go see Mr. Enoch,” he suggested. “I’ll bet we can whittle down the price a little. Hell, you played ball with us—that makes you part of the family.”
I walked along with him, glancing up at the “Komplete Kar Kare” slogan on the sign; I didn’t want to be considered even a distant relation to this family. Since Padgett had mentioned the game, though, I said, “You know, I really felt awful that I couldn’t help you win. I sure had an off day.”
“You sure did,” he snapped. His face showed a flash of the same competitive temper that he’d displayed during the game, then he got the emotion in check, not wanting to jeopardize a potential sale. “But don’t worry about it. You weren’t the only one who played lousy.”
His sales manner still needed a little polishing, I thought. “I know it was a big game for you guys,” I said.
“Sure was. Would have give my left arm to win it. And Mr. Enoch would have give both of his.”
“Players took the loss pretty hard?”
“Hell yeah. That makes three years in a row them black bastards beat us.” Padgett spit. “We’ll get ’em next time, though.”
“Should be easier now that their pitcher’s dead.”
He shrugged. “They’ll get another. Ah, there he is.”
A slender, middle-aged man in a chalk-striped blue business suit had stepped out of the office, tugging a snap-brim fedora over his neatly groomed gray hair. When we drew close to him, I saw the lines that creased his weathered face; on some they’d be called laugh lines, but on him they were probably caused by the sour expression that puckered his skin.
“Mr. Enoch,” Padgett said. “This is Mickey Welch. He played with us against the Cubs.”
Enoch’s pale eyes narrowed. “I remember him,” he said in a flat twang. “It’s not every day I throw away ten dollars.”
I was about to protest that I hadn’t cost him a dime, but decided not to bother. Besides, the manager might have pocketed the money for himself and never told Enoch that I’d played for no pay.
“He’s interested in a new car,” Padgett went on. “Thought we might give him a break on the price.”
The two of them stepped aside and huddled together briefly. Then Padgett came back to me, and Roy Enoch drove off in a shiny green Elcar.
“Good news!” Padgett reported. “Mr. Enoch says you can take a hundred dollars off any new model in stock—except the Studebakers. Got a big demand for those. And if you decide to go used, we’ll take fifty bucks off the price. That would bring that Hupmobile you were looking at down to, uh ...”
“Nine-twenty-five,” I said. “Sounds like a good deal. Let me think it over, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Sure, sure. I understand. But remember to ask for me, right?”
“Of course. Oh, say, while I’m here I might as well say hi to Tater Greene. He around?”
“Yup, he’s ...” Padgett’s attention had drifted to another potential customer browsing the lot, and he started to edge away. “... in the garage. Excuse me.”
I walked over to the three-bay service building, a modern, well-equipped facility where four mechanics in olive drab coveralls were noisily at work. One of them was Tater Greene, hunched over the partially dismantled engine of a battered Chandler Six sedan. I smiled when I recalled the way he’d said he was “in the automobile business” as if he owned the dealership.
“Hey, Tater,” I said. “Whatcha workin’ on?”
He glanced up at me. “Magneto on this thing is shot. Along with just about everything else.” He stood and wiped his hands on a rag. “What brings you here?”
“Looking for a car,” I said, maintaining the pretext. “Brian Padgett showed me a few.”
Greene snorted. “That little prick.”
“Huh?”
My former teammate brushed the rag over his lumpy forehead, leaving a grease smudge that matched the color of his teeth. “I was supposed to get the sales job, and he took it right out from under
I walked along with him, glancing up at the “Komplete Kar Kare” slogan on the sign; I didn’t want to be considered even a distant relation to this family. Since Padgett had mentioned the game, though, I said, “You know, I really felt awful that I couldn’t help you win. I sure had an off day.”
“You sure did,” he snapped. His face showed a flash of the same competitive temper that he’d displayed during the game, then he got the emotion in check, not wanting to jeopardize a potential sale. “But don’t worry about it. You weren’t the only one who played lousy.”
His sales manner still needed a little polishing, I thought. “I know it was a big game for you guys,” I said.
“Sure was. Would have give my left arm to win it. And Mr. Enoch would have give both of his.”
“Players took the loss pretty hard?”
“Hell yeah. That makes three years in a row them black bastards beat us.” Padgett spit. “We’ll get ’em next time, though.”
“Should be easier now that their pitcher’s dead.”
He shrugged. “They’ll get another. Ah, there he is.”
A slender, middle-aged man in a chalk-striped blue business suit had stepped out of the office, tugging a snap-brim fedora over his neatly groomed gray hair. When we drew close to him, I saw the lines that creased his weathered face; on some they’d be called laugh lines, but on him they were probably caused by the sour expression that puckered his skin.
“Mr. Enoch,” Padgett said. “This is Mickey Welch. He played with us against the Cubs.”
Enoch’s pale eyes narrowed. “I remember him,” he said in a flat twang. “It’s not every day I throw away ten dollars.”
I was about to protest that I hadn’t cost him a dime, but decided not to bother. Besides, the manager might have pocketed the money for himself and never told Enoch that I’d played for no pay.
“He’s interested in a new car,” Padgett went on. “Thought we might give him a break on the price.”
The two of them stepped aside and huddled together briefly. Then Padgett came back to me, and Roy Enoch drove off in a shiny green Elcar.
“Good news!” Padgett reported. “Mr. Enoch says you can take a hundred dollars off any new model in stock—except the Studebakers. Got a big demand for those. And if you decide to go used, we’ll take fifty bucks off the price. That would bring that Hupmobile you were looking at down to, uh ...”
“Nine-twenty-five,” I said. “Sounds like a good deal. Let me think it over, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Sure, sure. I understand. But remember to ask for me, right?”
“Of course. Oh, say, while I’m here I might as well say hi to Tater Greene. He around?”
“Yup, he’s ...” Padgett’s attention had drifted to another potential customer browsing the lot, and he started to edge away. “... in the garage. Excuse me.”
I walked over to the three-bay service building, a modern, well-equipped facility where four mechanics in olive drab coveralls were noisily at work. One of them was Tater Greene, hunched over the partially dismantled engine of a battered Chandler Six sedan. I smiled when I recalled the way he’d said he was “in the automobile business” as if he owned the dealership.
“Hey, Tater,” I said. “Whatcha workin’ on?”
He glanced up at me. “Magneto on this thing is shot. Along with just about everything else.” He stood and wiped his hands on a rag. “What brings you here?”
“Looking for a car,” I said, maintaining the pretext. “Brian Padgett showed me a few.”
Greene snorted. “That little prick.”
“Huh?”
My former teammate brushed the rag over his lumpy forehead, leaving a grease smudge that matched the color of his teeth. “I was supposed to get the sales job, and he took it right out from under
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