Final Price

by J. Gregory Smith

  Chang raced to the kitchen and pulled the lid off a joke gift jar that showed a fat Buddha and said “Fortune Cookies.” Another Colleen relic. Chang reached inside and pulled out his backup weapon, a .38 revolver.

  He yanked open his back door and jumped down the few steps to the ground. He ignored the pebble that dug into his bare foot.

  The man was all in black, and his surprise registered in the huge white eyes that leapt out from the dark mask. In one hand he held not a weapon but a fistful of paper.

  “Hey!” Chang lunged at the dark figure. Winos don’t wear masks. He didn’t move like a Tong, either.

  The man jumped at Chang’s yell and ran when he approached. He flipped the can over into Chang’s path. The silk robe tugged at his legs, and Chang tripped.

  He skinned his hand and scrambled to his feet, but by then the guy had a full head of steam. Chang raised the pistol, and the light at the end of the alley gave him a perfect sight picture. You can’t shoot…

  He exploded into a full sprint before the thought was completed and saw the dark outline dart around the corner. By the time Chang reached the street he could hear dogs barking, but he saw no sign of the snoop. Chang’s lungs burned and his hand stung, but he knew better than to stumble around in the dark anymore tonight. He picked a piece of broken glass out of his foot and pulled one arm into a sleeve to conceal the gun. He froze in the shadows when a back porch light snapped on. His injured foot throbbed.

  When the light turned off, he was able to reach his back door. Who was that? Identity thief? He stayed in his kitchen until his foot stopped bleeding. Before bed, he remembered to wipe off the blood he’d smeared on the back steps.

  CHAPTER 8

  Due Diligence

  Greenville, just north of Wilmington

  Shamus Ryan squirmed sitting on the ice in the rectangular baking pan. The towel protected the battered chair, but his boxer shorts were soaking wet. Tough. Gran may have dropped dead in the icehouse, but he brought her along in spirit. His carelessness had earned this punishment.

  He looked over the sheaf of papers he’d swiped from the trash can. The big cop scared him. He looked like some sort of Asian superhero in that red silk robe. Shamus should have brought his gun, but he was glad he’d planned an escape route.

  He loved cyber cafés. A couple hours of research and he knew Chang’s story.

  The number of articles surprised him and also that many of them came from New York. The headlines screamed off the paper: “Dynamic Duo Split Apart,” “Topper Drops Cops,” “Fratricide Shooting Ruled Accident: Chang Cleared, Questions Remain,” “Lateral Move No Demotion, Chief Claims.”

  Chang was a hero in New York before he and his partner, some guy named Rogers, blew a kidnapping case. The girl, some spoiled bitch named Jennifer Topper, got snatched and her rich daddy had the whole NYPD chasing its tail. Shamus loved that a big-shot real estate mogul was forced to grovel and depend on the cops, who of course let him down. They found her body dumped on a tennis court. Nice touch. The killer had style. Too bad Chang shot him, but he screwed that up too. He killed another cop in all the confusion. Too funny!

  The guy on his case was the same Chang who couldn’t figure anything out till this girl was meat on a slab. That’s the “Decorated Officer Comes to Delaware” he should be worried about? Shamus smiled and lifted his butt off the ice.

  Chang’s partner was so broken up he’d left the force altogether. One reporter even hinted that this Nelson Rogers had a nervous breakdown. Apparently, he was the brains and this big Chinese guy was the muscle. If so, Shamus had no worries. Let the imbeciles put their stock in an overgrown retread. Now he knew his competition.

  Enough discipline. Tomorrow was the best sales day of the week.

  Saturday, another glorious spring day, and Shamus was anxious to get to the dealership. One chore left.

  He hung a huge corkboard on the bedroom wall with newspaper clippings pinned to it. So far, the few articles contained either the name Patel or Nguyen. Room for many more. All artists start with a blank canvas, don’t they? He knew Gran would find a way to send him others.

  He reserved a special section for “The Blarney Stone.” She would have loved Flannigan’s style.

  Shamus wanted a fast start this morning. With a quick sale in the morning, the rest of the day would just fall into place. The customers could smell the success on him.

  He jumped into his trusty Honda, proof positive of the reliability of the products he sold. The ten-year-old car had racked up more than 170,000 miles on it. He wanted to replace it, but he needed more consistent income. He lived just down the road from Patriot Motors and arrived in plenty of time for the sales meeting.

  “Shamus, you made it! All right! How ya doin’, man?” Jonah boomed when Shamus came in the door.

  Jonah, a short, thin black man, had hit sixty but packed the energy of a twenty-year-old. Shamus fed off his enthusiasm.

  “I’m better than good. You ready to go today?” Shamus tried to match Jonah’s wattage.

  The rest of the crew filtered in. Sales champ Tom Panzer looked neat, but his red eyes gave away a late night. All the better, Shamus thought. At least his new drug didn’t give him a hangover. Avery Fitz walked in at his usual steady pace, covering ground more gracefully than his bulk should have allowed. He weighed more than four hundred pounds and was on parole for a real estate sales scam that had gotten him a stretch in prison.

  Hank Grant, the assistant manager, lived for silk ties and upscale food. He promised to talk to Avery later about the restaurant he tried last night. Shamus could hardly wait.

  Jake, the ex–college linebacker and current sales manager, called everyone into the break room for the usual Saturday combination chew-out and pep talk. He praised Tommy “the Tank” for his lead on the sales board and called attention to Shamus’s recent efforts.

  “Famous Shamus here is pulling in close; he’s really turning it on. What’s your secret?”

  “Can’t let the bastards get you down, sir.”

  “Attaboy, that’s the spirit!” Jonah slapped Shamus on the back and jerked his thumb toward a glum, hard-working salesman named Mark Dey.

  “Hey, you should take a lesson from Shamus here. I see you. You get too upset. You need to be like the Irish duck and let everything roll off your back.” Jonah’s laugh rang through the small room.

  Someone started to sing the theme from Howdy Doody, and Shamus forced a smile. He hated the comparison that followed wherever he went. At least now he had an outlet.

  When he was a kid, he didn’t know which was worse—the dirt Gran made him eat for backing down from bullies or the cigarette burns she put on his legs for fighting back and causing school officials to bring her in.

  Shamus popped a mint to drive the taste of earth out of his mouth.

  The meeting ended, and the salesmen filed into the showroom to let in the early birds. The shiny new cars in the glassed-in box reminded Shamus of decorations on the bottom of an aquarium.

  The doors opened, and the salesmen observed the protocol of taking customers in the order of who showed up to work first. Mark took the first up, a middle-aged man with his daughter. The second was a Chinese couple. Jonah took them, and Shamus was on deck.

  Five minutes later, a rusted Chevy Caprice turned the corner and pulled into the parking lot. Older car, both decision-makers inside—buyers, had to be!

  Shamus sat at the up desk by the front door. In walked an enormously overweight couple. The man wasn’t a rival to Avery but easily north of three hundred pounds, and his wife wasn’t far south.

  “Hi, welcome to Patriot Motors. Is this your first time here?” Shamus put on his most radiant smile. His hand thrust out.

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. I’m Shamus, and you are?”

  “Doug Hubbert, and this is my wife, Maisy.” She shook Shamus’s hand.

  Shamus resisted the urge to wipe his palm after shaking the sweaty paw she offered.
r />   “What are you looking for today?”

  “We need a new car, but we don’t know much about the Hondas. What can you tell us?” Doug asked.

  “Are you looking for a sedan, a minivan, or something else?”

  “A car, but we don’t want to spend a lot,” Maisy said.

  “Let me direct you over to our Civic line, which offers outstanding value.” Shamus led the pair over to a four-door Civic on the showroom floor.

  “It looks small,” Maisy said.

  “It’s surprisingly roomy on the inside.” Shamus glanced over and saw Tommy greet a young couple pushing a baby in a stroller. They went right to the minivan brochures. “Here, hop in and see how it feels.” Shamus moved the seat all the way back to try to make room for her bulk. Maisy squeezed in, and the steering wheel pressed against her stomach.

  “No, I still have more room in my Caprice. The seat feels tight.” Her whiny tone grated on Shamus. Doug crammed his frame into the passenger seat, and Shamus heard the car settle on its suspension.

  “Maybe we need the next bigger model,” Doug said. “Is that the Accord?”

  “Yes, sir. The Accord will give you more space, more power in the engine, and more comfort features. It has a number of levels, ranging from a base model up to a V6 with leather and luxury.” Maybe he could move these customers up to the more expensive models. Now Hank welcomed an older couple who went straight to the Accords. They sounded like they were ready to buy today. Why was everyone else getting the dream walk ups?

  “I’m not sure this car would be right for me because of my condition,” Maisy said.

  Shamus wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by “condition” other than fat as freaking hell, but he figured he should agree with her.

  “Let’s take a look at this Accord.” Shamus used his most diplomatic tone. The pair extracted themselves from the Civic and Shamus thought the suspension sounded grateful.

  He showed them a mid-level Accord.

  “How’s that? Better?”

  She shrugged.

  “Tell you what. Let’s get one out on the road.” He took their flaccid nods as agreement.

  “I’ll be right back with an LX with the four-cylinder engine. If you think you’ll want more power, we can go to the V6.” Shamus led them to his desk.

  Out on the lot, he saw Mark return from a test drive with the young woman, who was all smiles, and her father. Mark winked at him from the back seat. Shamus spotted the gold Accord in the front row and pulled the sedan in front of the dealership.

  After a couple minutes Doug came through the door followed by Maisy. Though the temperature was mild, both were sweaty by the time they got to the car. Shamus stepped out of the sedan and held the door open for Maisy.

  Shamus gave his best smile. Doug plopped into the front passenger seat. “Note how you can adjust the steering wheel to tilt it up or down.” Away from your flabby stomach. “How is that? All set?”

  “I guess so,” Mrs. Blob said.

  Shamus climbed into the back seat and pointed out the test drive route to Maisy. They turned left and headed away from downtown.

  “I try to take folks out of the city and give them a chance to experience the car on a variety of roads so you can get a feel for how it handles. How does it feel so far, Maisy?”

  “It feels good, peppy engine, the seat’s pretty comfortable.” Finally!

  “Does this have navigation?” Doug asked.

  “This model doesn’t, but if a navigation system is important to you, it is available on our minivan, the Odyssey.” Shamus hoped he could turn him onto a more profitable minivan. It would make his whole day!

  “It isn’t. I was just wondering. Does Honda pick up the first three years of maintenance? I think Mercedes does.” He twisted in his seat to look at Shamus.

  Mercedes? What the hell was this guy talking about? He drove a rotten Caprice and now he wanted a Benz?

  “Uh, no, sir, it doesn’t, but the Honda only requires oil changes every 7,500 miles, and the car is a perennial favorite of magazines like Consumer Reports in many areas, especially in terms of maintenance.” That ought to shut him up. “Also keep in mind that you have to pay considerably more for a Mercedes, and part of that premium goes towards the so-called ‘free’ maintenance.”

  “I like that it’s free.”

  So much for logic.

  “I want to try one of these with the leather and the V6,” Doug said.

  “Okay, we can sure do that. While we have this one out, would you like to take a turn at the wheel so you can feel the four-cylinder?” This guy felt like a car shuffler.

  “No, I want to try the six-cylinder. I can drive this later if I want.”

  But of course.

  “I think you’ll like the V6.” Why couldn’t he just try this car now? These people better buy!

  Maisy took the car back and didn’t say a word.

  “Hang on for a minute while I get the keys to that silver V6 right over there.”

  “Does it come in bright red?” Doug said.

  “I like red,” Maisy said.

  Shamus stopped. “Actually, the bright red is only available on the two-door Accords. The sedans have more of a maroon color. Is that okay?”

  “No maroon,” Maisy said.

  Shamus winced inside. “Is silver out of the question?”

  “No, I like silver, too,” Doug said. Shamus felt revived.

  “Great, I’ll be right back with keys.” He ducked into the showroom.

  He noticed that Mark had closed his customer and Hank had scheduled a delivery. Tommy the Tank was showing a CR-V, Honda’s compact SUV, to another young couple. They ate up his presentation. Shamus grabbed the keys from the cabinet in Jake’s office and saw that Tommy had already sold an Odyssey to the people from earlier. Damn. He’d have to move it to catch up, and these whales were taking forever!

  He returned to the Hubberts in the main lot.

  “I’m back. Let me get the car off the lot, and we’ll give Doug a chance to drive.” Come on! He refused to get blanked today.

  “Does the leather come in other colors?” Maisy asked.

  Shamus gritted his teeth.

  “Actually, the interior designs are preset by Honda. What color leather did you have in mind?” He smiled because it seemed like he should.

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to see some other colors is all. I mean, if we’re going to pay all that money for a new car, we should get what we want.”

  “Of course you should. Why don’t we get the car out on the road, and Doug, you can decide if you like the feel of the V6.”

  Doug took the car along the same route as before and seemed to pay no attention to Shamus’s explanations of the features. He put the silver car through its paces. Shamus was sure he liked it. He’d know once they got back to the dealership.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bulk Order

  “Does it feel like you could enjoy this car for the next few years?” Shamus used a classic “trial closing” question.

  “I’m not sure,” Doug said. “I want to try the four-cylinder car now.”

  Shamus bit the inside of his cheek. He expected the blood to burn his tongue.

  Inside, out of sight of the Hubberts, he saw on the board that Mark and Tommy had added another sale each on the tally. Even the new kid notched a sale. It was now almost twelve thirty, and they closed at five.

  “Hey, Famous Shamus, what’s going on with those people?” Jake managed to yell without raising his voice.

  “Jake, they won’t pick a car. I know they like the V6, but the guy keeps taking cars out.”

  “Land them on a car and close them. They want you to take control. Be the man!”

  Shamus ran back out and grabbed the gold Accord again.

  “Okay, Doug, let’s go.”

  Maisy lumbered into the passenger side, and soon they were off on the test route.

  “This feels underpowered,” Doug said.

  “We
need more power.” Maisy sounded like a whiny parrot.

  “That settles it, then.” Shamus took control. “The V6 it is. Let’s go back and put together a terrific deal for you. Are you planning to trade in your old car?”

  “No, we’re selling it to her sister,” Doug said. “She’s kind of big, and she needs a car that she can fit in.”

  Shamus suppressed a shudder at the mental picture.

  “I’m hungry.” Maisy sounded like a petulant child.

  “Okay, honey, you want to get some lunch and come back?”

  No! They’ll never come back if they leave now. Shamus had to think of something.

  “We don’t have much longer to go, but if it will help, I have a sandwich. Why don’t you have that and some pretzels while I get my manager to work up a great price for you? I’ll make it worth your time.” Shamus ignored his empty stomach’s protest.

  “I don’t know…” Doug looked over at Maisy.

  “What kind of sandwich?” Maisy fixed beady eyes on Shamus.

  “Turkey with swiss, I think, on wheat bread.”

  “All right, as long as it doesn’t take too long.”

  “Yeah, tell your guy we don’t have all day,” Doug said.

  Could have fooled him.

  “Great! Come back inside and get your snack.”

  He seated them at his desk and ducked back into the break room to retrieve his lunch. He handed the paper bag over to Maisy and began to fill out a buyer’s order. He stopped when he realized that Maisy was staring at him.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “You don’t expect me to eat without something to drink, do you?”

  “Of course, where are my manners?” Shamus smiled and hoped they couldn’t see the vein in his forehead begin to throb. “Is a Pepsi okay?”

  “Diet, if you have it.”

  “No problem.” Like that will make a difference. He returned shortly with two cans of soda.

  “I’ll be right back. Enjoy.” He heard the lunch bag tear.

  When Shamus got into Jake’s office, he found Jake staring through the window that gave him a view of all the cubicles. His look was one of disbelief. Shamus followed his gaze.