THE
CONVERTIBLE
HEARSE
William Campbell
Gault
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sweet Wild Wench
Also Available
Copyright
For Marty and Irene Kaprelian
ONE
NOBODY IS PERFECT, not even Jan. Jan is vulnerable to certain idiocies of our time and one of them is television. And on television, her taste is inexcusable; she likes quiz shows, all-girl orchestras and used-car dealers.
Taste is Jan’s business, you must remember. She’s an interior decorator, and people of some discernment and background have told me she is a good one. So this incredible lapse in her standards is not easy to understand.
But then, I read somewhere that Satchmo listens to Guy Lombardo when he’s relaxing and maybe that’s the way it is with Jan. I mean, maybe she just lets down in her leisure hours. Sort of like taking off a girdle or wearing sloppy slippers.
Not that Jan needs a girdle, or wears one. Not my Jan.
Anyhow, among all the freaks in the fender-thumping end of TV, there was one who held a particular fascination for my girl. He went under the title of Loony Leo and he boasted nightly that he was “the craziest trader in the craziest trading town in America and nobody, but nobody, will give you the deal old Loony Leo will.”
Even if you owed more than your present car was worth, you could get a better one from Loony Leo, get some cash to boot and lower your payments. And on Saturday nights, if you called before they closed, he would throw in a set of imported stainless steel tableware.
It was imported all right. From Japan.
We were watching this weird man one Saturday night at Jan’s place, when she said, “I need a new car. Why don’t we go down there?”
“I’d rather neck,” I said. “Honey, the man’s a crook. And your car is better than anything he’s likely to have.”
Jan has a Chev Bel-Air with less than twenty thousand careful miles on it, a sweet-running and good-looking little number.
She sniffed. “Better than a ‘56 Cadillac Eldorado? Leo’s got one of those for thirty-four hundred dollars.”
“No he hasn’t,” I said.
“I just saw it. Do you think they could lie on TV? He just showed us the car. And I’ll bet for cash, I could …”
Leo was pounding another fender and pulling cards that sent the price of a ‘57 Dodge down to bedrock.
I said, “For cash, you couldn’t even buy from Leo. That Cad is thirty-four hundred base and another thirty-four hundred in interest and a few hundred more in insurance that Leo handles for you — and by the time you’re through, Leo has enough to open another branch. If you want a car, we’ll get a new one. At Santa Monica Ford or Beverly Hills Ford, or …”
“I don’t want a Ford,” she said. “You and your damned Fords. I want a Cadillac.”
“All right,” I said, “we’ll go over to Beverly Hills Cadillac Monday and …”
“I don’t want to go Monday. I want to go tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I explained to her. “The reputable dealers are all closed on Sunday.”
“Loony Leo isn’t.”
“I know. That’s what I said.”
Leo was now offering his “Suicide Seller,” the good-will offering that climaxed his Saturday night First-Run Movie presentation.
The first-run movie featured Rod LaRocque and Vilma Banky and the suicide seller was a gleaming ‘52 Ford Club Coupe.
“This car,” Leo said in his smiling way, “will go to the first customer who gets down here with a ten-dollar bill. That’s right, I repeat, a ten-dollar bill! Let some of my so-called competitors match that offer!”
Jan raised her eyebrows and smiled at me. “How do you like that, Brock Callahan?”
“If you lived next door,” I said, “and rushed right over, that car would be sold. If you got there before he finished the commercial, the car would be sold. And Leo would have a bill of sale to prove it.”
Jan sighed and sipped her beer. “You’re impossible. Well, I’ll go alone.”
“Go where? When?”
“To Leo’s. Tomorrow. Brock, if I intend to get the carriage trade, I must look like I’m getting it, don’t you see that? I mean, in Beverly Hills, nobody drives a Chevrolet.”
“You’re getting the carriage trade,” I said. “And you could pretend it’s a second car. Lots of people in Beverly Hills drive Chevrolets for third or fourth cars.”
She said nothing.
I said, “Jan, you were never phony. Why start now?”
That sweet face stiffened and those soft brown eyes hardened. “Easy, Mr. Callahan. I can afford a Cadillac. Maybe you can’t, but I’ve some business sense.”
I had been looking ahead to a pleasant evening and perhaps even a pleasant night. The lust in me struggled with my considerable pride and I was momentarily silent.
Loony Leo faded from view and Vilma Banky came back and the silence continued.
And then Jan reached over to put her hand in mine. “I can be such a bitch, can’t I? Just because you’re honest …”
“And incompetent,” I said. “You’re right. You can afford a Cadillac.”
“You’re not incompetent,” she said heatedly. “You’re brave and strong and honest and …”
“And obstinate,” I finished for her. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”
“You’re wonderful,” she said. “This isn’t a very good picture, is it?”
“It’s not the best of Vilma’s,” I admitted. “Should I turn on the Legion fights?”
“If you want to,” she said quietly. “Unless there’s something you’d rather do.”
I leaned forward to turn off the television.
And that’s how I happened to be there in the morning, when Jan decided to go down to Loony Leo’s. She had made me a fine full breakfast of waffles and eggs and little pork sausages and she had read all the drama, society and literary news. And I had read how my old buddies were figured to beat the Philadelphia Eagles and how Milwaukee had lost the big one to St. Louis and what Giardello had done to Bobby Boyd in Cleveland. My reading had been rather limited lately; the headlines scared me into the sports pages.
“I’m going down, anyway,” Jan said. “Maybe he’s a crook, as you claim, but I’m going down to see. I want a big car and I can afford to drive it. As a matter of fact, I can’t really afford to drive anything else. Not in Beverly Hills.”
“Honey, I said, “if you want a big car, that’s enough. You don’t have to make it sound noble. I’d like a Continental, myself.”
“Then buy one,” she said. “You’ve still got that ten-thousand-dollar bonus Mr. Quirk paid you.”
“Maybe I will. If Leo has a ‘56 Continental for around seven hundred dollars and he’ll throw in the silverware and promise to show us some Tom Mix pictures, I could be sold.”
I was lying, of course. I only wanted to go along to protect Jan. She thinks she’s a canny businesswoman and she is, but only in her line. Outside of that swish-infested field, she is a sucker for the hard sell.
Leo’s emporium was on Crenshaw, about a block from Daffy Dan’s and not too far from Motor Metropolis. Los Angeles is a town on wheels and the boys wh
o supply the wheels make the old horse traders look like clergymen.
Leo had a sign not much more than two hundred feet long running the length of his lot and a number of smaller signs supplementing this which proclaimed loudly, “I will not be undersold.”
We parked the Chev in front and walked over to the shiny front row, where Leo kept his cream. This man really had them, Jags and Cads and Lincolns, Imperials and Bentleys and one silver and black Ferrari.
The second row held the medium-priced cars; the low-priced trade-ins were wholesaled, according to Leo’s ads. Jan stopped in front of a cerise Cad convertible.
And along the row, a salesman was now approaching. His suit was Italian silk and he wore a tattersall with it, and I had a feeling there should have been a toothpick in his mouth, but there wasn’t.
Evidently he assumed I was the prospective lamb, for he addressed me. “Beautiful wagon, isn’t it?”
“It’s all right,’ I said.
He smiled. “What are you driving now, sir?”
“I’ve got a 1918 Apperson,” I said, “but I been kind of hankering after something with balloon tires. Though I ain’t so crazy for those four-wheel brakes.”
His eyes narrowed a bit and he looked past me at Jan.
“My friend,” she explained, “was never told vaudeville is dead. Where is that Eldorado that was advertised for thirty-four hundred dollars on television last night?”
He smiled. “That car sold exactly seventeen minutes after you saw it on TV, miss. But we’ve got plenty more just like it.”
I said, “How about a Dort or a Stutz? You got anything clean in that line?”
“Brock,” Jan said frigidly, “shut up!”
The salesman looked out at the Chev. “Is that your car, sir?”
“It’s mine,” Jan said. “And I’m the one who’s looking for a new one. My friend just came along as an annoyance.”
He smiled. “It’s all in fun, isn’t it, sir? Was it a Cadillac you had in mind, miss?”
Jan nodded. “A convertible. That Chevrolet has only twenty thousand miles on it, but you don’t retail your small trade-ins, do you?”
“Bel-Airs we do,” he said. “Don’t worry, miss, a sweet little Chev like that will more than cover the down payment.” He looked thoughtfully off into space and back at the Chev. “Have you had any offers on it?”
“I was offered twelve hundred by a Ford dealer,” she said.
He laughed. “You’re joking.”
“No. Really. It’s in very good condition.”
“That’s what I mean,” he said. “I could put it on the lot and sell it for sixteen hundred in twenty minutes. Somebody was trying to gyp you, lady.”
“You had a duplicate of it on TV last night for nine hundred,” I said.
He nodded and his face didn’t change expression. “But it wasn’t our car. The boss sold it for a friend who wanted some money in a hurry, just as a personal favor.”
“Why didn’t the boss buy it for a thousand,” I said,” and put it on the lot and sell it for sixteen hundred in twenty minutes?”
He looked at me in hurt dignity. “The boss don’t make money off his friends.”
“I see,” I said. “I’m sorry. Well, you put this on the lot for sixteen hundred and sell it in twenty minutes and we’ll give you two hundred commission and you’ll have earned ten dollars a minute and we’ll all be happy.”
He sighed and looked at Jan. “We have a skeptic with us. All right, I’ll do better than that. I’ll allow you eighteen hundred for it on any Cad on the lot. Fair enough?”
Jan looked at me triumphantly. “I guess he topped you, smartie. Have you anything further to say?”
“Not a word,” I said. “He topped me. Now the trick is to find a ‘56 Eldorado at thirty-four hundred so we can give this man the Chev and sixteen hundred dollars and get out of here.”
Silence. Jan looked at the salesman and shook her head. He sighed and looked sadly toward the showroom. The Chev sat patiently at the curb, saying nothing, but somehow appearing dejected. She loved Jan, that Chev did.
“I guess I’ve been a spoil sport,” I said. “It was just a friendly little Sunday morning game and I didn’t enter into the spirit of it.”
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, arme
d, 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?”
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