In Which Brief Stories Are Told

One Version of the Story

One Version of the Story The first time Richardson comes in, me and Bruce are backed against a red S-15, having coffee and shooting the breeze about the Cowboy-Steelers game. We’re just hanging there, gabbing, when this buckskin ’76 Century Custom wheels in at a good clip, swings around, and lurches to a stop, smack in front of the double doors, as if it was meant for the showroom—if the Jimmy we were leaning on wasn’t in its place. A blast of frigid air seems to shoulder the guy in the door. Right away I’m struck by what he’s wearing—or what he’s not, actually—no overcoat or nothing, just a plain brownishgray suit, and it’s only about twenty outside. Still, he’s dressed pretty snazzy, with the right kind of tie, and I decide at the getgo that he could turn out to be a good mark. Fact is, he’s coming hard, like he knows what he’s in for. That’s usually a good sign. Of course, Bruce catches the scent same as I do. I see him roll his eyes—he means for me to see—like we both know the guy’s only going to be a bother and Bruce is sorry our little chat’s interrupted . But I know better. When it comes to sales, Bruce is a carnivore. He begins to sidle toward the guy right off, even while In Which Brief Stories Are Told 2 ) he’s still blabbing to me about the game, because January’s been slower than usual, and old Bruce is a pressure point, always sizing up prospects with one side of his brain as he figures commission with the other. I’m sure he was pushing to get a jump on Sales Master of the Model Year, since I’ve beaten him out the last two seasons. But just as Bruce moves full stride toward the guy, waving off my smart-aleck comeback, Lucy pages him for an urgent on line two, and I get to belly up for the sale. That’s when I first notice the guy’s a little anxious. He never really stands still the whole time we talk. He’s maybe five-ten or eleven and a little paunchy in the gut. I guessed mid-thirties, with some gray hair just beginning to show at the temples, like owl tufts. His suit coat’s unbuttoned, and his white shirt pulls kind of wrinkly at the waistband of his pants, just about where his bluish-tinted tie points. All of a sudden, I’m beginning to have doubts about my prospects , like maybe I overestimated him. Fact is, he’s looking sort of lackey—like he doesn’t want our eyes to meet. He stares out the window as we talk. Still, I’m thinking upgrade, maybe a Regal. But before I can even slip him one of my cards or pop a wintergreen Certs in my mouth, he’s asking if we have anything with four doors, says he’s looking for something with four doors. “Well, you have quite a choice,” I begin, lifting my voice to that friendly twang I was told helps sway the just-lookings into sixty-month payments. I sweep the air with my arm, figuring to bat his gaze out the west window and into the front lot, where dozens of our fastest movers gleam like enamel candy. But I no sooner start to list our latest models and options when he cuts me short. “Four doors,” he says. “It’s for my wife.” I’m thinking: Hot damn. I can’t believe my luck. Seems like I had him pegged right all along. It just so happened we did have something with four doors, a unit we’d taken in on a dealer One Version of the Story ( 3 trade—from Indiana, I think. It was a white Cutlass sedan with aquamarine interior—pretty dull, actually—and Bruce and me had a hefty side bet going as to who could unload it first. I mean, activity on that unit was like zero—so bad that Danny, our service manager, had been using it as a short-term loaner. Except for the one hick whose sheepdog upchucked on the back seat, it hadn’t gotten much use, maybe two thousand on the odometer. I...