April 23, 1940
It hadn’t been a good day for Bill Landers. He was sitting at the counter in a diner, twenty miles south of St. Louis. His six-year-old Studebaker had once more let him down. It was the third time this month. And on each occasion the sedan had died by the side of the road it had cost the salesman another chance to close a deal. At this rate he’d be broke and jobless by the end of the month.
Landers lived by himself in a tiny house in Bryant, Arkansas. The small community just south of Little Rock was known by some as the “Bauxite Capital of America.” About half the jobs in the community revolved around aluminum. And with the war cranking up in Europe, there were lots of plants using the metal in the “lend-lease program” that the President had established with the countries fighting Germany and Italy. So there was money to be made in aluminum, but Landers was not one of those making it, and his boss at Bynum Aluminum was tired of his salesman failing him. The clock was therefore ticking.
Today, Landers had been scheduled to meet with three different companies. Yet he couldn’t secure those deals on the phone—he had to do it person. And that meant more than just meeting with the company owners; it meant taking them out to eat and showing them a good time. And he couldn’t do that without a good car!
The mechanic at the shop that had towed him in gave him the bad news. The block had cracked. There was no way to fix it short of putting in a new motor. But with the bad brakes and worn interior, not to mention a transmission that slipped like a dog on ice, investing any more money in the car was simply not an option. Yet buying a new one was also impossible. Thanks to a failed marriage and losing his last job, his credit was lousy and the cash he had wouldn’t purchase anything much better than the Studebaker.
Landers looked across the counter and into the mirror. For a man in his early forties, he didn’t look too bad. His hair was still dark brown, his jaw firm, and his skin pretty much wrinkle free. But the eyes told another story. They were sunken, dark, and lifeless. Anyone who looked into those eyes would read him like a book, and the ending wouldn’t be a happy one.
“What can I get you, Mack?” the skinny college-aged kid working the counter asked.
“A new car,” Landers cracked.
“Tell me about it,” the kid replied. “Mine busted last night. Dropped an axle. I’ll be on foot for at least a week until I can scratch up the dough to fix it.”
“I may be walking the rest of my life.” Landers sighed. “And if I don’t get to Indy by tomorrow morning at ten, I’ll lose my job as well. This trip was my last chance. I was pretty much told that if I didn’t land a big contract not to come back. With my car officially dead, guess I’m a man without a country.”
“Without a country?” The kid looked confused.
“Just a saying.” He shrugged. “Why don’t you give me a ham sandwich on rye and a Coke. I still have enough for that.”
“You want it grilled?”
“Sure, why not. I might as well live it up!”
The skinny kid mixed a fountain drink, dumped some ice in the glass, and set it on the counter. As he left, Landers reached for a straw. Before he could grab the dispenser, a gruff-looking man handed him a wrapped straw.
“Thanks,” Landers said.
“No problem,” came the quick reply. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you were having issues with your car.”
“You heard right.” The salesman tore off the paper wrapping, stuck the straw into his glass, and took a long sip.
“I may be able to solve your problem,” the man announced with a grin. “I’ve got a pretty nice car that belonged to my uncle. When he died, my aunt gave it to me. I don’t need it as I’ve got a new Mercury.”
“What kind is it?” Landers asked offhandedly. “I mean what kind is your uncle’s car?”
“A Packard sedan. It has an eight, not one of those cheap models with the six. Good shape, smooth riding, and lots of power. Tires are in great shape, too. I’d be driving it myself, but like told you I got this new Mercury.”
“So you said,” Landers replied. “What year?”
“It’s a ‘36, but it’s low mileage, and my uncle really took good care of it. New blue paint job, too.”
“Here’s your sandwich,” the kid said as he set a plate in front of the salesman. “You need anything else?”
“No,” Landers replied. “What do I owe you?”
“Thirty-five cents.”
Landers pulled two quarters from his pocket and set them on the counter. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks,” came the enthusiastic reply.
Before biting into his supper, the salesman casually studied the man seated to his right. The guy had a seedy look about him. He dressed pretty nicely; his clothes looked new, but he didn’t appear comfortable in them. He was also about two weeks overdue for a haircut and three days past due for a shave. He was simply not someone that Landers felt he could trust, and normally he would have politely dismissed him, but there was that old saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth…. And if the Packard could be bought for the money Landers had in his pocket, and it was as good as this guy claimed it was, then this unseemly character might well be the key to his holding on to his job.
“So where’s the car?” Lander asked between bites.
“It’s a couple of blocks away,” the man answered in hushed tones. “In a garage a friend of mine owns. I can run down and get it if you want to drive it.”
“Don’t get the cart in front of the horse.” Landers laughed. “Or in this case, the Packard.”
“What do you mean?” the man asked.
“Nothing worth noting,” Landers explained. “I just need to know what you’re asking for it. No reason for you to go to all that trouble if I don’t have the cash with me to buy it.”
“I’m asking a hundred and a half.”
The salesman shook his head, “Sounds pretty cheap for a car that is as solid as you claim. Especially a Packard!”
“I just need to move it,” he replied. “I’m leaving for the West Coast in a few weeks and can’t take it with me. I got nothing in it anyway. So for me turning it fast is more important than making big dough.”
“Okay,” came the salesman’s reluctant reply. “I doubt if it is that good, but I’d be a fool not to at least take a look. You go get it while I finish my meal. I’ll meet you out front.”
The sandwich was the best thing Landers had eaten in days. He was tempted to order a second one, but there was a deal he needed to make or pass on. He figured it would be the latter. So, he pushed his one-hundred-sixty pounds off the stool and out the door. Just as he stepped out into the lot, the Packard rumbled up.
The owner left it idling as he stepped out. “Runs real smooth.”
Landers nodded. The body was razor straight, the dark blue paint shiny, the chrome good, the tires had lots of tread, and the interior was only stained in a couple of places.
“Want to take her for a drive?”
“Sure,” Landers answered, opening the door and sliding behind the wheel.
“Want a smoke?” the man asked.
“No,” the salesman replied, “don’t use them.”
“Suit yourself.” The man pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, used his index finger on his left hand to tap out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, grabbed the Packard’s lighter, took a long draw, and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. As the smoke hovered in the air, Landers twisted the key and hit the starter.
With the owner in the passenger seat smoking, the salesman put the car through the paces. He pushed it up to seventy, slammed on the brakes, went through the range of gears several times, and attacked a series of bumps and potholes. In each case the Packard performed and handled like a new car.
“Your uncle did take good care of it,” Landers said as they pulled back into the diner’s parking lot. Stepping out of the car, he carefully looked it over again. “Tell you what. Let me step back into the diner for a minute. I’ll come back out, and we’ll see if we can make a deal.”
With the car’s owner standing hopefully by the sedan, Landers went back into the diner and over to the counter. Catching the kid’s attention, he leaned forward and posed a simple and direct question, “What do you know about the guy who’s trying to sell me the car?”
The kid looked up and smiled. “He’s been in here every day for the past couple of weeks. He lives with the Hooks family down the street. They’re pretty good folks. Other than that, I don’t know much. Why?”
“I’m just wondering,” Landers mused, “if the car could be hot. I mean this is serious business, and I can’t afford to play footsie with the law.”
“Well, a lot of cops eat in here,” the kid shot back. “If that was the case, I figure that guy would be hanging out somewhere else. And he’s driven it up here a few times.”
“Thanks, kid. That’s what I need to know. Here’s a buck toward your car repairs.”
The kid was still grinning when Landers strolled back outside. After waving at the man he asked, “Will you take a C-note?”
The man grinned. “How about a hundred and a quarter?”
The salesman nodded.
“I’ll give you a bill of sale,” the man replied. “The title is with my uncle’s things at the bank. Give me your address, and I’ll mail it to you next week when the will is read and the property distributed.”
“You sure you own this car?” Landers anxiously asked.
“Yep, but in a few minutes you will.”
If his job hadn’t been on the line, Landers would have walked away. After all, that was what his gut told him to do. But it was either this car or the unemployment line, and that appealed to him even less than the risk of getting into trouble with the law. Besides, if he was picked up and the police told him the car was hot, he could just explain the situation. After all, he was getting a bill of sale, and that had the seller’s name on it. So he had his bases covered. Now all he had to do was get his stuff out of the Studebaker and head for Indiana.