Poor dumb Padgett had bombed out twice with his get-rich-quick schemes: the first, an amusement park that would have cost the moon; the second, some hare-brained idea about buying a television station. Television was fine, but it wasn’t going anywhere. An Ardmore table-model TV set—like the one he owned—was retailing for $359.95, and how many people could afford to pay that? Less than ten percent of households in the country owned a TV. Besides which, there were already 326 television stations in the country. Los Angeles had nine. What was the point of one more?
The heavy-equipment business was at least practical, though Padgett would probably find a way to drive it into the ground, figuratively speaking. Chet was banking on the fact that Padgett didn’t know the first thing about putting together a business plan. If he managed to come up with the numbers, Chet could always blame his accountant when he finally turned him down. If he was clever about it, he could hold him off long enough for his country club membership to be approved before he delivered the bad news. He’d have to come up with the ten thousand dollars’ initial club-membership fee, but he’d figure that out.
Chet pulled into the dealership and parked in his usual spot. Passing through the showroom, he noticed the big gleaming coupe was gone and he felt a flash of hope. The car was prime, high-powered and streamlined, with all the latest gadgets. Of course, the factory had shipped the car with accessories he hadn’t ordered, but he was good at persuading buyers to accept pricey options. The car had arrived on the lot only two days before, and a sale this quick would be impressive in his ten-day report. Every month, he had to provide the factory with a sales estimate for the next three months. These figures were used to determine factory production, but if he didn’t have the sales, he wasn’t accorded the inventory, and if he didn’t have a good selection of cars his business would steadily diminish.
The dealership felt deserted that afternoon because two of his three salesmen were off for a variety of reasons that annoyed him no end. One had called in claiming he had a head cold, for pity’s sake. What kind of man was that? In all his years in the business, he’d never taken a sick day. Jerry Zimmerman, his other salesman, had come up with an excuse just as lame, which meant he was left with Winston Smith, the new hire, in whom he had no particular faith. Winston had been through the same extensive training every Chevrolet salesman enjoyed, but he didn’t have the fire. Chet wasn’t sure what the kid wanted out of life, but it wasn’t selling cars. His ambitions were airy-fairy, all talk and no substance. He probably pictured sales as a means to an end instead of a calling, which is how Chet saw it. At first Chet thought the boy had promise, but it hadn’t come to much. Winston wasn’t hungry and he couldn’t for the life of him get the concept of closure. Selling wasn’t about having nice long chats with folks. It was about making the deal, getting a signature on the dotted line. He’d have to learn to take control and bend others to his will. In the meantime, the boy was earnest and good-looking, and maybe that would be sufficient to carry him while he developed a spine.
Chet passed through the outer office, ignoring the fact that his potato-faced daughter was busily scribbling on a piece of pink notepaper that she slipped into a drawer as soon as she caught sight of him. It galled him that he was paying a dollar an hour when she had no office skills. Her phone manners were atrocious, and he was forever scrambling around behind her, trying to make amends for her moodiness and her snippy tone of voice.
She was their only child. Livia had lobbied for three, eager to start a family as soon as possible. Chet hadn’t married until he was thirty-two, hoping to be properly settled in life. At the time he met Livia, he was selling Fords in Santa Maria and he was tired of working for someone else. He’d been carefully setting money aside, and according to his reckoning he’d be able to buy his own dealership within the year. He’d insisted on postponing children for at least five years until he’d bought the franchise and gotten the business on solid ground. Livia had “slipped up,” or so she said, and she was pregnant within six months of the wedding, which meant his life plan had taken another hit. He was fine now, but it grieved him to think how much better off he’d be if she’d done as he asked. He’d made a surreptitious visit to a doctor in Santa Teresa, investing in a quick snip that eliminated any further slipups in that department.
Even so, when Kathy was born—six weeks premature—he’d felt so proud he thought his heart would burst. He’d first seen her in the nursery through the plateglass window, with a hand-printed sign that said BABY GIRL, CRAMER. She was such a tiny little thing—three pounds, fourteen ounces. Livia had been in the hospital for two weeks, and the hospital kept the baby for an additional four weeks until she topped five pounds. That bill had set him back yet again, and he didn’t recuperate for years. He hadn’t complained. He was happy the baby was healthy with all her fingers and toes. He’d pictured her developing into a beautiful young lady, smart and accomplished, devoted to her dad. Instead, he’d been saddled with this lump of a girl, pudgy and sullen, who had all the brains of a sprinkler head.
Depressed, Chet went into his office and took a seat in his leather chair, swiveling so he could look out at the side lot with its row after row of gleaming trucks. The Advance Design Series truck had hit the market in June of 1948, and he still marveled at its features—the front-opening hood; the concealed door hinges; the tall, fixed two-piece windshield. Two years later, the company had introduced the NAPCO four-wheel-drive conversion. Since the kit wasn’t factory installed, the customer first had to buy a new Chevrolet or GMC truck, but the light truck was coming into its own and profits had soared.
He knew the specs on every vehicle that came onto the lot and he knew the needs of workers in the area—farmers, plumbers, roofers, and carpenters. As a result, he moved more trucks than any other dealer in the county, and he intended to keep it that way.
“Mr. Cramer? Could I speak to you?”
Chet turned to find Winston in the doorway. The afternoon temperatures had climbed into the nineties and Winston was sweating unattractively. He’d have to find a way to instruct him in the use of antiperspirant. Chet got to his feet and moved around his desk, holding out his hand for Winston to shake. “Good, son. Glad you’re back. I saw you’d taken the coupe. I hope you’ve got a live one on the line. Let’s see if you remember what I taught you about reeling in a sale.”
He intended to go out to the showroom with Winston so he could offer the potential buyer a handshake and his personal greeting. Customers liked to meet the man who owned the place. It made them feel important. He’d answer any questions the fellow had, ask a few of his own, and generally smooth the way. Winston was inexperienced, and Chet thought he’d appreciate his boss stepping in to show him how it was done.
Winston’s forehead was beaded with perspiration, and he had to use his pocket handkerchief to mop his upper lip. His Adam’s apple dipped. “Well, that’s just it. The customer took the car out to get a feel for how she handles…”
“With one of the mechanics? Son, that’s a very bad idea. This is a sales situation. That’s your job. Any question about the nuts and bolts can wait until the deal’s in place. I’ll find a way to turn the situation to our advantage, but you can’t let this happen again.”
He could see Winston was uncomfortable at the correction, but there was a right way and a wrong way to go about these things, and he might as well conform to management guidelines straight off the bat. Chet passed Kathy’s desk on his way to the floor, with Winston hard on his heels. Kathy was suddenly very busy, fussing around her desk, but she flicked a look at Winston as the two men went by. Chet had seen her mooning around and he knew she had a crush on the young man, but her expression today held a touch of guilt. Surely Winston hadn’t made a pass at her. He couldn’t be that dumb.
He caught sight of both his mechanics in the service bay, but there was no sign of the car. He stopped in his tracks, and Winston nearly bumped into him like a cartoon character.
“Mr. Cramer? Wha
t happened was…the customer? She’s extremely interested in the car. I talked to her at length and she as good as said she’d be buying it. She even went so far as to mention an all-cash deal. So when she asked for a test drive, I explained for sure that I couldn’t leave the lot, and she said that was fine—she didn’t need my help, because all she was going to do was drive around the block and she’d be right back.”
Chet turned and stared. He felt his heart give a thump, as though someone had punched him, boom boom, in the chest—blows that pumped a thick, cold liquid through his veins. He must have misunderstood, because what he heard Winston say simply couldn’t be true. Cora Padgett was the only woman in town who had the wherewithal to walk into a dealership, take a car off the floor, and pay cash on the spot. But Tom had told him over lunch that she was out of town. Cora had gone to Napa to tour the wineries with her sister, Margaret, who lived in Walnut Creek. She wouldn’t be back until Wednesday of the following week—unless this was meant as a surprise and she’d told Tom a story so she could buy the car without his knowing in advance. “What are you talking about? What customer?”
“Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Sullivan?”
“Yes, sir. Violet Sullivan came in. She’s in the market for a car—”
“You let Violet Sullivan take that car out by herself? What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry. I can see how it might look, what with company policy and everything like that. I told her to come right back, you know, that it wasn’t a good idea—”
“How long has she been gone?” His voice sounded shrill and he knew he was losing control. He made a point of never speaking to an underling in anything other than a civil tone. But the enormity of the error, the possible consequences…
“I didn’t check the time—”
“Approximately, you dolt!”
“I’d say sometime around noon. Well, I don’t know, maybe a little bit before then, but close enough.”
Assume he minimized and what were we talking about here, four hours? Five? Chet closed his eyes and his voice dropped. “You’re fired. Get out.”
“But sir. I can explain.”
“Get off the lot. Right now. I want you out of my sight or I’m calling the police.”
The boy’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment, and the look Winston pinned on him was bleak.
Chet waited until he could see the boy was leaving, and then he turned and walked back to his office. He’d have to notify the sheriff ’s department and the highway patrol. If she’d been involved in a wreck, or if she’d stolen the car outright, she could be anyplace by now. He had liability insurance, blanket coverage for anything on the lot, but his premiums would double the minute he made a claim. Money was already tight. He sat down in his swivel chair and reached for the phone.
“Daddy?” Kathy was in the doorway.
“What!”
“Mrs. Sullivan just pulled in.”
Through the glass he spotted the car and relief washed over him. The vehicle didn’t appear to be damaged, at least the parts he could see. He went out to the floor, knowing that in no way possible could she afford to buy the coupe. Violet turned as he approached, and he was startled by her vibrancy—the flaming hair, the creamy skin, her eyes a vivid green. He’d never seen her at close range because Livia made a point of crossing the street, tugging him by the arm, if she spotted Violet anywhere in town. She thought Violet was a tramp, wearing those sheer nylon blouses you could see right through. The sundress Violet wore today emphasized the suppleness of her arms, and the flowing skirt showed her legs to advantage. Livia was thick-waisted and narrow-minded, critical of others whose circumstances or beliefs or behaviors were an affront to her own. Chet was irritated by her scathing pronouncements, but he’d kept his mouth shut. From afar, he’d seen Violet’s flirtations with married men, and he’d wondered how it would feel to have her attentions lavished on him.
“Hello, Chet. Sorry I was gone so long.”
He circled the car until he was satisfied no harm had come to it. On impulse, he leaned in and checked the odometer: 257 miles. For a moment he was speechless. She’d turned this beautiful new Bel Air into a piece-of-shit used car. “Come into the office,” he snapped.
Violet caught up with him and tucked a hand through his arm, forcing him to slow his pace. “Are you mad at me, Chet? May I call you ‘Chet’?”
“You can call me ‘Mr. Cramer’ like everyone else. You put two hundred fifty-seven miles on that car? Where the fuck did you go?” He regretted the swear word the minute it was out of his mouth, but Violet didn’t seem to care. As he opened his office door, she passed in front of him and he could smell her cologne.
His heart gave another double thump, this time warming his blood. He moved away from her. “Take a seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
He went around and sat down behind his desk, suddenly conscious of the power he wielded. She had to know she was in the wrong, that he could extract any price he named. Two hundred and fifty-seven miles on a brand-new car? He wondered if she’d set it up that way. Maybe she’d had her eye on him at the same time he’d had his eye on her. She stared at him with interest, apparently undismayed by his rage or the fact that he was ordering her around.
She extracted a pack of cigarettes from her purse. Ever the gentleman, he took out his lighter and fanned the striker. She leaned across the desk, allowing him a glimpse of the swell of her breasts as she accepted his light. There was a bruise on her chin and he knew what that was about. She reclaimed her seat and crossed her legs. He glanced at Kathy, visible in the outer office beyond his glass-enclosed cube. She was watching the back of Violet’s head with her mother’s same spiteful stare, constructing new and better ways to feel superior. When Kathy caught him looking at her, she got up and walked to the water cooler. Fourteen, and she was already as rigid, nasty-minded, and prissy as her mom. She’d taken out a piece of pink notepaper and it sat squarely in the middle of her desk. He could see the heavy black writing on it even at that distance, an angry-looking scrawl that slanted across the page.
He picked up a pencil and tapped on his desk while he rearranged his thoughts. He had no idea how he should play it, but he loved feeling in command. “So what are we going to do about this, Mrs. Sullivan?”
Her smile was slow, smoke drifting from her lips as though she was smoldering at the core. “Well, Mr. Cramer, Sweetie, I can make a suggestion, but I’m not sure you want to talk about it here. Buy me a drink and I’m certain we can work something out.”
Every syllable she spoke was weighted with promise. Her gaze was fixed on his mouth with a hunger he’d never seen in a woman and had certainly never experienced in himself. How could this be happening? She was his for the taking. He knew that as surely as he knew his name. Though he’d never admit it, he was a man of conventional inclinations. He was forty-seven years old, and in fifteen years of marriage, he’d never been unfaithful to his wife, not for lack of opportunity, but for lack—he saw now—of comprehension. After the first few months with Livia, the sex was workaday—pleasurable, and of course a blessed relief, but in no way compelling. Livia might not be wildly attractive, but whatever his ordinary irritations with her, she’d never denied his needs, and she’d never implied that she found sex onerous. While he wasn’t dissatisfied, he’d never understood what all the fuss was about.
In one stroke that had changed.
Here before him, Violet Sullivan, with her insolence and her boldness, had ignited him, sparking a desire so consuming he could barely breathe. He thought maybe this was what it meant to sell your soul to the devil, because he knew in that moment he’d be willing to rot in hell for her.
10
Thursday morning, I went through my usual routine, waking at 6:00 to do my three-mile jog. I prefer to have exercise under my belt before I start my day. In the late afternoon, it’s too easy to think of reasons to sit around on my buns. The morning air had a faint chill to it, and the sky wa
s layered with salmon and amber clouds, overlapping like ribbons sewn on the borders of a bright blue tablecloth. I used the brief walk to the beach as a way of warming up before I eased into a trot. Along the bike path, the palm trees were still, no breeze at all ruffling the fronds. A fifteen-foot expanse of ice plant stretched between the bike path and the beach. Beyond that the ocean tumbled and churned. A man had parked his car in the public lot and he was tossing bread-crumbs in the grass. Gulls were wheeling in from all directions, shrieking with delight. I picked up my pace, feeling my body warm and my muscles become loose. It wasn’t the best run I ever had, but it felt good nonetheless.
Home again, I showered, threw on my jeans, my boots, and a T-shirt, and then ate a bowl of cereal while I cruised through the local paper. I reached the office at 8:30 and spent an hour on the phone, taking care of business unrelated to Violet Sullivan. At 9:30 I locked up, hauled my portable Smith-Corona typewriter out to the car, and drove to Santa Maria for my meeting with Kathy Cramer. I didn’t expect to get much from her. At the time, she’d been too young to qualify as a keen observer of adults, but I figured it was worth a try. You never know when a fragment of information or an offhand remark might fill a blank spot on the canvas I was painting bit by bit.
The Uplands, the golf course subdivision Kathy Cramer had just moved into, was still a work in progress. The course itself was an irregular series of fairways and bright greens that formed an elongated V the length of a shallow valley. A man-made lake sat in the angle between the front and back nine holes. View homes were perched on the ridge that ran along one side of the course while on the opposite hill, I could see the lots laid out and marked with small flags. Many homes had been completed, with sod lawns and an assortment of shrubs and saplings in place. Other houses were under construction, some framed and some consisting solely of the newly poured slabs. Across the low undulating hills, I could see a hundred houses in various phases of completion. Kathy’s house was finished, but the landscaping wasn’t in. I’d seen its twin or its mirror image replicated up and down the street—buff-colored stucco with a red tile roof. I parked at the curb, where moving boxes had been piled in anticipation of a garbage pickup. I took the walkway to the front door. The shallow porch had already been furnished with a faux-wicker couch, two faux-wicker chairs, and a welcome mat.
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