Watch Those Car Guys: Eve Used an Apple...These Guys Used Steel.

By Sandy Grasso

                      WATCH    THOSE

                           CAR    GUYS

 

                  Eve used an apple…these guys used steel

 

“Watch Those Car Guys” provides a window into the hectic, fast-moving and free-wheeling world of the automobile business during the post-war period. The absence of standardized factory prices for automobiles provided the dealer with the opportunity to manipulate prices in order to confuse customers. Quick sales by any manner were the primary objective. The pre-war practice of providing good service at fair prices for the purpose of repeat business was all but gone.

 

Marty Stein is transformed from a respectful college sophomore into a devious automobile dealer. The greed and irresponsibility in his life parallels the practices evolving in the automobile business. His fifteen-year journey from a college sophomore to a felon leaves behind a wake that contains scores of deceived and disgruntled customers, a lover who almost dies from a bungled abortion, a son he may never see and the suicide of a trusting friend that was to a large extent Marty’s fault.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452030876

Sandy Grasso

The story revolves around the author’s experiences and observations covering a period of thirty years in the automobile business. He wishes to stress that these experiences were not those gained at a single dealership, but rather the result of having worked in dealerships representing all of the Big Three automakers and in two used car lots. During that time, he worked as a porter, mechanic, warranty manager and salesman. As a result, he was well positioned to observe the people, products, and practices of every aspect of the automobile business.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Looking Back

The war was well into its second year but that was of little consequence to Marty Stein. He was on a roll…well, it seemed that way.

Bob Iverson had introduced him to the BBB club. No, not the Build Better Boys club, but, rather, the Bread, Booze, and Broads club. Filet mignon, rack of lamb, lobster, manhattans, highballs, martinis…and the women. Marty felt like he had died and gone to heaven. The women in those Chicago high-rise apartments looked like movie stars. And making love…those women were the best. It didn’t end there either; the free tickets to the professional football and basketball games were like icing on the cake.

Not bad for a twenty-one-year-old sophomore straight out of an NYU business program. He hadn’t asked to go to Officer’s Training School (OCS). Rather, he was given a choice; go to OCS or join the other thousands of guys who might get their asses shot off. What would you do?

Right! He made the smart choice. So they called him a ninety-day wonder and under their breath, they called him worse things. He could live with the remarks and the sneers but the thought of Tony Simone hung heavily on his mind.

He and Tony had been buddies since junior high. They lived in a predominately Irish neighborhood and minorities were expected to toe the line. When tempers flared, it was not uncommon for Tony and Marty to be referred to as Guinea Wop and Jew bastard.

Marty’s father, Joseph, had an auto repair shop. Tony worked there each summer and after school. When Marty went to college, Tony started working full-time as a mechanic in the shop.

In one respect, Tony was less fortunate than Marty. While Marty was living the good life, Tony had been drafted and found himself serving as a mechanic in a motor pool unit.

Tony’s group was part of an Allied offensive against Monte Casino and during the fighting, a German pilot sent a round through Tony’s leg, leaving him with a noticeable limp. In some strange way, Marty would hold himself responsible for Tony’s injury.

Another ghost haunted Marty. He suspected that Bob’s largesse would come at a price…and so it did.

His first assignment was to monitor a contract that Bristol Industries had with the Feds. Bristol was under contract to build an improved bombsight for a fixed sum of money. During the course of this assignment, Marty met Bob Iverson, a seasoned PR man. Bob had used his magic to prepare Marty so that when the final cost of the project came in above the original contract price, Marty would react favorably as he performed the audit. More importantly, Bob would cause Marty to undergo an evaluation of his moral convictions.

Bob supplied Marty with all the supporting documentation but Marty found himself being less diligent than the situation demanded. He went through the motions of doing a thorough review of the data. But the taste of the pleasures Bob had provided and the desire for more diminished his ability to look critically into the data or to suggest to his superiors that the cost overrun was unjustified. Bob had seduced Marty as he had done to other unsuspecting Second Lieutenants. For the first time in his young life Marty had learned that if you know a person’s needs or desires, you have found a way into his soul. The lesson would remain with Marty for the rest of his life, as would the thought that Bob had bought his soul…at a discounted price.

Another of Marty’s responsibilities was to monitor the cost of a truck-manufacturing contract that the Feds had with General Motors.

He had occasion to visit one such plant, where he was scheduled to meet with a Mr. George Moore. Moore was Iverson’s counterpart, but he had no need or desire to bribe government personnel. The GM contract was straightforward; each truck had a specified price and there was no need for any deviation from the contract price.

When Marty arrived at the plant, Mr. Moore gave him a tour of the facility. Marty was impressed with the complexity of the plant and how efficiently the work seemed to be progressing.

When the tour was over, Moore led Marty back to his office and invited Marty to share coffee with him. While Moore’s back was turned, Marty gazed at a nearby wall and saw three pictures. The first was of a young Boy Scout with various medals. The second was a picture of a football player getting ready to throw a pass. The third was that of a young man in army fatigues. Marty surmised that the photographs were of Moore’s son.

Moore poured out two cups of strong black coffee, handed one to Marty and sat in a chair directly across from Marty. Now, Marty met Moore’s gaze.

What did you think of what you saw? asked Moore.

It was very impressive. Seems like GM and the workers are doing a great job for the war effort.

No sooner had Marty spoken the words war effort, he sensed that he had said the wrong thing.

Moore straightened up in his chair, his head high above his thin neck.

Marty could see the two deep creases that emerged from the side of his nostrils and ended on either side of thin, narrow, purple lips. Moore had a high forehead from which strands of fine gray hair were combed backwards against his scalp. His gray eyes seemed empty and lifeless. His skin had the pallor of someone who had not seen the sun in months and the first three fingers of his right hand had turned yellow from the countless cigarettes he had smoked.

"No, Lieutenant, the war effort was in the trenches in the Argonne. I put in six months of effort in those trenches. We ate, slept, shit, and died in those trenches. If the machine guns didn’t get you, then it was the mortars, or an artillery shell, or maybe a bayonet thrust. And there was always the gas…waiting for you.

My son exerted much more effort than I did. One of his buddies wrote me and said that a shell from a German ‘88’ went through the thin armor of his tank. I’ll bet that once it got in, it must have gone round and round and when it stopped, my son and his two buddies looked like Swiss cheese.

Marty grimaced as a sharp pain gripped his scrotum. As Moore continued speaking, his mouth stretched into a thin grin and his head swayed slowly from side to side. The words now came out like hissing sounds, and Marty imagined that he could see Moore’s tongue.

In Marty’s mind, Moore’s head assumed the appearance of a cobra swaying back and forth with its tongue flicking the air for a scent of the prey. Now the words came out through clenched teeth.

"No, Lieutenant, what you saw was business."

The word business came out like the hissing of a snake.

"Everybody here is in business. You, me, GM, the banks, the government, we are all in business. Before the war, most of the ‘patriots’ here didn’t have a pot to piss in. Now they take their pay from this business, and drop it on the bar at another business. Before the war, the big corporations had to compete to stay in business. Now, Uncle Sam guarantees the profits. It doesn’t end there, Lieutenant. The war will be over in a year or two, and GM and the rest will be ready to serve the boys…if…they come home. It will be business as usual. There’s no war effort here; it is simply the effort of business."

When the tension in his body had subsided, Moore grew quiet. His face returned to its normal look and the smile receded from his lips. Perspiration caused Marty’s shirt to cling to his shoulders. He had never witnessed such intense emotion. He could not fathom the grief attached to the loss of a son, especially in such a grotesque way. Marty wanted desperately to get out of the situation and as he arose from the chair, he barely managed to speak. But he finally said, Mr. Moore…I…I appreciate the time you have given me and the interesting tour of the plant. I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’ll do my best to give your payment requests a quick turn-around.

Moore nodded.

Marty quickly walked out of the building and into his car. He started the engine and turned on the radio. Finding a station that was playing music, he turned the volume up to its highest setting. The deafening sound still rang in Marty’s ears.

The experience with George Moore added to Marty’s dissatisfaction with his own conduct.

His mind drifted back to his last conversation with Bob Iverson.

* * *

Marty, we better eat well tonight. Who knows what the next contract will bring? Besides, I’ve been stuck in Chicago for two years…can’t wait to get back home. How about you?

To tell you the truth, Bob, I don’t even have a girlfriend. That’s funny when you think I was the most popular guy in high school.

With your good looks, I’m sure that you’ll have no trouble finding a girl.

How about adding rich and good-looking. You’ve spoiled me with these little jaunts.

You don’t want much, do you, Marty?

At the end of the dinner, Bob handed Marty two business cards.

Bob, I know what this card is for but what about the one for Gail?

If you get horny, give her a call and mention my name. Everything is in place for you…even transportation.

Hey, you guys have this thing down to a science.

We do what we can to help the war effort…charge a fair price…and keep our friends happy, Bob said, smirking.

Marty answered, "The last time I heard talk about the war effort, it was the saddest experience I ever heard. I met this guy, George Moore, at one of the GM truck plants. You know what he told me about the war effort? He said it’s all…bullshit. The guy lost a son in North Africa. I think he was right. For you, me, Bristol, GM, and the rest, the war simply means business. You talk about a fair price. Does that include a slush fund to have firms entertain guys like me?"

Marty knew that this was the wrong thing to say, especially after he had accepted the perks. But the thought of Moore’s dead son and Tony’s limp forced Marty to acknowledge that the wining and dining and all the other things that went on in the name of the war effort were wrong.

Marty, that’s a low blow.

Don’t take it personal. Got nothing against you. It seems to me that we get caught up in the tug of war between our strengths and our weaknesses. If your firm wasn’t fooling around with the numbers, there’d be no need to massage me. Shit, I enjoyed the whole fucking thing. Now, I have to convince myself that the cost overrun was justified. God, Mr. Moore was right. It’s all fucking business…and I’m a part of it.

Bob now realized that Marty’s scorn was not with the contractors or anyone else, but with himself. How could he tell Marty that he was wrong, when one of his duties was to soften up government accounting personnel?

Marty, I’m going to level with you. This shit goes on all the time. Like you said, it’s the price of doin’ business. Is it the right thing to do? Who the hell knows? I just don’t think about it.

Try as he might, Marty could not convince himself that there was anything wrong in what he was doing.

* * *

That night, as Marty lay in bed, he wanted desperately to shove aside the painful experiences he had just recalled, and like someone changing radio stations, he turned his mental dial until something pleasant appeared. A smile came over his face as he recalled the night that he and Tony went to a dance at the Jewish Center.

He remembered that Tony had been reluctant to go to the dance because he didn’t know what to do with Jewish girls. Marty reminded Tony that Jewish and Christian girls were all built alike.

It seems that Marty had been trying for months to get Barbara to have sex with him. Barbara had put up a good fight. But Marty was the best-looking jock at Columbia High and Barbara could not pass up the opportunity to have bragging rights. However, Barbara had one little problem. Her best friend, Judy, demanded that as a condition of maintaining their friendship, Barbara would need to get Marty to provide her with a partner.

Days later, Barbara met with Marty in a quiet corner of the school library. She agreed to Marty’s request and then went on to tell Marty about Judy. Marty made it clear that Tony was quite selective. But, if she vouched for the girl, Tony would cooperate. Barbara said that Judy wasn’t beautiful, but that she was stacked in the right places.

* * *

Marty saw himself driving his father’s 1937 Ford V8. The car, when new, sold for $640 and sported a V8 engine that delivered 85 horsepower. As Marty drove, he asked Tony if he had brushed up on his Hebrew. Marty laughed, but Tony wasn’t showing any enthusiasm.

Tony was more interested in the fact that Oldsmobile had just put an automatic transmission into their cars.

Where did you hear that, Tony?

I was at the diner when I heard it from one of the guys who works at the Olds place.

Must be expensive.

Nah, only fifty-seven dollars.

Hey, Tony, what’s so great about an automatic transmission?

It leaves one hand free to grab the chick beside you.

* * *

Marty saw himself driving up to the Recreation Hall and parking his car. As they walked into the dance area, he spotted Barbara and another girl. When they reached their table, Barbara, by far the prettier of the two, stood up and made the introductions.

Marty recalled being torn between laughing and crying as he watched the expression on Tony’s face. Judy was not only a bit cross-eyed, but the bridge of her nose was curved and she had poured herself into a dress that was two sizes too small, causing her breasts to pop out on top and her butt to stick out behind.

In an effort to lessen Tony’s burden, Marty made it his business to dance with Judy on a rotating basis. Neither was pushing Judy around more than half of the time. He recalled that Tony actually smiled once; a sure sign that Tony would not kill him. But things were soon to change. He hadn’t told Tony that he had promised Barbara he would get Tony to have sex with Judy.

Following the dance, Marty recalled the trip to the Eagle’s Nest. The Nest was a roadside hot dog house, but more importantly, it had a large, dimly lit parking lot behind the building that provided suitable space for making out.

Marty could still taste the hot dogs and his favorite root beer and how, when he thought the time was right, he nodded to Barbara. He and Barbara quietly left the table and slipped out the back door of the Nest. Later, he recalled Tony telling him that when he and Barbara went out the back door, he looked at Judy and noticed what he would call a shit-eating grin on her face—like the kind you see when someone knows something but is not telling. Marty and Barbara were gone for ten minutes and when they returned Barbara’s hair was disheveled and her blouse was improperly buttoned. Marty had a big grin on his face.

He had watched as Judy signaled her readiness to cooperate by putting her plump hand on Tony’s arm. Marty felt Tony’s eyes glaring at his.

He could still see Tony’s face tightening with anger. Tony had two moods: calm and explosive. Marty realized what was about to happen, and spoke out. He remembered the scene word-for-word.

I think I am going to vomit. Something made me sick.

Marty stood up and headed for the bathroom. Barbara suggested that Tony accompany him. As Tony entered the men’s room, he saw Marty standing near a sink.

What’s wrong? Tony asked.

Nothing, said Marty, but I thought we should talk.

You’re damned right, Marty. You’re a stinkin’ bum. I thought we were friends. But you purposely brought me here knowin’ I was expected to screw that fat sausage.

Marty recalled himself laughing when he said, Tony, she’s not too bad. Don’t get so excited.

He heard Tony firing back, My friend sets me up and then says, don’t get excited.

Marty was now trying to soothe Tony’s anger, and decided to confess.

Tony, I admit that I didn’t tell you the whole story, but I couldn’t take the chance. I have been trying to get into Barbara’s pants for a long time, but she told me that unless I found someone for Judy, she wouldn’t put out.

Tony answered, And so you dumped piggy-wiggy on me?

Okay, I got you into this mess—I’ll get you out. Let’s go back to the table and when I start my act, follow my lead.

When the two reached the table, Marty went into his act.

I’m sorry, folks. Everything came up and now I have nasty stomach cramps.

The group agreed that it would be best if Marty returned home. As the four walked out the door, Marty saw Judy take Tony’s hand and say with a smile, I hope to see you again.

Later, Tony told Marty that Judy had told him, Call me. I’ll treat you good.

They got into the car, and Tony drove away. Marty reached over and put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. I owe you one, buddy.

Marty reminded himself that life had been so simple. His friends and family were there to support him, and in those few instances of poor judgement they were there to forgive him.

* * *

The next morning, the alarm clock reminded Marty that he had an appointment with Major Jessup. The major headed the accounting branch where Marty worked.

Major, the latest RFP [request for payment] from Bristol came in at fifteen percent above the original contract price.

He then went on to explain that he had spoken to Bob Iverson about the matter, and that Bob had assured Marty that all of the supporting documentation would be forthcoming.

Lieutenant, no big deal. These things happen when you are not dealing with cookie-cutter projects. What seems to be the main issue?

Sir, it revolves around the purity of the raw material for the lenses. Bristol claims that the quartz had impurities that caused variations in different batches of the lenses. They feel that they shouldn’t be held responsible for the quality of materials that they receive from their vendor.

Sounds like the usual case of passing the buck. I’m sure it will work itself out. It always does.

The major was more interested in what was going on in Europe than he was with Bristol.

Lieutenant, this thing is not going to last forever. We kicked the shit out of the Krauts in Africa and Italy and it won’t be long before our guys land somewhere in France. Once that happens, we’ll make short work of the Germans. After that we’ll finish off the Japs and it will be all over. It won’t be long before our guys won’t need anything that we are buying. Imagine all of the airplanes, ships, cars, trucks, clothing, food, and all the other stuff that will be left over from this war. I’d like to have one-thousandth of one percent of the value of that stuff.

What’s going to happen to it, sir?

Some of it will cost more to bring back than it’s worth—probably be left where it is. The big stuff like warships and planes will probably be stored in case some other problem arises. But there will still be loads of small planes, cars, trucks, and clothing in this country that will probably go on sale. Don’t forget there’s been no civilian production of cars and trucks for almost four years. These items will be hot commodities and that army garb will be used for work clothes for a long time to come. Hell, I’m sorry that I’m not ready to get out because I would get into the business of buying and selling this stuff. There are a lot of guys coming home and I know they’ll be buying all kinds of things. I think there is a buck to be made.

Marty was almost amused at how easily implements of war could be thought of as simply articles of commerce. But he thought, Why not? For some, they were nothing else but that. This was nothing new. For ages, there had been those who made the articles of war and those who used them. Why should it be any different now? Mr. Moore was right; it was nothing but business.

That night as Marty lay in bed, the words buying and selling kept repeating in his mind.

How strange, thought Marty. He had grown up watching his father repair cars and trucks and never gave them a second thought. Now he saw them as a way to begin his own business.

In the passing weeks, Marty started to make inquiries about the way the government went about selling surplus inventory. He learned that there would be announcements in government publications describing the types and quantities of materials that would be auctioned. He also learned of the locations in which the auctions would take place.

* * *

The flood of returning GI’s would exert a strong demand for goods of all types. The resulting inflation and other factors caused the average price of an Oldsmobile to rise approximately 17 percent between 1942 and 1946. A year later, the price of an average Olds had risen by another 14 percent. Price increases did little to dampen the public’s desire for new cars and trucks. Automakers could sell as many cars as they could build. Production took precedence over everything else and quality was of little concern. Unfortunately, this attitude, coupled with other shortsighted decisions, would lead to serious consequences for American manufacturers.

Chapter 2

The Red Convertible

Marty had been in the service for over a year when Tony received his invitation from the draft board. This had been Tony’s happiest year. He had worked full-time in Joseph’s garage doing what he loved most. Joseph’s customers were always discussing the war, and it was not uncommon for someone to comment that this would be the second time the U.S. would need to save their asses. Tony was not happy with the prospect of having to risk his life for people who had, for a second time, failed to make preparations to protect their own borders.

When the day came for him to join the other draftees, he had bathed, shaved, and stood staring into a mirror. In his mind, he wanted to take one more look at himself in the event that he might come back disfigured. His strong, muscular framework, black wavy hair, brown—almost black—piercing eyes, and straight nose came together to form the image of a handsome southern Italian lad.

When he walked into the kitchen, he found his mother sitting at the kitchen table holding a handkerchief to her eyes. He leaned over to her, raised her from the chair, put his arms around her, and held her tightly. Neither spoke for some time. Then, Tony spoke to her in her own language.

"Mama, Io ritorno…Io ritorno…non hai paura." (Momma, I will return…I will return…do not be afraid.)

Six months later, Tony found himself on a hospital ship bound for the States. On the ship, he mingled with amputees, burn victims, paraplegics, and thought about those who had made the ultimate sacrifice. Try as he might, he could not muster the courage needed to bring some cheer to those less fortunate than he. As he thought about them, he also thought about the millions of people benefiting from the war at the expense of those who had been killed or maimed in battle.

He walked along the deck to the stern and looked down at the turbulence created by the ship’s propeller. The water reminded him of the anger he felt for having been injured and for never being able to walk like a normal person. The fact that he had been spared a more serious injury or even death did little to reduce his resentment over being called to do something for which he saw no justification. He argued, like many others, that Germany would never attempt to invade the United States.

He wished that he could strike back at those responsible for getting America into the war, and yet he realized that the government apparatus was not within his reach. He murmured to himself that someone would have to pay, and he repeated the words to himself over and over again.

* * *

The ship arrived on schedule and as the tugboats nudged the ship toward the dock, Tony could see the crowd of people standing there. The vessel was now being secured to the dock and the gangplanks were lowered.

The troops started to make their descent down the gangplank. Tony scanned the crowd for signs of his family. Midway down, he caught sight of his parents standing to the right of the gangplank. His parents saw him and started walking toward him. When he reached the dock, he lowered his duffle bag to the ground and waited for his parents to reach him. They met, embraced each other, and cried tears of joy.

Tony, you’re limping!

It’s nothing, Momma… just a present from a German pilot. After seeing those guys in the hospital and on the ship, I think I should thank him. At least the war is over for me.

You came home too soon. I knew something was wrong. Frank, I told you something was wrong.

"It’s OK, Momma. I can still do everything I did before, except run fast. Cose di niente [things of no consequence]. Momma…it could have been much worse…"

Tony’s father, Frank, waited for his turn to hug his son and as he did so, tears rolled from his eyes.

Thank God you’re back. I had this lousy feeling. I’m so glad it wasn’t worse. Come on. A bunch of people are waiting for you.

* * *

When the welcoming party had settled down, a tall, elderly man with silver hair approached the table where Tony was seated. The man stopped at the table and greeted Tony’s father, Frank, his mother, Catarina, and brother, Sal.

The man was Vinny Marzone, Frank’s uncle and a captain in the Mob. He ran all the illegal operations in town. Frank had worked for Vinny during Prohibition but when it was repealed, Frank found his way into the bread-baking business. When the opportunity arose, Frank borrowed money from his uncle to convert his bakery into a restaurant.

Tony, Uncle Vinny is here.

When Tony started to get up, Vinny could see that he was having trouble rising from the chair. Vinny bent over, put his arms around Tony, and asked, What happened, kid?

Some goddamn kraut stuck it to me. Now I walk like a fuckin’ old man…

Listen, at least you made it back home. I spent some time in France in 1918 and I know what you saw. If I can be of any help, Poppa knows where to reach me.

Thanks, Uncle Vinny.

Vinny walked away, and Tony said, Poppa, I didn’t know that you expanded the place. I know you had talked about it…but?

Tony, I hate to say it but the war has turned this place into a gold mine. We broke through into the garage and used that space for more tables.

That must have been expensive. Where did the money come from?

Uncle Vinny.

* * *

The next morning, Tony took the same albeit slower walk he had taken so many times toward Joseph’s shop. Things were outwardly the same but he and the world were radically different. He did notice that something about the cars and trucks had changed. The headlights had been painted over with black paint and only a small section of the glass was exposed to allow a small beam of light to emerge. He saw cars the likes of which he had not seen before. They were older than the others and looked like cars of some bygone era. New car manufacturing had ceased, while demand had increased. Cars that lay idle for years in barns and fields had now been resurrected.

As Tony walked toward the shop, he looked forward to seeing Joseph, Momma Stein, and Marty’s sister, Rebecca.

* * *

Halfway to the shop, his sense of smell rewarded him with the odor of freshly brewed coffee. Tony and Marty had an unwritten pact that whenever money and time would allow, they would go to the diner and have a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, followed by a cup of steaming, aromatic coffee. Nightcaps on weekends would consist of a generous slice of apple pie covered with ice cream and more coffee.

A smile came over Tony’s face as he approached the Helenic Diner. The owners, Christos and Dimitri Papaconopolis, were in their late fifties, and the deep lines and yellowed facial skin gave testament to the eighteen-hour days that were the norm for the last thirty-five years behind the counter. Cigarette burns on the edges of the counter spoke to the countless numbers of cigarettes that had been placed there by the owners and customers alike. Christos, the short-order cook, would brag that he had never forgotten a food order he had been given. Dimitri, the more suave of the two, served as the cashier and overall manager. Christos’ wife, Helena, ran the kitchen. The three spoke Greek to each other and during the busy breakfast and lunch hours; their speech sounded more like a heated argument than conversation.

The diner was a meeting place for all sorts of people. Tradesmen, truckers, longshoremen, police, gangsters and professional people could be seen there on a regular basis.

Tony was lured by the smell of the coffee but his anxiety to meet with Joseph proved to be the stronger attraction. He was now approaching the building that housed Joseph’s shop and living quarters that were situated above the shop.

* * *

Tony had met Marty’s father, Joseph, while the two were still in junior high school. Tony’s interest in automobiles and his natural inclination toward things mechanical prompted Joseph to become his mentor. He spent the better part of his after-school hours and three entire summers working with and learning from Joseph. In time, Joseph would be heard to say that Tony had become one of the most gifted young mechanics he had ever seen.

Joseph Stein, his wife Hanna, daughter Rebecca, and son Martin had emigrated to the U.S. after WWI. He had worked as a mechanic in the German army and when he opened his shop in America, he became known as an honest man and for the quality of his work. Joseph had developed a rapport with his customers that went beyond a customer-proprietor relationship. Over the years, Joseph and his customers had become friends by way of the trust that had developed between them.

Joseph was a tall, broad man with red hair that was now graying. His face was round, with blue eyes, bushy eyebrows and red cheeks. He reminded Tony of Santa Claus, except that this Santa had hands that looked like they were covered with crocodile skin. Over the years, oil, gasoline, and grit had combined to make the skin on his hands crack and peel, so that when you shook his hand, it felt like a piece of dry leather.

Hanna was of medium height, with long auburn hair that she kept in a braid. The braid was then coiled on the back of her head like a beehive. Her face was such that it was carved with the imprint of life’s experiences, and yet one felt at peace when looking at her. She was reserved and preferred to devote her attention to her kitchen and family.

Tony walked up to the doorway of the shop and saw a familiar sight that brought a big grin to his face. Despite the sunshine, the garage had a misty quality to it. The walls and windows had a thin film of oil on them. The floor was coated with oil, grease, and gasoline that had merged into a slimy mixture and then been ground into the cement floor by the thousands of tires that had rolled over it. Any light that did reach the garage was scattered, much like sunlight in a fog. To others, this was not the place to aspire to but this was the place where he wanted to be. He loved the smell of gasoline and oil, and the roar of a powerful engine.

As he stood there staring into the fog, he saw himself toying with the cigarette lighter in a 1934 Buick. He recalled pulling on the cigarette lighter knob and as he pulled on it, the electrical wire that was attached to the knob grew longer and longer. The lighter could serve passengers in both the front and rear seats.

Tony also recalled an incident in which Joseph had asked him to replace the windshield wiper unit on a car. When Tony had completed the task, he turned on the wiper but to no avail. When Joseph arrived to check on Tony’s progress, Tony lowered his head and admitted to failure. Joseph laughed aloud and asked if Tony had started the engine, to which Tony answered, No. Joseph laughed again, called him a Dumkoff and reminded Tony that the wiper motor ran off the vacuum from the engine rather than from an electrical source.

Joseph was standing near his desk sipping coffee when he spotted Tony. He was so surprised that he dropped his cup and it shattered on the concrete floor. He began to walk hurriedly toward Tony, but when Joseph saw Tony limp, his pace slowed and he felt a sickening sensation in his stomach. When the two met, they embraced and Joseph said, "Mein Gott," and started to cry.

Tony…your leg…what happened?

One of your lonsmen in a Stuka tried to shoot me in the ass. Instead, he hit me in the leg.

Joseph laughed and cried at the same time.

Tony went on to tell Joseph of his experiences in Italy, and the terrible sights he had seen on the troop transport. Joseph described his own experiences from WWI.

Finally, Joseph raised his voice: Enough, Tony—come—Momma—is upstairs.

As the two walked up the long flight of steps, Tony could hear Joseph’s labored breathing. At the top of the steps, Joseph paused to catch his breath and then entered the door.

Momma—Tony is here.

Hello, Momma Stein.

Hanna saw Tony limp and started to cry. She envisioned Marty in similar circumstances. Tony didn’t want her to be more disturbed, so he told her he had an accident when he fell from a truck. She hugged and kissed him, and brought out coffee and apple strudel.

Joseph asked, Well, Tony, what do you plan to do now that you are back?

If you can use a good mechanic, I would still like to work here.

Since the war started, I can’t find mechanics. They all work for big companies. They have either been drafted or gone to higher-paying jobs. Tony, you know I want you back, but you might go with your father? Besides, I can only pay you two dollars an hour.

Joseph, I don’t like cooking. I don’t like waiting on people. The only thing I enjoy is working on cars. I’ll take your offer.

When can you start?

In about two weeks, but I’ll have to go two days a week for rehab for the next few months. OK?

Whatever it takes to make you better.

Tony’s mind turned to something he had left behind.

Joseph, did you take care of my baby?

I took it out every other Sunday—not in the rain. Some young girls waved at me. Ha, ha, ha.

Tony’s baby, of course, was his first car.

* * *

His mind flashed back to the unusual situation under which he had found the car and the many hours he had spent to restore it.

One day, while browsing through the local newspaper, he saw an advertisement by the local Ford dealer. It seems the dealer had accumulated a number of damaged pre-war vehicles that he could not sell, so he offered each for the price of $35. As Tony read down the list, he saw a 1936 Oldsmobile convertible that was part of the inventory. He became excited and asked Joseph if he could have an extra half-hour at lunchtime to visit the dealer.

When he told Joseph about the car, he recalled Joseph joking that the car had a rumble seat and would provide lots of fun with girls.

* * *

Tony could not wait to reach the Ford dealership. He was driving Joseph’s pickup truck with one hand and eating a sandwich with the other. When he arrived on the lot, he parked the truck and walked into an area where the dealer had assembled the whole array of junkers.

He walked ahead until he saw the car that he was seeking; it looked like it was all hood. The hood area housed an in-line eight-cylinder engine that was at least three feet long. The fan, radiator, and grille added another two feet. The seating compartment had provisions for two people and the remainder of the car body tapered off sharply from the rear of the passenger compartment to the rear bumper.

The convertible had two flat tires, a cracked windshield, and a dent in the front fender. The seams on the leather seats were open and the springs were protruding in places.

The original paint had faded, because someone had taken a rough paintbrush and applied a thick coat of battleship-gray enamel paint to the entire body of the car. The brush had been so coarse that when Tony ran his fingernail across the surface of the hood, he could feel the grooves made by the stiff bristles of the brush.

He walked to the rear of the vehicle and took hold of the handle that was used to open the rumble seat. After twisting the handle and lifting the hatch, he was pleasantly surprised to find the seat and backrest in good condition. He looked further and smiled when he saw two Coke bottles and a handkerchief smeared with lipstick on the floor. He wanted this car!

He walked into the showroom and asked a salesman for the key to the car. The salesman told Tony that he really didn’t need a key. The block was cracked. Tony’s face dropped and he remembered the salesman saying, What did you expect for thirty-five bucks?

Tony regained his composure and went back out onto the lot. He walked over to the convertible and picked up one side of the hood. As he looked at the side of the engine nearest to him, he could see what looked to him like the gash in the ribs depicted on the body of Christ on the cross that hung in his mother’s bedroom. Instead of blood that would have oozed out of His body, here water had found its way out and left a trail of rust on the side of the engine block. Undaunted, he went back into the showroom and handed the salesman $35. The salesman returned with the title to the car and said, Have fun, kid.

Tony started the restoration by scouring the junkyards and found a ’36 Olds that had been badly damaged. The engine had survived the wreck and he was glad to pay $100 for the engine and the accessories.

In the months that followed, he used all his spare time to overhaul the engine and fuel system and install new wiring. Then he steam-cleaned the engine, gave it a coat of silver paint, and installed it in his car.

The moment of truth had arrived. He turned the key and a few moments later, the engine started to sputter. Seconds later, the sputter started to decrease and soon Tony could hear the steady drone of an engine running on all eight cylinders.

A local upholsterer repaired all the split seams in the seats and installed a new rug. The next day, Tony rode to the local gas station. The proprietor sold tires, batteries, and other automobile accessories. Tony asked to have four new whitewall tires installed. The owner laughed and reminded him that blackwalls would be problematic, and that whitewall tires would be a definite black market affair. A week later, Tony paid $240, or the equivalent of three weeks of his salary, for his new tires. Finally, the vehicle was ready for its new coat of hand-rubbed lacquer paint. Three days later he returned to find a beautiful red 1936 Olds convertible parked in front of the body shop. This was one of the happiest days of Tony’s life.

* * *

The next day, Tony was sitting with Frank when the phone rang.

Frank’s Restaurant… Hey, Marty, how are you…sure he’s here. Hold on.

Marty was eager to speak to Tony, but the feeling of guilt made his voice quiver.

Tony…Tony…it’s Marty. What the hell happened? My father called me. I told you to watch your ass.

Marty, you didn’t say anything about my leg.

The two kidded back and forth when Marty asked, How bad is it?

It really isn’t that bad. I won’t be doing much running. I have no pain, and I can walk and stand without any problem. Now if I can find a girl with a short leg, I can even dance.

Tony, you’re a crazy son-of-a-bitch.

"Watch how you talk to a war hero.

Seriously, Marty, it’s horrible out there. Came home on a troopship loaded with guys—no legs, arm missing, blind, and bodies half-burned. It made me sick. Man, those guys are paying the price while all these people back here are making money and having a good time. The whole thing stinks.

As Tony spoke, Marty’s mind flashed back to Mr. Moore and the son he had lost. Marty had a pang of conscience. He had taken the safe way out.

Tony, is there any scuttlebutt about when this thing might end?

When I was in England, loads of shit coming in every day. There was also talk about an invasion of France.

God, I hope it ends soon.

How has it been for you, Marty?

I’m ashamed to tell you. It’s like the good times are rolling. I’ll tell you more about it when I come home. Got a three-day pass coming up in a month. See you then.

The conversation moved to the shop.

Tony, Momma called and told me that Poppa isn’t looking too good and that his breathing is labored.

That’s what I see, but I didn’t want to worry you.

If you think I should come home, I’ll try to get out of here for a few days. Please keep an eye on him. If anything changes, let me know as soon as possible.

* * *

Marty came home two days before the Allies had hit the beaches in France. Later that night, the two went to the local bar and exchanged stories. Tony’s stories were typical of most soldiers. Periods of boredom, cold, heat, and other types of discomfort sometimes punctuated with scenes of horror. Marty played down the fact that his periods of boredom had been punctuated with wine, women, and song.

Chapter 3

Harry Feldner

It was almost three years since the last new cars and trucks had come off the assembly line. Defense workers, flush with overtime pay, were eager to buy whatever type of auto was available. Some pre-war cars were selling for more than they had originally cost.

Wholesalers drove into the countryside and farms, in search of anything that could be refurbished and sold. Many of the vehicles had to be towed to repair shops before they could be offered for sale. The repair shops were deluged with old junks.

Young men saw the approaching end to the war in Germany in a different light than those in the business sector. The end of hostilities in Europe meant that men of draft age could escape the possibility of being injured or killed.

However, manufacturers that were even remotely associated with the production of war materiel looked forward to VE Day as the beginning of a business boom like they had never seen before. Corporations, large and small, started to prepare their product lines to suit the needs of the millions of men who would be returning home.

By August of 1944, the Allies had gained a solid foothold in France, and there was a sense of quiet optimism in America. Carmakers, heavily engaged in defense work, were already making plans to initiate auto production as soon as the war ended. Oldsmobile was able to conduct engine assembly by June of 1945, barely one month after VE Day. The Big Three were ready for business.

The first post-war Oldsmobile rolled off the assembly line in October of 1945. Cars made in this model year included, as a popular option, Oldsmobile’s new fully automatic drive (hydramatic).

* * *

Harry Feldner had been a successful vacuum cleaner salesman. He worked off leads provided by previous sales, as well as doing a fair share of cold-calling. Harry was in his forties, handsome, and it was rumored that on occasion, a sexual favor would take the place of a down payment on an expensive vacuum cleaner.

Harry was mechanically inclined and would often make repairs on older machines. This practice allowed him to keep in touch with his customers and to know when a particular machine was due for replacement. Despite the fact that he was gentlemanly in his trade, at times he could exert a great deal of pressure on an unsuspecting woman.

When Harry had run out of words to describe the benefits of his machine over others, and still had not made the sale, he would resort to his tactic of last resort. He carried with him a bag that contained sand, balls of cat fur, crushed peanuts, and small feathers. If the woman of the house was asking him to leave, he would blurt out the words, Oh, there’s one more thing I’d like to show you.

Before the woman could respond, Harry would dump the contents of the bag on the woman’s rug. By the time the woman got over the shock, Harry had thoroughly removed any trace of debris from the floor. At that point, the woman would either scream at him to get out, or she signed on the dotted line.

Harry had been selling vacuum cleaners for seven years, and although he was comfortable with the income, he had grown tired of repeating the same story. In addition, he saw no opportunity for any significant advancement.

Ted Walters was the husband of one of Harry’s customers. He was a Dodge dealer and he had befriended Harry. Both enjoyed golf, and over time Harry had become familiar with the general workings of the auto business. Harry questioned Ted about the possibility of opening a used car lot and was encouraged to hear that the time was right for such a venture. He was also cautioned to provide a dependable product and not look for a fast buck. A reliable product, he was told, was the key to success. Ted was kind enough to guide Harry regarding the wholesale and retail prices of many of the used cars that were being sold at the time.

Harry followed Ted’s advice and made sure that his vehicles had no mechanical or visual flaws. His lot, SELECT AUTO SALES, would set the standard for used car dealers.

Ever watchful for another business opportunity, Harry learned that the Rialto Theater was for sale. The Rialto was known for its movies, as well as the vaudeville acts performed on Wednesday nights. He approached Ted Walters with a proposal.

Ted, the Rialto is for sale. I’ve got an idea. There’s loads of guys who work or live around here, but they don’t want to see these worn-out vaudeville acts. Let’s buy the place and give them what they really want.

Yeah…like what?

A burlesque house. We’ll make a fortune!

You know, with all the guys I see around here, I think you’re right.

It took Harry and Ted six months to line up an orchestra, chorus line and lead strippers. Harry distributed circulars to all the local bars, shipyards, trucking terminals, and restaurants offering free admission on opening night.

A line of men circling the block around the theater marked opening night. When the doors closed, scores of men were still milling around outside.

The show started with a variety of comedians, followed by a dazzling chorus line. On occasion, one of the less talented dancers would miss a step and the men would hiss and jeer in displeasure. However, most of the men were considerate and when the routine had ended, they responded with loud applause.

Toward the end of the show, the featured stripper would appear. These women were above average height, had curvaceous figures, and were attractive. They assumed sensuous names like Rose La Rue, Luscious Louise, Lady Lamour, and so on.

Invariably, they would be scantily clad, and as they went into their routine, they began to shed the little clothing they were wearing. The house lights were always dimmed and changed from one color to another. As the stripper continued, the men grew more and more anxious and started to shout, Take it off! Take it off! When the routine came to an end, the stripper wore minimal covering over her vaginal area and breasts. The illusion was that the woman was naked. The audience roared with approval and applause.

Harry was anxious to have the final act be one of a kind. He arranged to have ten girls outfitted with a tassel hanging from a netted arrangement that covered each breast. He then arranged for two taller dancers to be fitted with a headpiece that, when combined with the other, looked like the nose of an airplane, and they also had a scaled-down fuselage and tail section of an airplane trailing behind.

As the routine unfolded, the ten dancers came on stage and formed a line across the front of the stage. Then they swung their bodies from side to side, causing the tassels to begin to swing in a similar fashion. Soon, the ten dancers parted in the middle and the two taller girls moved into the space that had been provided. Together, the twelve girls gave the impression of an airplane with ten propellers on each wing. At the precise moment, the ten girls began to gyrate their torsos so that the tassels were now all rotating in the same direction. The illusion was one of an airplane beginning to taxi onto a runway. The crowd went wild. They whistled, stamped their feet, and clapped with abandonment.

Many of Harry’s burlesque patrons found their way to his car lot. In time, he had amassed a sizeable fortune.

* * *

As a result of his reputation, Joseph had garnered his share of used car work. The majority of dealers were always looking for the cheapest way out. However, Joseph would not compromise the quality of his work to satisfy a greedy dealer, nor would he jeopardize the safety of an unsuspecting motorist.

On one particular morning, a 1938 Chrysler rolled up to the garage door. A tall, middle-aged man with a thin mustache, round face, and wavy brown hair stepped out and addressed Joseph.

Hi, I’m Harry Feldner. I own Select Auto Sales. I hear you run a good shop.

Joseph put out his hand and introduced himself, and Tony, then asked how he could help him.

Feldner said, A squeaking sound comes up each time I apply the brakes. Sounds like one of the brake rivets is cutting into the drum.

Mr. Feldner, it sounds like you know something about the brakes, said Joseph.

Yeah, I’ve been in the business for about two years, and before that, I sold and tinkered with vacuum cleaners. Can you give me some idea of what it might cost to fix them?

"Brake shoes