“Tom Smith,” I said. I’m nothing if not original at times like these.
“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Smith? All showings are by appointment only.”
What would Sherlock do?
“No,” I said. “No appointment, but I spent some time with Mr. Barsotti this morning, and I really liked his new E550.” This is called lying and telling the truth at the same time, a skill all detectives, Holmes included, learn early in their careers. It was the closest I could come to observing one of the five root vows, while still being remotely effective in my job.
His demeanor changed instantly after I dropped the Barsotti bomb.
“Of course,” he said. “Please! Right this way.”
He led me to a row of brand-new SLK and E-class coupes, laid out like metallic jewels on the tarmac.
“Beautiful, aren’t they? Lease or purchase?”
“I haven’t decided,” I said.
“There are advantages to each,” Chad said. “I can go over them with you.”
I circled each car, squatting down to look at the tires and making other traditional auto-shopper-type moves.
Peering in a window, I kept my voice casual. “How long have you known Mr. Barsotti?”
“My boss? I’ve been working for him about a year over here. Before that I was at his Ferrari dealership on Pasadena Boulevard. When he sold it and moved here, so did I.”
So he owned a car dealership as well as a hog farm. Busy little bee, this Barsotti.
“Ferrari to Mercedes? Bummer,” I said. I was just making conversation, but Chad jumped on my comment with the intensity of the recently converted.
“Are you kidding me?” he said. “Ever know anybody with a Ferrari?”
I didn’t.
“Well, here’s everything you need to know about them: They suck. They’re great to look at and fun to drive, but they’re basically expensive pieces of c-r-a-p, crap. Buying a Ferrari is like finding out the blue blood you married is actually a stripper.”
Chad Willoughby might be politically incorrect, but he was also unusually candid for a car salesman. That could prove useful.
“Vince Barsotti will tell you the same thing. That’s why he unloaded the dealership.” He sighed. “Selling them’s a snap, mind you. They sell themselves. It’s what happens later that’s the problem.”
“How so?” I asked, trying to keep him loose and in the mood to confide.
“Guy comes in; maybe he’s just made his first big movie deal. He lays eyes on the Ferrari, it’s like he’s seeing his girlfriend naked for the first time. Practically drooling, you know? Twenty minutes later, you’re out on a test run with him, he’s listening to the snarl of that exhaust pipe, and he’s hooked. An hour later he’s taking his new baby home, I’ve got ten grand’s worth of commission in my pocket, and everybody’s happy.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Yeah. Like Christmas, right? The problem is, two weeks later the guy calls and screams at you for an hour because his new quarter-million-dollar pile of doo-doo has stranded him and his girlfriend on the side of the road somewhere. Again. You get one thing fixed and something else breaks a month later. Welcome to the Ferrari lifestyle. A year of that and the guy learns the truth about owning a Ferrari: the two happiest days of your life are the day you buy it and the day you unload it on the next poor sucker.”
He patted a bright red hood. “You can count on these,” he said. “They ride like hell, run forever, and start every time.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” I said.
After that, Chad Willoughby was putty in my hands.
“Would you like a test drive?”
I pointed to the black hardtop in the showroom. “I’d like to see that one.”
Once inside, I used the “Which way to the restroom?” excuse to check out several framed photographs of my new pal Vince Barsotti, posing with sports celebrities and famous actors. No prize-winning pigs that I could see, at least of the hoofed species.
When I got back, Chad was using a chamois to stroke and polish the Merc’s hood.
“You’re a little beauty, aren’t you,” he crooned. He turned to me. “Carbon copy of Mr. Barsotti’s. You’ll love it.” He winked. “Shall I get the paperwork started?”
I pointed to an SUV nearby. “That’s the same model Ramona has, isn’t it?”
“Ramona?”
“Vince’s friend, Ramona.”
His body stiffened. I stayed relaxed. Said nothing.
“I think Mr. Barsotti handled that sale himself,” he muttered. “I’m not really sure.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, as if I’d just felt it buzz. Raising one finger, I stepped away and engaged in a brief, intense conversation with nobody. I finished the phantom call and smiled an apology at my new buddy. “I’m needed back at the office-can I get your card?”
“Uh, okay.” A scrim of disappointment dropped over Chad’s face. I almost felt sorry for the guy. I pocketed his card and gave his hand a quick shake.
“Do you have a card?” he asked.
I slapped my pockets. “Fresh out,” I said. “But here’s a number you can call.” I rattled off a series of random digits in the 310 area code. It was definitely a number-just not one that had anything to do with me.
“I’ll let Mr. Barsotti know you stopped in,” Chad said.
“Please do,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be surprised, if not thrilled.”
By now, I was starving, but out of time, and almost out of gas. I filled up at a local Arco station and grabbed a packet of peanut-butter crackers at the counter.
Made a mental note to remember wine for dinner.
Then I dashed back to Barsotti’s love nest, “dash” being a relative term anywhere in Los Angeles any time after three o’clock in the afternoon. It was close to dusk when I pulled into the complex. I was glad to see both cars still in place.
I’d no sooner opened my crackers when Barsotti emerged and quick-walked over to his car. Here we go again. I stayed five cars back as he hacked his way through traffic, this time taking Coldwater south. It was a slow grind, climbing up and over Mulholland, dipping down into Beverly Hills. Night was closing in by the time we reached Beverly Drive. I checked my watch. I was cutting my dinner plans close. Barsotti hooked a left, onto a quiet street in the part of Beverly Hills known as “the flats.”
I rolled past as he pulled into the circular driveway of a two-story English Tudor, centered on a large manicured lot. The garage door opened to admit his car. Well, what do you know? Another Mercedes SUV was parked in the his-and-hers garage. Silver, like the girlfriend’s, but an older model. I glanced in the kitchen window. Barsotti was hugging a woman. Blond, like the girlfriend, but an older model. Mrs. Barsotti, I presume.
Two preteen Barsottis were already sitting at the kitchen table, set for four. So Vince was a family man who believed in good old-fashioned family values … with one small exception. I doubted the missus knew about that exception, especially the bit about the newer, shinier sheet metal. Beverly Hills wives can be touchy on that subject.
A security car pulled up next to me. Now my Toyota stuck out like a tutu at a wrestling match. What a difference a few miles makes. The patrol car’s window slid down and a uniformed guard leaned his jaunty cap out the window.
“Help you, sir?”
I explained I thought someone I knew, a friend, lived on this street, but I was mistaken.
Lying while telling the truth. Easy as pie.
CHAPTER 14
In L.A., there’s “fashionably” late, and then there’s “just plain rude” late. I arrived at Julie’s front door somewhere in between the two. I hate being late at all-monastic living trained me to be a stickler about keeping to a schedule, otherwise you never found any spare time for yourself. I also hated to show up for dinner empty-handed, but with no opportunity to pick up a bottle of wine, I just had to make do with what I had.
My choices were limited, but between an opened packet of peanut-butter crackers and a paper bag of raw almonds, the almonds won easily. At least they had a nice story to go with them.