claim for a September 9, 1994, accident involving the Ford Aerostar van he reported stolen and which was damaged when found. The year Parvesh died, 1995, there were no claims filed. He was in India for several months. On May 10, 1996, came another claim on the van, for $5,951 for collision and property damage, and $1,274 for property damage to a third party. Three weeks later came the final claim, on May 31, 1996, a $579 claim after Dhillon reported a 1992 Ford Tempo stolen.
In an eight-year span, Dhillon was paid $145,389 in insurance money on 15 claims involving seven vehicles, an average of $18,000 a year. The jealous ones could say all they want, but Sukhwinder Dhillon was right—there was an easier way to make money. He might be an uneducated man, but even he was smart enough to see that.
“ Heblah-heblah-heblah-heblah —Five-seven—five-seven—five-seven? Hey! Do I hear six? Six-six-six! Six? Sold! For five-seven! Hey! It’s your car, Bob!” The next one was ready. The Impala. Words and numbers rolled together as they rattled off the auctioneer’s tongue. “ Heblah-heblah-heblah-heblah …”
An assistant knocked his elbow on the window. That was the signal. The Impala inched ahead on the oil-stained, concrete floor toward the yawning doorway and the pale light of the overcast morning. The auctioneer’s voice pounding, the floor man’s eyes met those of the East Indian man as if to say, “Well? Are you in?” Sukhwinder Dhillon nodded, and the floor man placed one foot on the back bumper, grabbed the back window frame, dragged his other foot on the floor, holding the moving car in place like Superman.
It was October 1994. Dhillon had fallen in love with the used-car business, buying autos on his own, selling to friends, buying more on credit, selling to try to catch up. In 1994 he had incorporated his own used-car dealership, naming it Aman Auto after his youngest daughter. He could fit eight cars in his driveway and up the side of the house on Berkindale Drive. That was the beauty of a corner lot, he said. He dreamed of running his own dealership on a private lot, having an office. For now, he wheeled-and-dealed right out of his home. As a registered dealer, he qualified to attend the auctions. They were like a drug for him. Used cars are worth whatever you can get for them. A game of chance. Dhillon loved it.
Early in the morning he picked up his young protégé, Ranjit Khela, for the 45-minute drive in his Ford Aerostar van with his yellow seller’s licence plate to an auction in Kitchener. Whenever Dhillon arrived at an auction he greeted the young women behind the counter. They thought he was odd. Sometimes he wore those shoes, pointy white shoes, you know, like the ones you see in the Walt Disney Aladdin movies. Dhillon colored his hair using black shoe polish, one woman was certain. She had seen him do it out in the parking lot, actually wiping shoe polish on his graying head. And it was comical how he talked about his cars, rambling in his rapid-fire, nasal-toned English slang. “Great deal. Loaded. Loaded!” Car talk was some of the first English Dhillon learned.
The used car auction system would eventually change, become regulated by processes and procedures through The Insurance Bureau, government regulations, and agencies. Today it’s a tight ship. But back in 1994 the game was different. When a car rolled through on the block, there were no computer printouts documenting the vehicle’s history. Instead, the seller would merely tell the auctioneer a car’s history: “Bit of frame damage years ago. All fixed. Good shape.” You could get away with it.
Between 300 and 400 dealers attended each week. The big dealers were there, even agents representing sellers in the United States. There were mid-size dealers with long histories and loyal clients. And there were new upstarts nobody had heard of, small operators trying to get ahead in a game where, like in Las Vegas,
you never really
In an eight-year span, Dhillon was paid $145,389 in insurance money on 15 claims involving seven vehicles, an average of $18,000 a year. The jealous ones could say all they want, but Sukhwinder Dhillon was right—there was an easier way to make money. He might be an uneducated man, but even he was smart enough to see that.
“ Heblah-heblah-heblah-heblah —Five-seven—five-seven—five-seven? Hey! Do I hear six? Six-six-six! Six? Sold! For five-seven! Hey! It’s your car, Bob!” The next one was ready. The Impala. Words and numbers rolled together as they rattled off the auctioneer’s tongue. “ Heblah-heblah-heblah-heblah …”
An assistant knocked his elbow on the window. That was the signal. The Impala inched ahead on the oil-stained, concrete floor toward the yawning doorway and the pale light of the overcast morning. The auctioneer’s voice pounding, the floor man’s eyes met those of the East Indian man as if to say, “Well? Are you in?” Sukhwinder Dhillon nodded, and the floor man placed one foot on the back bumper, grabbed the back window frame, dragged his other foot on the floor, holding the moving car in place like Superman.
It was October 1994. Dhillon had fallen in love with the used-car business, buying autos on his own, selling to friends, buying more on credit, selling to try to catch up. In 1994 he had incorporated his own used-car dealership, naming it Aman Auto after his youngest daughter. He could fit eight cars in his driveway and up the side of the house on Berkindale Drive. That was the beauty of a corner lot, he said. He dreamed of running his own dealership on a private lot, having an office. For now, he wheeled-and-dealed right out of his home. As a registered dealer, he qualified to attend the auctions. They were like a drug for him. Used cars are worth whatever you can get for them. A game of chance. Dhillon loved it.
Early in the morning he picked up his young protégé, Ranjit Khela, for the 45-minute drive in his Ford Aerostar van with his yellow seller’s licence plate to an auction in Kitchener. Whenever Dhillon arrived at an auction he greeted the young women behind the counter. They thought he was odd. Sometimes he wore those shoes, pointy white shoes, you know, like the ones you see in the Walt Disney Aladdin movies. Dhillon colored his hair using black shoe polish, one woman was certain. She had seen him do it out in the parking lot, actually wiping shoe polish on his graying head. And it was comical how he talked about his cars, rambling in his rapid-fire, nasal-toned English slang. “Great deal. Loaded. Loaded!” Car talk was some of the first English Dhillon learned.
The used car auction system would eventually change, become regulated by processes and procedures through The Insurance Bureau, government regulations, and agencies. Today it’s a tight ship. But back in 1994 the game was different. When a car rolled through on the block, there were no computer printouts documenting the vehicle’s history. Instead, the seller would merely tell the auctioneer a car’s history: “Bit of frame damage years ago. All fixed. Good shape.” You could get away with it.
Between 300 and 400 dealers attended each week. The big dealers were there, even agents representing sellers in the United States. There were mid-size dealers with long histories and loyal clients. And there were new upstarts nobody had heard of, small operators trying to get ahead in a game where, like in Las Vegas,
you never really
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