lifted the hood to study the engine and then got underneath to examine the frame.
“Clean,” he said. “What’d they offer on it?”
“Eighteen hundred. That’s way over the market, isn’t it?”
“I guess. You’re buying a big one, huh?”
“It’s not my car. The girl who owns it is interested in a Cadillac. But the one she wanted was that Eldorado at thrity-four hundred.”
The service manager smiled.
“Some racket, eh?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s dog eat dog in this business. The big-volume dealers are just like politicians; the public makes ‘em what they are.”
“How do you mean?”
“A guy comes along with a 1947 Kaiser and he tells Leo he got an offer of nine hundred from Motor Metropolis or Daffy Dan. What’s Leo going to do, back down?”
“Not Leo,” I guessed. “Leo will go to a grand. And make it up by padding the charges on the car he’s selling.”
“I didn’t say that. Leo handles his own financing and his own insurance. He’s entitled to a profit on that, right? He’s not in business for his health.”
“I guess not,” I agreed. “How long have you worked for him?”
“Fifteen years. I was with him when he was the most respected Buick dealer in Pasadena.”
“So what happened in Pasadena?”
“Even there, they got television. Leo’s customers saw these pitchmen offering thirteen hundred dollars for a 1927 Marmon and they began to wonder if Leo wasn’t rooking them.”
“Uh-huh. So Leo came down here where he could really rook ‘em?”
He frowned at me. “Are you a cop, or something?”
“Just an inquisitive citizen,” I said. “So you get the key and Leo gets the lamb in the office and goes to work on him with a pencil.”
His face was expressionless. “Leo can handle a pencil with any of them. And remember this, you’ll get no rebuilt wrecks here or repainted cabs. Leo’s got the cleanest stock in town. If you weren’t shopping, you wouldn’t be here; you’d go to your regular dealer. You came here to haggle, right?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “My girl did. Women love bargains.”
“Everybody loves money,” he said, “and that’s what they’re trying to save by coming here.” He took a breath and handed me the keys. “And believe it or not, it’s been done. Some day when you’ve got a lot of time, come on in and I’ll tell you about some of the reputable dealers I worked for right after the war.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “And quite a few of them lost their franchises when Detroit got wise to them. What happened to Leo’s franchise in Pasadena?”
“He sold it. Sold the whole kit and caboodle and came down here where the action is. These
Johnny-Come-Latelies are sorry to see an old pro like Leo here too, I’ll tell you.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Hell, yes, I like him. He always treated me okay, better’n these so-called reputable dealers.”
“He can’t be too much of a crook, then.”
“Look,” he said wearily, “you’re no punk kid. By this time you should’ve learned everybody’s a crook, one way or another.”
“You might be right,” I agreed. “Well, I’d better get back to my girl before Leo gets his pencil out.”
I almost didn’t make it. They were back in the showroom office, now, and Leo already had a pencil in his hand and had just said, “Miss Bonnet, here’s what I’m going to do for you.”
In Los Angeles or New York or Chicago or even in East Overshoe, Arkansas, when a man arms himself with a pencil and says earnestly, “Here’s what I’m going to do for you,” it is a time to beware.
I said, “Aren’t you going to wait for the service manager’s report?”
Leo’s smile was patronizing. “If you insist, Mr. Callahan.”
Jan sighed. “Gawd! I was hoping you would get caught in a traffic jam.”
“What kind of a car did you decide on?” I asked.
The salesman answered for her. “A ‘56 Cad convertible.”
“Loaded,” Leo added. “Power brakes, power steering, power windows and seat, nylon white-walls and air conditioning.”
“In this climate,” I said, “you need air conditioning like I need another head.”
“I need it when I go to Palm Springs,” Jan said, “and what makes you think you don’t need another head?”
“Honey, let’s not fight in front of strangers. I’ve got an idea we can all agree to.”
The salesman looked at me doubtfully, Leo appraisingly and Jan resignedly.
“Leave your car here,” I said, “and we’ll take the Cad home until tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll have a mechanic friend of mine check it over and then we can come back and talk business. Fair enough?”
The salesman still looked doubtful, but Leo’s smile was full of confidence. “Eminently fair, Mr. Callahan. I am forced to admire your realistic approach to a business transaction.” He stood up and waved expansively. “Drive it away, Miss Bonnet. I know you’ll be back tomorrow to sign the papers.”
Jan rose, and the four of us went out to a silver-gray Cad convertible with black top. It was a dreamboat, all right, designed to impress the Beverly Hills carriage trade.
Jan got in behind the wheel, and Leo put a friendly hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be back with her, Callahan, to apologize. Good luck with the Rams this year.”
“I’m no longer with the Rams,” I told him. “I’m a private investigator now.”
I guess it was a pretty good exit line. They both watched us thoughtfully until we were out of sight.
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