new and used: BEST BUY BUICK amp; OLDS.
I pulled the rental Buick into the lot and stepped out, looking (I hoped) fairly prosperous in my suit and tie and brown leather overcoat. These, as well as a second suitcase and enough clothes of various sorts to fill it and my immediate needs, I’d bought at shops on the Illinois side of the Cities, at South Park Mall, which hadn’t been far from the Howard Johnson’s I’d checked out of. I had checked into the Blackhawk Hotel, just before heading out Brady Street, and all of this had eaten up most of the morning. It was now approaching noon, the sun bright and reflecting off the shiny new (and used) cars.
I began nosing around. Buicks and Oldsmobiles and Pontiacs. Sporty cars and conservative ones. Expensive ones and less expensive ones. Here a two-tone barge with a vinyl top; there a low-slung number with a garish bird spread over its crimson hood. Symbols of status that told you who you were, in case you didn’t know.
A Mexican blue-collar type was chatting with a heavy-set salesman in a red blazer; the blazer blurred into the red Firebird they were discussing in puffs of smoky breath. A middle-class family was looking a station wagon over; the father was about my age, the mother perhaps ten years younger-two well-behaved kids, a boy and a girl, six and four I’d guess, tagged along. A younger red-blazered salesman was pointing out the benefits of these practical wheels; but I caught the father gazing wistfully at a sporty little two-seater.
I heard the swish of nylon and turned to see a beaming, very blond, startlingly beautiful woman in red blazer and white pleated skirt and blue shoes approaching. Her lipstick was bright red, teeth a dazzling white, and her eyes a deep resonant blue. She was a human American flag, her arms moving like a soldier on parade, waving her hips by way of patriotic greeting.
I couldn’t help but smile; first time in days I’d done that. Her manner was a skillful blending of cheerleader sexiness and no-nonsense businesswoman. You wanted to fuck her, and she implied she’d love to fuck you, as well-only business before pleasure.
“What do you see that you like?” she said, in a tone utterly devoid of innuendo, or for that matter irony.
“Nothing yet,” I said, smiling blandly, and moved along the row of cars, ignoring her, as if I didn’t know she was following along at my side, like a beauty pageant contestant on a runway.
“Do you have something in mind?” she said, pleasantly, her breath visible in the cold. None of the sales staff was dressed warm enough.
“I was here about a week ago,” I said, giving her a casual glance. “I don’t believe I remember seeing you, and I think I’d remember.” A quick smile to acknowledge her attract- iveness. “You new here?”
“Why, relatively new,” she said, the question throwing her just a bit off guard. “But I’ve been with the firm several months. Were you here in the evening?”
“Why, yes.”
She smiled like a stewardess. “Well, that explains it. I’m only here mornings and some afternoons.”
“You don’t often see a woman working a car lot.”
“Times are changing,” she said, perkily, not insulted, or anyway not showing it.
“I noticed. But car lots-particularly used car lots-seem one of the last male strongholds. When did you last hear someone say, ‘Would you buy a used car from this woman?’”
“Never,” she said, something warm and more real in her voice now, “but then I almost never get mistaken for Nixon.”
That made me smile again and look at her, in a different way. The Nixon reference was surprising, because it was something you’d only say if you were about my age, and I’d thought her younger than me. And she was, but only a few years, though if you looked past the deft, sparingly applied makeup, you could see it. She’d been a cheerleader, all right, and probably a beauty queen too-but fifteen years ago.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
She pointed to her bosom; on the blazer it said, ANGELA, in blue stitched cursive. Her tapering hand wore no wedding ring, but I could see the smooth shadow where one had been.
“Angela what?”
“Jordan.” And she extended her hand.
I shook it and said, “I’m Jack Ryan. From Milwaukee. I get through here from time to time.”
“Really?”
“That’s right. And, like I said, I stopped by your lot, here, not long ago. Had my eye on a buggy. A Buick.”
“And you don’t see it here? Do you know the model?”
“No. It was a big car, or as big as they make ’em now. Dark blue, with a sky-blue interior, white walls…”
“I think I can show you a similar car, but not with that color combination… funny.”
“What is?”
“I think I know the car you mean. A Regency. Beautiful car.” She lifted her eyebrows. “It’s just funny that you should ask about that particular unit.”
We were walking into the used car area now. There was a gentle but chilly breeze; pennants flapped above us.
And I asked her again: “What’s funny about it?”
She sighed, crinkled her cheeks with a wide, closed-mouth smile. “It was stolen.”
I shook my head and made a world-weary face. “Really. That’s terrible.”
She grunted agreement, then said, “Of all the cars on the lot, that one was the only one taken.”
“I suppose somebody hot-wired it and just took off.”
“I suppose. We never had a car stolen before. I mean, I’m pretty new, like I said, but Don has been here for years, and he said he never heard of such a thing.”
“Really.”
“Yes. And it just happened, you know.”
“Really.”
“Actually, I… well. Why don’t you let me show you something similar to the unit you had your eye on.”
“You started to say something. About the stolen car.”
“Well, Lonny-Mr. Best-just reported it stolen, yesterday.”
“Mr. Best? You mean the ‘Best’ in BEST BUY is a name?”
“Sure.” She looked at me with just a tinge of suspicion, or maybe it was just curiosity. “I thought you said you got through this area from time to time.”
“Well, I do, but only recently. I’ve only been working in Iowa and Illinois since the beginning of October.”
“I see,” she said. “Now, I know we have a like-new Regency, it’s a copper-brown, but…”
“Excuse me, Angela. Mind if I call you Angela? You said that car I wanted was just reported stolen, like that surprised you.”
“Well… I noticed it was off the lot on Wednesday morning, and I asked Lonny who’d sold it. He said nobody, and I asked where it was, and he said he thought it was being serviced.”
That was about as far as I dared push it.
I said, “What have you got in a smaller car?” She gave me a puzzled, if good-natured, look.
“I thought you wanted a big Buick…”
“I did. But it got stolen. What about that little black Sunbird?”
We walked over to it and she put her hand on the hood, gently, almost affectionately.
“It’s a cute little car,” she said. “It does have some miles on it-but a one-owner. The camel interior is lovely, don’t you think? I drive a little Sunbird myself.”
It had a cardboard sign in the window that said $2,500.
“What would you say to two grand cash?”
She raised an eyebrow, smiled. “I think that’s a possibility. I’ll have to check with Lonny. Mr. Best.”
“That’s fine. I’d like to meet Mr. Best. Lonny.”
She showed her teeth and her dimples; they went well together. “I think that can be arranged.”
I followed her back up the lot and into the showroom, where Cadillacs and other pricey barges were in dry dock. Soon I was inside a cubbyhole office decorated with GMC awards, classic car photos and, on a special shelf, golf trophies.
“Mr. Best,” Angela said, “this is Jack Ryan. He’s made an offer on the black Sunbird.”