The Dealership

By Michael Bronte

Carmen Madrid finally got his opportunity when general manager Big Tony DeLorenzo moved him from being an air wrench jockey back in the shop to being a hotshot salesman selling Jaguars, Lincolns, and plain old Chevys. Life in Jamaica Queens was good—for a while—but the commission checks weren’t as big as he’d anticipated, and it wasn’t long before he was flat broke, looking for other ways to pay the bills.
That’s when Carmen discovered that the dealership sold more than just cars, and that money laundering, fencing stolen property, drug peddling, and pornography were some of its other products and services. In his world, qualities like honesty and integrity were great for people who could afford to have them, but sometimes working people just did what they had to do to get by, and honesty and integrity didn’t penetrate too far below the skin. It wasn’t long before he had to make a choice. Would he try to work as an honest salesman, or would he give in to the big money temptations the “side jobs” offered?
Travel with him through the gritty world of fast cars and faster women as he walks through the seedy and violent world of organized crime and racketeering, all of it shrouded by the crack epidemic and tough times that blanketed New York City, and more specifically, Jamaica Queens in the mid-‘80s. Does Carmen do the right thing, or does he become just another punk trying to get over on others before they get over on him?
There are a few other people who would like to know the answer to that question as well. There is Rita O’Shea, the lady cop who infiltrates the dealership by working undercover as a salesperson, Patty Fairchild, the goody-goody owner who wants to prove to herself and to her mother that she can make the dealership profitable, and Chita Espino, who for some reason believes in Carmen when others do not.
Go with Carmen and find out how he walks the line between decency and depravity, and see if he comes out on top. It’s quite a trip.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Bronte
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310263729

Michael Bronte

Michael Bronte is a graduate of Union College in Schenectady, New York, and George Washington University in Washington, D.C., and lives with his wife of 38 years in New Jersey. "All of the heroes in my novels are everyday people," says Bronte. "Any of them could by your next door neighbor. None of us really know what we're capable of until the time comes for us to reach beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives. Remarkable feats of courage are performed everyday, by everyday people. It's amazing."​ As a young teenager I remember reading paperback mysteries under a huge oak tree outside my parents’ neighborhood grocery store in Dalton, Massachusetts, a small town located in the heart of the Berkshires. I can recall pulling a book from the rack and getting locked in to those novels as the fragrant summer breeze of Berkshire County tried to turn the page before I was done reading it. I don’t know why, but I was greatly affected by a book titled The Fan Club, by Irving Wallace. When I was done reading it, I can still recall thinking that someday I’d be able to write a book like that on my own; I knew I could do it.Well, the idea stayed dormant for over thirty years while I did what I thought I should have been doing for a living (looking back, it all seems so trivial sometimes) until I rekindled my infatuation with writing novels. Now, many years after that, and many mistakes and many failures later, there are several Michael Bronte novels available for those of you who like mystery, suspense, action-oriented stories with true-to-life characters.

Book preview

Chapter 1... Life Is Good

It was tax day, 1985, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was brand new in sales, and I figured that what all the veterans had been bitching about was true: not a lot of people thought about buying new Jags on April 15th. It fell on a Monday, which was notoriously the slowest sales day of the week in the car business, and it didn’t need any help getting slower. I was gazing idly through the huge showroom windows when my name blasted over the PA system in that obnoxious, static loudness. Madrid... salesman Carmen Madrid... You’re needed at the front desk. It was my up. I wasn’t disappointed when I spotted the jet-black, BMW 735i that had pulled up outside. It was one of those low-slung jobs, with tires that looked a foot wide, and tread that looked like claws. It was quite the sight when the passenger door swung open and a pair of seven-foot-long legs stepped out.

Delmo gave out a long, low whistle. Get ’a load of this, he said, shaking his hand as if he’d just picked up a hot pot. Hey, Madrid, I’ll give you my next two ups if you let me take this one.

Not a chance, I said straightening my tie and running a comb through my hair. It never hurt to look good for the ladies.

Looking up from his racing form when all the guys rushed to the window, Billy Gatton sprang to his feet as if he were one of the colts he’d just been reading about. Jesus, he said. This one’s got legs all the way up to her ass.

She sure does, I said as a smile stretched across my face. And she’s all mine. I put on my best showroom strut and popped through the front door, noticing a couple of other prominent features about her besides her legs. It wasn’t until I was within ten feet of her that the driver’s door swung open, and Cro-Magnon Man hoisted his beefy gut from behind the wheel. Obviously, he’d seen me coming.

Hi there, I said as professionally as I could. It sounded good, not too greasy. My name is Carmen—Carmen Madrid. Welcome to Fairchild MotorCars. What can we show you today?

I always said we instead of I. It sounded a lot less intimidating that way. I shook his hand first, of course, just to make sure there was no mistake about who was boss. Good God, I thought, those boobs were as nice as her legs. I tried not to look, but I swore I saw eye imprints on them. I figured they came from behind the showroom windows, seeing as the guys were lined up like birds on a phone wire. She didn’t say anything at first, but she gave me a long, leering once-over.

Carmen, is it? she asked huskily.

Yes, Carmen... Madrid.

Oooh, baby, she cooed as she latched onto Cro-Magnon Man and crushed her swollen shirt into his arm. I just love this white one. Isn’t it cute?

I looked at the white one: a brand-new Jaguar XJS coupe, polar bear white, matching white leather interior—$37 grand. Good choice, I said sincerely.

Cro-Magnon Man said, Anything you want, Sweet Cakes. He glanced aggressively in my direction. You wanna take ’er for a ride, boy?

I’m sure he meant the car. I had the feeling he wanted to say something else, something like: You touch her, and I’ll cut your ass off and feed it to you for lunch.

Yes, sir. No problem, sir. Right this way, ma’am. I pulled open the passenger side door, noticing how her little white skirt rode up around her suzy when she got in. Be back in a flash, sir. I ran back into the showroom thinking: You lousy sap of a sugar daddy, which I didn’t say, of course.

As I picked up the key and a dealer plate, Delmo held out his hat and told me to hang it on my lap if my pants suddenly got too tight. Billy asked if I needed any help, seeing as I was new and all. Purely out of professional courtesy, he said.

Yeah, right, and I’m the Prince of Wales.

Cro-Magnon Man, who was in heated conversation about the Beemer when I got back, said to the seven-foot legs, Take care of it, Sweet Cakes. Just tell me if you like it.

She’d like it, I said to myself as I pulled the door closed with an air-cushioned thud. She’d think this car would make her lunch by the time I got done. It was time to make a sale.

With the engine purring like a fat kitten, we pulled off the lot beneath the plastic multicolored pennants flapping noisily in the spring breeze. It was the first spring weekend that really felt like summer, and even Jamaica Queens had some new life to it, a shine, as it were. It certainly looked different from the skanky day-to-day filth that had accumulated over months of gritty New York winter. I don’t know, maybe the filth just looked cleaner.

As me and Sweet Cakes rode down Jamaica Avenue through the bus fumes, I thought life was finally coming around my way. It wasn’t that long ago that I was working back in the shop, scraping enough grease from under my fingernails at the end of the day that I could fry an egg with it, if I wanted to. Actually, I ate a lot of eggs when I worked in the shop. They were cheap. It’s amazing what you’ll eat when you don’t have any money, isn’t it? Three years I ate those damn eggs. Eggs and cereal, toast and beer, when I could afford the toast. I always made room for the beer. I thought I was never going to leave that shop, but finally I got so sick of being treated like shit that I worked up the nerve say to Big Tony—that’s Big Tony DeLorenzo; he’s the general manager, Hey, Big Tony, how about a shot at sales, huh? I ain’t like those other bums back there. I can speak the language, and I can look the part. I mean, how hard can it be? Some of the salesmen you got now ain’t no big deal. I was careful not to use any curse words. I wanted him to think I had some class, you know what I mean?

I must have impressed him because a month later, boom, I was in sales. Finally, after breaking my ass for three years, I got a shot at making some real money and not being looked at like some piss-ant low-life. I was a salesman, selling Jaguars, Lincolns, and plain old Chevys, and I figured that if I did real good, maybe someday, you know, if I got a little lucky, maybe I could make general manager and be the man, like Big Tony, or something.

I put on my driving shades and looked to the right, making sure the traffic had stopped on Sutphin Boulevard. I noticed that the dudes on the street had stopped hawking joints for a second to check out the Jag first, and my passenger/customer second. That’s when I noticed that Sweet Cakes had unbuttoned the first three buttons of her frilly little cotton shirt. There were only five buttons on the shirt. I hadn’t even begun my sales presentation, and already I was tongue-tied.

Sure is hot, isn’t it Carmen? she asked, rubbing her neck, then her throat, then down, inside her shirt where a woman’s breasts begin. For a second, I thought she was wiping perspiration off her skin, except that she wasn’t the one perspiring.

Yeah, I said, Sure is hot. I was a real conversationalist. She was rubbing those big puppies like there was no tomorrow, and I looked in the rearview mirror just to take my eyes off them. That’s when I noticed that the car behind us couldn’t have been more than six inches off our tail. I couldn’t even tell what make it was, it was so close. The faces of the two black dudes inside took up the whole windshield, and they looked about as cheerful as Cro-Magnon Man had looked back at the lot. I sped up a little.

Is this how you’re supposed to hold this? Sweet Cakes asked.

I looked down and saw her left hand on the stick shift, stroking it, rubbing the big knob, her long, pink-nailed fingers going up and down, then up and down again. Her other hand continued to rub the inside of her shirt, but I’m sure if there had been any perspiration there, it would have been wiped away by then. Man, I thought, wishing I’d brought that hat Delmo had tried to give me, I sure could have used a soda.

Mmmmm, she sighed breathlessly. Mmmmm, I love this car. Don’t you, Carmen honey?

Damn! I thought. She was starting to get the wetties right there in the front seat. Her right hand came out from inside the shirt and slid down to.... Jesus Mother Mary! Suddenly, I pictured Cro-Magnon Man’s aggressive glance, and wondered if my ass tasted like shit. I figured I’d have an aversion to eating it. I had to do... something.

As we stopped at a light, I pressed a button and something hummed. Now, the sound system in this car—

Oh, screw the sound system, Carmen honey. I’ve got a better idea. C’mon, I know a place near here that rents rooms by the hour. Let’s go for it. Her hand disappeared up her skirt.

Now, I never professed to be an expert in this sort of situation—hell, I’d never even been in this situation—but at twenty-three, I’d been around the block once or twice, so, to me, C’mon, Carmen, let’s go for it, sounded pretty much like she was in the mood.

Suddenly, it was six hundred degrees on Jamaica Avenue. The light must have turned green while I was fumbling for the air conditioning switch, and the deafening horn blast from behind reminded me that green means go. I punched the Jag, leaving a little squeal on the pavement, and when I looked into the rearview mirror I noticed that, again, my entire mirror was taken up by the two huge heads. It looked like they were in my back seat. I remembered I was driving a $37,000-dollar Jag, so I punched it again, trying to put some distance between us and the two idiots in the whatever-it-was they were driving.

Asshole, I said, half-flooring the Jag as I tried to make the light at Jamaica Avenue and Frances Lewis Boulevard. The Jag bottomed so hard that Sweet Cakes could have impaled herself on her fingers. Wondering what I was cursing about, she turned and looked back through the rear windshield.

Shit!

Shit? What’dya mean, shit? Do you know them?

Drive faster! We gotta get the hell outta here! Go, now!

Faster? I’m already doing fifty-five, on Jamaica Avenue! Jesus lady, this car costs $37,000 bucks! The big heads made it through the intersection not three feet off our bumper. When I glanced into the rearview, I noticed one of the heads had disappeared. What the...?

Faster! Sweet Cakes screamed.

I looked across the front seat through the passenger side window. The head! It was there, on the other side of Sweet Cakes’ tits, bouncing up and down in the side mirror as the Jag ripped through the potholes. Then, I saw.... What was that—a gun? A gun! Jesus! I hollered as I floored the Jag. Sweet Cakes slammed into the back of her seat, forcing her to point her now perspiration-laden, quivering knockers straight to the stars. Quickly, I swung the wheel hard right, sailing the back end of the Jag into a screeching circle and barely missing the biggest truck in North America. I let up just in time, preventing the back end from smashing into oncoming traffic. From zero gas, I floored it once more, sending the rear wheels into a spinning, screeching frenzy. The engine roared in pain, while smoke swirled off the tires and made huge white clouds in the sunshine. The smell of burnt rubber was everywhere inside the Jag, and Sweet Cakes was nothing but a statue with nipples, frozen in her seat.

When the smoke cleared and I saw that there was no one behind us, I let up a little, fearing I’d either kill myself, or crap my pants, not knowing which was worse. I had breath again, so I took it in great, gulping gasps, feeling my heartbeat in my fingertips. I eased up a little more—huge mistake. Out of nowhere, the heads reappeared, this time with teeth bared. I didn’t even have time to floor the Jag again. The head on the passenger side leaned out, and BOOM! It was shooting—I mean, the dude was—something huge, and the blast rang out onto Frances Lewis Boulevard. BOOM! A second shot rang out, ripping a hole clean through the passenger side mirror and sending fragments of exploding glass into the atmosphere like fairy dust. I floored the Jag and prayed with all my might that we make it to the Van Wyck Expressway where surely, I hoped, I could lose these cowboys before they killed me.

At 115 miles an hour, when I didn’t see anyone behind us who could keep up, I let up on the gas. It’s not as if I had much choice, as we were quite quickly approaching a sea of red taillights stopped dead outside Kennedy Airport.

I found out that Jags handle okay at 115 miles an hour. I didn’t make the sale.

Chapter 2... On the Carpet

I was off that Sunday, and, as you might imagine, it was a pretty crummy day off. I spent the whole day wondering if Big Tony was going to put me on the chopping block. By the time I’d gotten back from the test drive with Sweet Cakes the night before, it was almost nine o’clock and almost everyone was gone. Cro-Magnon Man was still there, however, leaning against the Beemer with his big hairy arms folded across his gut. He was clearly steamed, and I thought surely he was going to beat the hell out of me, but Sweet Cakes explained everything. She said the heads had probably mistaken me for him, but I don’t think he believed her until he saw that mirror. It had a huge hole in it, and the metal was splayed like a metal star. When he saw that, his body language did a distinct about-face.

He looked around nervously. Anybody follow you, boy?

I don’t think so. I’m sure I lost them. I sounded like Dick Tracy.

Sure you did, numbnuts, but they know where this car came from, don’t they? He took Sweet Cakes by the arm, and said, We gotta go. His fat gut bounced furiously as he hurried to the Beemer, while with her, well, you know what was bouncing, and they blasted off.

No, really, I’m okay, and you’re welcome—asshole! I yelled at the escaping BMW. Then, I realized he was right. The heads could very easily have known where the white Jag had come from, and suddenly I knew I shouldn’t be anywhere near that car. I parked it in a remote spot on the lot where it would be impossible to see it from the street, and quickly dropped the key and the dealer plate into the service slot. Then, I hauled ass to the subway stop at Parsons Boulevard and Hillside Avenue, looking around the whole time as I walked. I guess I was still kind of tense, seeing as I’d never been shot at before, and I must have smelled like a nervous rabbit. There aren’t a lot of white faces on the streets of Jamaica at night, and all the dudes must have picked up on my vibes. I guess they thought I was scared of them, which I wasn’t, but it was like wolves circling wounded prey.

Wha’chu doin’ here, man? one ugly, veiny black dude said just as I approached the steps to the subway. For the first time in my life, I welcomed the smell of urine and vomit that always signaled the entrance to that subway stop. Luckily, the F train was pulling in just as I banged through the turnstile. It seemed like it took forever to get to my stop in Elmhurst, and I was jumpy as hell the whole way. I bought a six-pack from the Six Brothers Greek deli and popped one open right on the street as I dodged the crack dealers on Junction Boulevard. I drank it down before I reached my building, and I finished the rest of the six-pack in half an hour—on an empty stomach—then went into the bathroom and barfed it up. I’d never rented beer before.

When I went into work Monday afternoon—I was on the late shift Monday—everyone stopped talking when I walked down salesmen’s row. Salesmen’s row was the line of desks where the salesmen hung out and told dirty jokes when they didn’t have customers. Billy Gatton quickly yanked me through the curtain of silence before I got within sight of the tower.

That was where Big Tony hung out. It was at the far end of the showroom, six steps above the shiny tiles where the new cars were displayed. It was actually nothing but an open office surrounded by a half wall, but Big Tony surveyed his kingdom from the tower on an ongoing basis, keeping track of the up desk, listening to deals from the cubicles, checking out the babes as they meandered around the showroom.

Billy shielded me from view as he hissed through his teeth, What the fuck happened to you Saturday night? His breath smelled like vodka.

I didn’t get a chance to answer as Big Tony’s voice came soothingly across the PA system. It was calm, and mellifluous, and I knew immediately that my ass was grass, and he was the lawn mower. Mister Madrid, report to the tower, p-l-e-a-s-e.

Oh-oh, said Billy.

Now, Big Tony DeLorenzo stood about six-foot-four, weighed about three-sixty, and was known to be quite intimidating. He cruised the tower the way a captain cruised the bridge of an ocean liner, except that Big Tony didn’t wear some stupid sailor suit with little gold stripes on it. Big Tony wore immaculately pressed, fifteen hundred-dollar suits that hung perfectly around his huge girth as if they’d been sewn by the gods. Big Tony’s custom shirts had to cost a hundred bucks apiece, and one of his ties probably cost more than what I spent on groceries in a week. I’d been in sales for three months, and I’d never seen Big Tony wear the same suit twice. I figured he just threw them away.

I slinked through a gauntlet of stares and gingerly stepped up the stairway of death. I speculated that climbing the steps to a guillotine would have felt like that.

Sit, Big Tony ordered calmly while he finished scribbling on a piece of paper.

I sat and waited nervously while he scooted around in his big leather chair and did whatever he did. That chair looked like it was part of his body, and I figured it too must have been custom made. It was common knowledge around the dealership that no one, ever, sat in Big Tony’s chair, not even customers, and especially not their snotty-nosed kids. Even if Big Tony wasn’t there, which was rare—he worked fifteen hours a day, sometimes longer—everyone who visited the tower used one of the leather chairs in front of his huge mahogany desk.

Customers were always overwhelmed when they sat up there. Big Tony smiled, and acted like their best friend, and eventually they walked away thinking they’d just struck some great deal, when, in actuality, Big Tony could have been arrested for unarmed robbery. They got fleeced and thanked Big Tony for doing it to them.

I looked around as he continued to ignore me, and the sweet aroma from his herb plants wafted past my nose. Rosemary, basil, and sage, I think they were. I waited for him to say something, but he let me stew, and it was killing me. His perfectly smooth face was cool and dry, while mine was trembling.

So, he finally said. The word around here is that someday you wanna be the general manager of this place. Is that right, son? His eyes were deathly dark.

That’s just small talk for now, Big Tony. You know how that goes. Maybe someday, though.

Well, you may not make it, kid. Why don’t you tell me what happened to the white Jag before I decide whether or not I’m going to fire your skinny ass.

I swallowed hard. Well, Big Tony, you see, it’s like this....

Big Tony didn’t say a word. He just sat there, listening calmly, and it drove me crazy. Occasionally, I got a little, Uh-huh, or something, but basically he just let me ramble on about the puppy rubbing, the stick shift stroking, everything. I’m telling you. This girl was coming on to me big time, I said.

When I was done, he said, Tell me again.

The whole thing?

From the beginning.

So, I told him again, exactly as I’d told him the first time. Again, he listened calmly, the light reflecting off his slicked hair as he burned a hole into me.

Finally, he said, I believe you kid. No one could lie that good twice in a row. But you’re gonna have to pay for the mirror.

But... it wasn’t my fault.

Tony held up his hand. Your fault, my fault, nobody’s fault, I don’t give a shit. You’d better sell enough damned cars to cover it.

It had been decided. I was dismissed. It was either pay for the mirror, or kiss the dealership goodbye.

Chapter 3... Marching With The Band

I expected some sympathy from Billy Gatton.

I been there before, Billy said coldly. That’s the way it’s done. You fuck up, you pay.

It ain’t right.

It might not be, but bitching about it ain’t gonna do no good. It’s always been like that.

I wondered what always was. How long you been working here, Billy?

Twelve, thirteen years, I guess. I was here even before it was called Fairchild MotorCars.

I remember that, I said. I’d been walking by the dealership since I was a kid. That was before the big red sign, right?

Right, said Billy, spitting something from between his teeth. He went on to tell me about the old days, before some high-rolling dude from the city—that’s Manhattan—came into the picture.

Who was he?

One of those investment guys who had one of those first names that was just an initial. His name was L. Burton Fairchild.

And he bought this place? Why?

Jamaica Chevrolet was losing money big time, and this Fairchild chump thought he knew the car business.

Did he?

Billy shrugged. Didn’t matter. He bought the place regardless, changed the name, and put up a big new sign; started selling really hot shit cars, too.

I remembered how the name change had been a big deal on Jamaica Avenue back then. I was only about fifteen at the time, and I was still living in Jamaica with my folks. The reason I remember is because there was a lot of talk about how the neighborhood was going to hell. That was in 1977, right when the city had just torn down the el, and even though most people thought the neighborhood had already made the trip, it got worse.

Jamaica’s personality changed without that el. It was always cool and dark on the street when that el was there, and the ground shook whenever a train thundered over those elevated tracks. Between the train noise, and brakes that squealed like demons when the trains stopped, the streets were in a constant uproar, but it was sort of the lifeblood of Jamaica Avenue. It gave the street a pulse, a strange, morbid vitality that never stopped despite the creepy darkness that made it feel as if the el covered the whole world.

As eerie as it was with the el in place, the street looked deformed when the el came down. It was as if part of it had been amputated, and indeed the cut off steel columns that remained looked like leg stumps. The Woolworth store looked a lot smaller in the sunlight, and the fronts of the buildings suddenly showed their age like an old woman’s reflection in a makeup mirror. The buildings weren’t works of art to begin with, but the el just absorbed all the attention. With it gone, the dirt and squalor of the street stood out even more. Suddenly, there were more newspapers blowing about. The potholes looked bigger in the daylight. The derelicts and the druggies smelled worse when they sweated in the sunshine. Sometimes, when a big rain came, I remember it looked as if all the grime and rubble would wash into the sewer, but there was never enough rain. Jamaica Avenue was still scuzzy afterwards, only then it was a wet scuzzy, and the sidewalks kind of stuck to your feet.

When the Fairchild MotorCars sign went up, there was a lot of buzzing that Jamaica was in for some kind of urban renewal, but it never happened. Jamaica Queens continued as the slummy commercial center that it was. The old white people from Hollis only came out during the day, and the only businesses that stayed open past six o’clock were the ones where the owners carried .38s in their pockets. Now, there was just a huge sign with six-foot-high red letters, lighting the grime at night so that it could be seen with a strange cast to it.

So that’s when you started working at the dealership? Did you make any money back then?

I’ve always made money, kid. I just made more when the expensive cars came on board. The sticker prices were up, and so were the commissions. I made a shitload of money.

I heard that one year Billy topped fifty grand, but you’d never know it by looking at him. What do you do with all your money, Billy?

None of your fucking business, kid.

I really didn’t need an answer anyway. I think that between the cigarettes and the coke, Billy either sucked fifty grand up his nose, or into his lungs. Billy never had any money, even though he or Delmo were always at the top of the sales list. I don’t know how Billy did it. He dressed crummy; his face always had a half-day’s growth on it, and his tie was always sloppy. Even his teeth were never white enough, but he always sold cars.

What’s your secret? I asked.

You gotta tell the maggots what they wanna hear, he scoffed. They don’t know the fucking difference. ‘You want the car repainted? Sure no problem. You want to install four-wheel drive on that $20,000 Lincoln? We’ll take care of it.’

You say shit like that?

If I can get away with it.

If I did stuff like that, Big Tony would bounce my ass down Jamaica Avenue in about ten seconds.

SOP, said Billy, taking a huge drag on his cigarette. None of that matters as long as you get cars out the door. That’s the name of the game. Big Tony might curse you out if you do something really stupid, but that’s the worst of it. Just get the fuckin’ cars over the curb, kid.

You’ve had to pay for things out of your pocket? I asked.

Lots of times. Ain’t no big fuckin’ deal. Hey, if you wanna play with the big boys, you gotta march with the band.

I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but I got the drift.

Billy was one of the big boys, as he characterized it. Delmo was the other, but I’ll tell you about Delmo later. The only reason I’m bringing it up is because I was tight with both of them. Well, tighter than with the other guys, at least.

We had big boys, but no big girls on the sales floor. Not a lot of them applied. Finding a white woman to sell cars in Jamaica Queens was like walking to the moon, and the black women who applied were mostly girls-from-the-hood types who thought they were tough and could handle it. We’d tried a couple of them out, but they couldn’t take the snaking. They just weren’t strong enough, or bitchy enough, to hold their own, so they got squashed. The only reason I didn’t get squashed is because I’d worked in get-ready and in the shop—or the service department, as the customers called it; that was kind of joke, too—and I got to know Billy and Delmo pretty well, seeing as they brought the most cars back there. By the number of cars they brought back to get-ready, I calculated once about how much money they must make. My eyes got real big when I looked at the figure. That’s when I started thinking about going into sales. It was because they got to like me, I think, that Big Tony gave me a shot. When the other guys on the floor saw that I was sort of tight with Billy and Delmo, they didn’t try to squash me too bad. Some tried, but I’d been around the dealership for a while too, and I didn’t take their shit. Billy and Delmo backed me up most of the time, and I liked the respect that came from it. I liked the feeling of being able to make money and look good doing it. I liked the feeling of being accepted as one of the guys and driving around in hot cars. I liked looking cool, and, while I ain’t no movie star, I looked okay most of the time. I looked better than Billy, anyway, and I’d even had a lady or two tell me I was kinda hot. All I had to do was to have the money to go along with the image. I was on my way, too.

How many cars you sold this month? I asked curiously, wondering how I measured up to one of the big boys.

If you can keep track of ’em, said Billy knowingly, you ain’t makin’ no money.

He was right. It was my third month in sales. The first month I spent more or less in training, which consisted of watching a few lousy tapes, and standing around picking my ass while the experienced guys took my ups. But I did learn something. There was more to selling cars than you might think. Sure, you had to know something about the cars, but that wasn’t the most important thing. Good salesmen had to have something I still can’t quite put my finger on, because it’s kind of intangible. It’s not education necessarily—hell, most of the guys at Fairchild MotorCars could barely read—but there was something about the ones who made money. They had a sixth sense of when a customer—they called them maggots at the dealership—was ready to buy. Some maggots would kick tires for half the day if you let them, and the salesmen that didn’t have that intangible quality spent hours with them, thinking they were on the verge of a big deal, only to have the maggot bounce at the end. The experienced guys could tell when a maggot wasn’t ready to buy, even when the maggot started negotiating. I’ve seen Delmo bounce a maggot in the middle of a deal, then close the next one fifteen minutes after shaking hands on the lot. He knew just where the opening was, and when to ask for the sale. And, as any good salesman will tell you, you gotta ask. Maggots can’t make a decision. You gotta make it for them.

I closed twelve deals my second month, which was March, and it was the biggest paycheck I’d ever seen. In April, I had already closed ten deals, and it was only the middle of the month. If I matched that for the second half, I’d have been one happy camper. The $375 for the mirror wasn’t going to hurt so bad after all, but I still didn’t like it. Fuck Billy and his march with the band bullshit.

Chapter 4... Chita

Dealing with the business office was a pain in the ass. We had to go in there to check our vouchers, collect our mail, steal their coffee, you know, do all the things salesmen were supposed to do. It used to be that the stuff was distributed to our desks so that we could review our deals and see which ones washed out of F & I—that’s finance and insurance—but too many of the dildo salesmen like Billy lost the damned papers, or spilled coffee on them, or did something equally stupid with them. So, right after I came on board, Max Holtzman announced that no longer would papers be allowed out of the business office, and they set up one single review desk back there. I guess that was okay, except for the fact that most of the business office people thought we, the salesmen, were scum, and, we, the salesmen, thought most of them were Nazis, and would have liked making lampshades out of our skins. I was at the review desk when Billy came up and took his stuff out of his cubbyhole, which I think had gum wrappers in it.

How you doing so far this week? he asked, making small talk. It was only Wednesday.

I got one last night but the guy needs a cosigner.

What’d you hold?

Salesmen were always curious about other guys’ deals. Holding meant how much profit was in a deal. Our commission was fifteen percent of that.

Twenty-two hundred, I answered. That was a pretty good hold and it meant $330 bucks in my pocket—if the maggot got someone to sign with him. How you doin’ so far?

Billy flipped through his vouchers. I got one Monday night, and I got two deliveries today. Smoke curled from the cigarette dangling from his lip.

I calculated quickly. Three deliveries and it was only Wednesday. That probably meant a thousand or so in Billy’s pocket, and he’d probably get at least two more by Saturday.

What are you selling? I asked curiously.

Monte Carlos. They’re hot.

I was content to sell the occasional Celebrity. I flipped through my papers again just to make it look as if I had a lot going on, when Chita came out of Holtzman’s office. I never saw Billy’s head move, or his eyes leave the stuff he was examining, but he must have caught her movements out of the corner of his eye.

You snag a date with her yet? he asked.

No, but I’m getting close.

Right. You’ve been saying that since you got on the floor. Little puffs of smoke accompanied his words. You ain’t never gonna to smell that thang.

Somehow, I didn’t think Chita’s thang smelled. I really didn’t like talking about her that way, so I didn’t say anything, hoping Billy would change the subject. It really wasn’t that bad, though, and besides, it’s how salesmen talked. Hell, I’d heard a lot worse. In any case, I went along when I saw that Billy expected me to say something else. Like I said, it’s how the salesmen talked.

No really, I said. I think she’s warming up to me. She’ll be hot for my bod by the end of the month.

Sure, Billy said as he crammed his stuff back into his cubbyhole. You want some action, you oughtta get it on with Zena. Murphy took her out and said she sucked his dick until his head almost caved in. Having relayed that pertinent piece of information, Billy stole a cup of coffee and left the swinging half door flapping as he returned to the showroom.

Chita was in charge of the office, the cash part, that is. Holtzman was in charge of the whole shebang back there, but Chita pretty much handled the cash, the finance contracts, and other stuff that had to do with whatever it had to do with. I always liked it when Chita was working, not that she was any nicer than the other two trolls who did her job, but at least she was something to look at while you bit your fingernails hoping that your maggot’s check was good for the down payment.

Chita, I found out, was short for Charristida. Charristida Sophia Teresa Espino. She hated it when you called her Charristida. Too old-farty, she said. Call me Chita. It could have been Cheetah because that’s how she acted sometimes. By that, I mean she was temperamental as a cat: purring at you one minute, snarling and clawing at you the next. Still, I liked her, or at least I thought I would—if I ever got the chance. She was