Any sane man would have called it quits at that point. Would have said, “Okay, that’s enough crap for one day,” and driven home and crashed. But who ever said sanity ran in our family? Exhausted and antsy, I swung left and drove over to the dealership to see Leo.
Constantine Chrysler Plymouth Isuzu. “Make Gene’s Boys an honest offer, they’ll give you an honest deal.” Yeah, sure. If honest deals were the way Diogenes “Gene” Constantine, my ex-father-in-law, made his money, then I was Luke Skywalker.
Leo was out on the lot, holding a single red carnation and helping a middle-aged redhead into a white Grand Prix. “Well, good luck with it now, Jeanette,” he said. “Thanks again for the flower.”
“Oh, it was nothing, Leo. You’ve just been so sweet. I wish I could have bought two new cars instead of one.”
“You just give me a call if there’s anything I can do for you in the future. Okay?”
Jeanette revved her engine like one of the Andrettis. “Oops, sorry,” she giggled. “I’m still getting used to it.”
“That’s okay, Jeanette. You’ll get the hang of it. You take care now.”
She put the car in gear, rolling and bucking away from us. “Good riddance, Jeanette,” Leo said, his mouth frozen like a ventriloquist’s. “You fat-headed douche bag. I hope the engine drops out of your goddamned Grand Prix.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “No sale?”
“The bitch was this far from signing on the dotted line on a white-on-white LeBaron. That thing was loaded, Birdsey. Then I take one stinking day off to go into the city and she buys that showboat from Andy Butrymovic over at Three Rivers Pontiac. You know Butrymovic? Fuckin’ weasel. Fuckin’ Polack bastard.”
Entering the showroom, we passed a sign-painter who was whistling and stenciling the plate-glass window for some new promotion. “So what’s the flower for?” I said. “You get Miss Congeniality or something?”
He snorted. “Something like that.” Snapping the stem of the carnation, he tossed it into Omar’s wastebasket. Omar’s the newest salesman at Constantine Motors. Black guy or Spanish or something. Now there’s something you wouldn’t have seen ten years ago, or even five: my ex-father-in-law hiring minority salesmen. You wouldn’t have seen him hiring women, either. Now there were two.
“How’s your brother?” Leo asked. “Angie said they checked him in down at Hatch? What’s that all about?”
I told him about Thomas’s commitment the night before. About the knee to the groin I’d taken and the advice I’d just gotten from Lisa Sheffer. “He gets to list five visitors,” I said. “They run a security check on everyone he puts down. Then they frisk you, make you go through a metal—”
“Lisa Sheffer, Lisa Sheffer, “ he said. “I know that name. Have a seat.”
I sat down opposite him at his desk. That’s a bone of contention with Leo: the fact that he’s been at the dealership all these years and the Old Man still has him parked out there on the showroom floor. Dessa and Angie’s cousin Peter joined the business about four or five years after Leo did, and he’s already got one of the private paneled offices off the floor. Peter’s been named Leasing Manager and leasing’s the new big thing.
The veneer on Leo’s desk had buckled a little and was coming unglued at the corner. It happens with that cheap veneer shit. You should see the desk in the Old Man’s office suite. It’s big enough to land planes on. Leo flipped through the Rolodex on his desk. “Lisa Sheffer, Lisa Sheffer. . . . Here it is. Lisa Sheffer. She test-drove a Charger with me about six months ago. Nurse, right?”
“Psychiatric social worker.”
“Little skinny broad? Short hair, no tit?” I thought about Sheffer’s reprimand to me: how she was a woman, not a “gal.” She must have really bonded with Leo.
“You know what I’d do?” Leo said. “About your brother? I’d hire a lawyer and have him start talking police brutality. Have him bring the doctor’s statement and those medical pictures and everything. Maybe you could cut a deal with them—promise ’em you won’t go to court if your brother gets transferred back to Settle. Then you know what I’d do? After you got him out of there? I’d turn around and sue the state’s ass off anyway.”
“You would do that. Wouldn’t you, Leo?”
“You bet your left nut I would. What are they going to do? Complain that you welched on an under-the-table agreement? Better to be the screwer than the screwee.” He stood up. “Hang on a minute, will you, Birdseed? I’ll be right back. I gotta go check something in the service department.”
In a way, selling cars was the ideal job for Leo. Professional bullshitter. He’d been bullshitting me since the summer of 1966, when I sat across the aisle from him in remedial algebra class and he got me to believe he was second cousins with Sam the Sham of Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs. Their hit song “Woolly Bully” was popular that year—the year I was fifteen. It came cranking out of my red transistor radio all summer long while I mowed lawns, solved for x, and lifted weights—curling and bench-pressing in an effort to transform myself into Hercules, Unchained. Leo told me that he’d been to Sam the Sham’s apartment in Greenwich Village for a party and that a Playboy bunny had sat in his lap. That his uncle was a talent scout out in Hollywood. That his mother was thinking of buying him a Corvette once he passed algebra and got his license.
He was paunchy and chip-toothed back then, a middle-aged-looking sixteen-year-old who could make our fellow algebra flunkies suck their teeth just by walking into the room. Sometimes I’d watch him with a kind of grossed-out fascination as he’d pick his nose, examine what he’d come up with, and then wipe it under his desktop. He made life miserable for our teacher, shaky, old, semiretired Mrs. Palladino. Leo would raise his hand for help on some problem he couldn’t have given a flying leap about solving and Palladino would come hobbling up the aisle on her bum leg. Then, right in the middle of some explanation Leo wouldn’t even bother to listen to, he’d cut a fart—a “silent-but-deadly” so foul that everyone within a twenty-foot radius would start groaning and fanning their worksheets. Poor Palladino would stand there, droning on in good faith and trying, I guess, not to pass out from the stink.
Leo got away with plenty that summer, up to and including passing the course by snatching the mimeograph stencil of the final exam from the teachers’ room wastebasket. But the following fall, his luck ran out. Neck Veins, the assistant principal at JFK, caught him red-handed one afternoon stretching Trojans over the heads of the athletic figurines in the main corridor trophy case. Neck Veins: I forget the guy’s real name, but when he screamed, the veins in his neck would bulge out like electrical cables. Neck Veins nailed Leo. Had him apologize over the PA during morning announcements to all the former and present student athletes whose victories he had mocked. Then he made him run laps after school every afternoon for two months. Leo’s mother, who had just become Three Rivers’ first city councilwoman, dragged him once a week to a “specialist.”
After all that running and counseling, Leo dropped thirty pounds and grew his hair long. By springtime, he was lead singer for this garage band called the Throbbers. Now girls liked him. Skanky girls at first, and then more and more popular ones, including Natalie Santerre, who everyone thought looked like Senta Berger and who Leo claims to this day gave him a BJ the weekend before her family moved to North Carolina. The Throbbers played the usual covers: “Wild Thing,” “Good Lovin’,” “Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown.” Leo was a real ham; whenever they did that Question Mark and the Mysterians song, “Ninety-six Tears,” he’d drop to his knees and act like he was blowing a gasket because the girl in the song had left him. The band fell apart after a while, but by then Leo had become addicted to the attention—to standing up there on a stage. He majored in acting at UConn, dealt a little weed on the side, and was, during his junior year, stud enough to have bonked all three of Chekhov’s Three Sisters over the course of a two-month rehearsal. According to Leo, that is, who you’d never mistake for a reliable source—particularly on the subject of his sex life. He played Snoopy during his junior year in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. That was the highlight of Leo’s dramatic career: Snoopy. Dessa and I had been going out for about six or seven months by then. (Dessa didn’t like Leo that much; she tolerated him.) When she and I drove up to see You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown, we brought Dessa’s sister Angie along. Angie had dated my brother just before that—a two-month disaster I don’t even like to think about. But anyway, for better or worse, Angie sat that night in the audience and fell in love for life. Dessa and I got to hear all the way home how adorable Leo looked, how funny he was, how Angie had laughed so hard at one point, she’d wet her pants. After Leo found out about his one-woman fan club, he asked Angie out. They went at it hot and heavy all that summer—the summer of 1971—then seemed to cool off. But the following Christmas, when Dessa and I told them we were thinking of getting engaged after graduation, they told us that Angie was pregnant. Shit, man, if Angie hadn’t miscarried, that kid would be what by now? Eighteen?
That whistling sign-painter had finished his first letter on the plate glass: a blue “G,” as tall as Joy. Leo came walking back across the showroom.
“Hey, I forgot to tell you,” I said. “Guess who I saw down there at Hatch in the middle of everything else last night? Ralph Drinkwater.”
“Drinkwater? No shit. God, I haven’t seen Ralph since . . . when did we have those summer jobs?”
“Nineteen sixty-nine,” I said. “The summer we landed on the moon.”
“So how’s he look? Ralph?”
“Not that different, really. I recognized him right off.”
“Jesus, remember that bag job we pulled on him? With the cops?”
“The bag job you pulled on him,” I said. “You were the one who sat there in that station and told them—”
“Oh, yeah, Birdsey, you were Mr. Innocent that night, right? Hey, not to change the subject. What do you think of this suit?” He got up from behind his desk, turned to the side, and strutted back down to that white-on-white LeBaron. Virgins is what Leo calls the floor models. The suit was tan, double-breasted. Looked too big for him in my book.
“I picked this up in New York yesterday when I auditioned,” he said. “Armani—top of the line. I felt like celebrating because things went so well.”
Leo and his auditions. For all the tryouts he’s rushed to New York for over the years, I’ve only seen him on TV in two things—a Landlubber’s Lobster commercial that ran sometime back in the mideighties and this public service thing for AIDS prevention. In the restaurant ad, Leo played a wholesome dad taking his happy family out for seafood. The thing starts with a close-up of Leo, bug-eyed and looking like he’s having an orgasm. Then the camera pulls back and you see a waitress tying one of those plastic bibs around his neck. There’s this motherfucking monster of a lobster in front of him. The rest of the family looks on, smiling like they’re all high on something, even Grandma. The other ad—the public service thing—is something they still run every once in a while at two or three in the morning, usually when I’m riding the Insomnia Express. Leo plays a dad in that one, too—shooting hoops with his teenage son and talking man to man about responsibility. At the end, Leo says, “And remember, son, the safest thing of all is waiting until you’re ready.” Leo and Junior smile at each other, and Leo takes a hook shot. There’s a close-up, nothing but net. Then Leo and the kid high-five each other. The first time I saw it, I laughed out loud. For one thing, Leo couldn’t make a hook shot to save his ass. Back in high school, he made up a story about a damaged left ventricle and conned his way out of gym class for two years in a row. And for another thing, Leo talking about abstinence is like Donald Trump talking about altruism.
“So get this, Birdsey,” he said. “I buy the suit, have them alter it, and I get back home around midnight. The house is dark, Angie and the kids are asleep. So I nuke myself some leftovers, flip on the tube, and there’s Arsenio wearing the exact same suit I just bought. Arsenio, man! Recently voted one of the ten best-dressed guys in America. It’s an omen.”
“An omen?”
“That I’m going to get that part. How much do you think I paid for this baby, anyway?” He stroked a jacket sleeve, pivoted to the side again. “Italian silk,” he said. “Go on, take a guesstimate.”
“Hey, Leo,” I said. “I’ve got one or two too many things on my mind right now. I don’t particularly feel like playing The Price Is Right with you and your new suit.”
“Go ahead. Guess!”
“I don’t know. Two hundred? Two-fifty?”
He snorted. Jabbed a finger upward.
“Three-fifty?”
“Try fourteen-fifty, my man.”
“Fourteen-fifty? For a suit?”
“Not a suit. This suit. Feel it!”
I rubbed the end of the sleeve between my thumb and finger. “Yeah?” I said. “What? It feels like a suit.”
He picked a little imaginary lint off the jacket. “Hey, what do you know, Birdsey?” he said. “You work in overalls. By the way, did I tell you this audition’s for a movie, not a commercial?” He sat down again and leaned back, balancing himself on the back legs of his chair. “Nothing big-budget, but it’s a credential, you know? A stepping-stone. Psycho flick—probably right to video here in the States with limited release to the foreign markets. Korea, Hong Kong—places like that. They eat that slasher shit up over there.”
“You already told me it was a movie,” I said.
“I didn’t already tell you. When did I tell you?”
“I don’t know? At racquetball?”
“I just went to New York yesterday. We played racquetball the day before yesterday.”
I was starting to feel a little woozy. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Angie told me, I guess. Hey, you got any coffee around here?”
“You know we got coffee. Black, right? When did you see Angie?”
“I didn’t see her. I talked to her last night when I called looking for you.”
“What did you want?”
“Huh? Nothing. I just wanted to tell you about my brother. Black, two sugars.”
“Hey, did I tell you I’m off coffee? I been reading this book called Fit for Life. Angie got it for me. We’re getting one of those juicer things, too. This book says caffeine’s as bad for you as poison. Refined sugar, too: a real no-no. But anyways, you know what this movie’s about? There’s this weird broad, see? And she’s both an artist and a female serial killer. First she gets screwed over by all these guys, okay? Has all these traumatic experiences. Then she snaps. Starts murdering all the guys that dumped on her and painting these weird pictures with their blood. So all of a sudden, the art critics discover her, see? She starts getting real big in the art world, only nobody knows what she’s using for paint, okay? Or that she’s painting pictures during the day and killing all these guys at night. I read for one of the victims—the first guy she offs—this art professor who wants to dick her in exchange for an A. I think I got a good shot at it—a callback, minimum. ‘Very nice,’ the casting guy said after the reading. ‘Very nice.’”
“And not that much of a stretch for you, either,” I said. “Playing a sleaze.”
“Hey, fuck you, Birdsey. But really, though, the signs are all there on this one, you know?” He looked around, then leaned forward across his desk. Turned his voice to a whisper. “And get this. If I get the part, there’s this scene where the psycho bitch goes down on me. Just before she kills me. Don’t say anything to Angie if you see her, okay? She’d go apeshit. I started doing sit-ups this morning because I’m like 99.9 percent sure I’m getting the part.”
“Black, two sugars,” I said.
The front legs of his chair thunked back down to earth and he stood up. “Poison, Birdseed, I’m telling you. Live clean or die.”
While I waited for him to get back, I walked around the showroom. Checked out an Isuzu truck they had parked over by the window. Thumbed through a couple of brochures. The sign-painter was on his second letter: G-O.
I was glad my father-in-law wasn’t in. My ex-father-in-law. We’d always gotten along, Gene and me. He’d always favored me over Leo. Sometimes it was so obvious, it got embarrassing. We’d all be over at the house, some holiday or another, and Gene would invite the two Peters and Costas and me into the den for ouzo, or out for a walk through their orchards, and there Leo would be, in the other room with the kids and the women. It was sad, too, because it was an extension of the fact that the old man has always favored Dessa over Angie. That one was so obvious, it was painful. But all that changed. Ever since the divorce, if I dropped in at the dealership to see Leo and Gene was there, it’d be like I was the Invisible Man or something. Like I hadn’t been the guy’s son-in-law for almost sixteen years. Like I left her instead of the opposite.
I could hear Leo out by the service area, yapping with somebody instead of getting me my coffee. Leo’s desk was one of four parked right out there on the showroom floor. Don’t ask me why I remember this, but I do: he started working for Constantine Motors the day Reagan got inaugurated and Iran freed the hostages. Nine years and still no private office. One time, when Leo was bitching about it, he said, “If it was you, Dominick, instead of me, you probably would have been a VP by now, never mind a simple office with a door on it.” And he’s right. I would have been.
The Old Man’s office suite is something else. He’s even got a private bathroom in there—good-sized, too. Must go about eleven-by-eleven. It’s got a red tub with gold fixtures and a hand-painted mural of the Trojan War. How’s this for mature? Leo always makes sure he takes a dump in Gene’s private facility whenever the Old Man’s out on the lot or off someplace checking on one of his other gold mines. (Besides the dealership, Gene and Thula own a couple of strip malls—one here in Three Rivers and another up the road in Willimantic.) The Constantines are big into those hand-painted murals, though: they’ve got them over at the house, too—one in the dining room and the other up in Gene and Thula’s bedroom. The Aegean Sea, that one is. On the wall opposite their bed.
Leo and I ended up getting engaged to the Constantine sisters the exact same week. Dessa and I had been making plans right along, but not Leo and Angie. Theirs was your basic shotgun situation. The Old Man sent word through his daughters that he wanted to meet with Leo and me at his place of business. Give us his big “future son-in-law” speech. This was before he knew Angie and Leo had a kid on the way—before Angie dropped that little bomb on her father, which she did in the limo ride over to the church. Leo and I could come in together for the big talk, Gene had said; what he had to say, he could say to both of us. I remembered it whole, that summit meeting in Gene’s private office. “Come in, gentlemen, come in,” he called to us after we’d sat a while in his outer office. Leo thought it was all a big goof, but for me it felt like waiting for the doctor to call you in and vaccinate you. “In here,” Gene said, and the next thing you know, we were in that frigging bathroom of his. He was taking a bath in his red tub. I stood there, not wanting to look at his hairy gorilla body or look him in the eye, either. Dessa wasn’t pregnant or anything, but it was thanks to birth control pills, not abstinence. I kept looking at the Trojan War over the Old Man’s shoulder—soldiers inside the gates, leaping from the belly of that fake horse.
“Gentlemen,” Diogenes began. “My two daughters have enjoyed a good life up to this point. Their mother and I have done our best to provide them with all of life’s necessities and some of its luxuries as well. And now, they’ve chosen to move from our home to your homes.” Nervous or not, I got a silent chuckle out of that one. The Constantines live in this fourteen-room “shack” on Bayview Terrace with apple orchards and a grape arbor and a built-in swimming pool. At the time of our big bathroom summit, I was living in a ratty over-the-garage apartment on Careen Avenue with a refrigerator door I had to keep shut with electrical tape.
“Now, I don’t require my daughters’ husbands to be millionaires or heroes,” Gene continued. “The only things I expect from you two are happy, healthy grandchildren and the knowledge that my girls are lying down each night beside God-fearing, honest men. If you can honor those requirements, then I welcome you to the family with my blessing. If you can’t, then say so now and we’ll part as friends.”
Leo did most of the talking for both of us—gave the old man his best Eddie Haskell “yes, sir” and “no, sir” kiss-up routine until Diogenes got to the end of both his big speech and his bath. He stood up, took the helping hand Leo offered him out of the tub, and lit us all Panatela Extras. Buck-naked still. It didn’t occur to the guy to put on a robe until after the three of us were all puffing away.
Neither Leo nor I said a word to each other as we walked back through the showroom and out the door, trailing cigar smoke and getting stared at by every single employee at the dealership. When we got back in Leo’s Kharmann Ghia, I flopped my head back and groaned. “Well,” I said, “I don’t know about honest and God-fearing, but you already got the grandchildren part of the equation under way.”
“Did you check out that shriveled little weenie of his?” Leo said. “Shit, man, I’ve seen bigger ones in a bottle of Heinz baby gherkins.” Pulling out of the lot, we both broke out in that kind of laughter that almost chokes you to death. The tears fell, we laughed so hard. “If I ever get saggy tits like that, do me a favor, will you, Birdseed?” Leo managed to get out. “Take me someplace and shoot me.” Speeding along the access road, laughing our fucking heads off, we rolled down our windows and chucked those stinking cigars.
I still say it’s screwy when you think about it, though: the way Dessa and I derailed and Leo and Angie didn’t. Well, they did derail, for a while—back when that dance club Leo was managing went belly up. Le Club, it was called. The owner was this coke-headed rich boy from Fairfield who got Leo fond of blow. Rik, the guy’s name was—used to have a heart attack if someone accidentally put a “c” in his first name. That was the one time when I let my friendship with Leo lapse. I just couldn’t stomach what the coke was doing to him—the stunts he was pulling, the way he was treating Angie. Then Rik’s daddy’s accountant drove up one afternoon and went over sonny boy’s books. Next thing you knew, Leo was out on his ass.
While Leo was in drug rehab—which the Constantines financed—it came out that he’d knocked up one of the hostesses at Le Club. Even I didn’t know about that little adventure; like I said, Leo and I didn’t spend a whole lot of time together back then. The hostess—her name was Tina—had already gotten the abortion but decided to ring Angie’s doorbell one afternoon for spite. Angie got a legal separation, and she and Shannon moved back to her parents’ home. Then, three months after Leo got out of treatment, Angie and he were pregnant again. The old man had a shit fit; he’d been lobbying hard for a divorce. Instead, he ended up hiring Leo as a salesman at the dealership.
That was one of the few times I ever saw old Diogenes cave in on something. Angie had had to beg her father to give Leo that job. She argued that people can change for the better—that Leo had changed. That he was a wonderful father to Gene and Thula’s only grandchild. That if Angie herself could forgive and forget, why couldn’t the Old Man? Gene told her forgiving and forgetting was one thing and putting that hemorrhoid on the payroll was another. Then Angie delivered the clincher: if it had been Dessa asking, he’d say yes without blinking. Dessa wouldn’t have to stand there and humiliate herself like this on top of everything else she’d gone through.
Which was probably true.
“What do you think of your sister’s request?” the Old Man sat on our sofa one night and asked Dessa. Thula sat next to him, silent and sulky, her arms folded over her big belly. They’d driven over in their big New Yorker after fighting about it for a week. In sixteen years of marriage, it was the only drop-in visit Dessa’s parents ever paid us.
“I guess I vote for anything that might heal things, Daddy,” Dessa said. “But it’s up to you. Can you handle Leo working there?”
“Can I handle it? Yes. Do I want to come into my place of business every morning and face that idiot she was foolish enough to marry? No, I do not.”
I sat there and kept my mouth shut, but it wasn’t easy. Sure, Leo had his faults. Sure, he had fucked up royally. But it pissed me off when Gene called him that. We had a history, Leo and me. He had his good points, too.
“You’re not doing it for him,” Thula said. “You’re doing it for your daughter. Your flesh and blood.”
“Who says I’m doing it, period?” the Old Man shot back.
“Angie’s got a point about Leo being a good father, though,” Dessa reminded him. “He and Shannon are crazy about each other.” Dessa and I were crazy about our niece, too, though being around her was a mixture of pleasure and pain for Dessa. She’d had two miscarriages by then. Having kids was the one thing Angie could do better than Dessa. Now that she and Leo were back together, she’d told her sister, she wanted another one after this second one was born. Maybe more.
“Where would you be, I’d like to know, if my father didn’t give you a chance?” Thula asked her husband. I didn’t get the full significance of it at the time, but in her quiet way, Thula was bringing out the heavy artillery in front of Dessa and me. As shrewd a businessman as Diogenes Constantine was, his original capital had come from his wife’s family—a fact he never forgot and always, ultimately, respected.
So that was that. By the end of the month, Leo was one of “Gene’s Boys” in the full-page newspaper ads of the Three Rivers Daily Record—his wide, goofy face staring up at you from the newsprint, a cartoon bubble hovering over his head that declared the Constantine Motors motto: “Make me an honest offer, I’ll give you an honest deal!”
Leo came back carrying my coffee and sipping one for himself. Which was just about average for one of his self-improvement plans. “Goddamn you, Birdsey,” he said. “If I didn’t have to make a fresh pot and stand there smelling this stuff, I wouldn’t have wanted it.”
The sign-painter had three letters stenciled now: G-O-D.
“God?” I said, nodding toward the window. “You guys getting religion around here or something?”
“Nah. When he’s finished, it’s going to read, ‘Goddamn It, Get in Here and Buy a Car Before We Go Under!’”
“That bad?”
“Welcome to the nineties.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “The Old Man took a hit on his third-quarter numbers. He was on the phone half of yesterday with the regional manager. With United Nuclear closing down and Electric Boat talking about more layoffs, nobody’s buying. Everyone’s just holding on to what they’ve got. Hey, how old’s that truck of yours, anyway?”
“Eighty-one thousand miles old,” I said, “and running fine.”
“We could put you in a new Dodge or an Isuzu for—”
“Uh-uh,” I said. “Forget it.”
“No, listen. That Isuzu five-speed is a nice little truck.”
“I don’t care if it’s the chariot of the gods, Leo. I got a compressor that’s wheezing like it’s got emphysema and power-washing equipment I’ve got to replace in the next couple of years. Not to mention a brother who’s locked up with a bunch of—”
“Hey, I hear you, Dominick. But Pop and I could put you into a—”
“Uh-uh. No.”
“Okay, okay,” Leo said, palms up. “All I’m saying is if you change your mind, me and Pop’ll fix you up.”
I yawned. Took another slug of coffee. Yawned again.
“You look like shit, Birdsey,” Leo said. “You been sleeping?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t think so. No offense, man, but you’re starting to look like a basset hound. Don’t worry. You’ll get him out of there. I’m telling you. Go see a lawyer.” He stood up again, yanking his lapels and checking himself out in the plate glass. “See, the thing you don’t get about these threads, Dominick, is that it’s the law of the jungle. Granted, fourteen-fifty’s a lot to pay for a suit. But if you want quality, you’ve got to pay for it.”
I looked up at him. “That’s not the law of the jungle. The law of the jungle is: Only the strong survive. Eat or be eaten.”
“Exactly!” Leo said. “Next audition I go to, the casting director walks out in the waiting room. Who do you think he’s going to notice first—all the miscellaneous assholes wearing Levis and sweatshirts or the guy in the Armani?”
Omar walked by drinking a Diet Coke. Wearing a lime-green suit.
“Yo, Omar, get over here,” Leo said. “This guy sitting here says the law of the jungle is: Eat or be eaten. What do you think?”
Omar took a swig of his soda. “Either one’s fine with me,” he said. “When’s she getting here?”
“My man!” Leo shouted. He jumped out of his seat and high-fived the guy. He’d been the hero of the sports pages four or five years back: Omar Rodriguez and his famous buzzer-beater that had won Three Rivers the state high school championship. He’d gone on to UConn; it was during the mideighties. Played for them a couple of years. It was just before Calhoun came in as coach and UConn hit pay dirt in the NCAA. If I remembered right, Omar played a season in Europe before he packed it in. Point guard, he was.
“You hear that, Lorna?” Leo said. The saleswoman across the floor looked up from her paperwork. “Omar says, eat or be eaten. It’s ladies’ choice.”
She looked down again, shook her head. “You guys,” she said.
“Cut the crap, Leo,” I mumbled. “You’re embarrassing her.”
“Am I embarrassing you over there, Lorna?” Leo called. “Hurting those virgin ears of yours?” Without looking up, she gave him the finger.
Leo turned back to me. “See, it’s the same with selling cars, Dominick. Which is why this suit’s a smart investment twice over. Joe Six-pack comes in here with his fat-assed wife and his Patriots cap, you got basically one whack at him, see? So you stand up, let him know he’s dealing with class—intimidate the slob a little with how good you look. Use the upper hand to your advantage. Shoot a little spark up the little woman’s thighs while you’re at it, too, see, so that she’s in your corner at decision time. Gives you a hidden advantage before you even open your mouth. You see what I’m saying? The law of the jungle.”
“So who does that make you?” I said. “Cheetah?”
He adjusted his tie, yanked on his shirt cuff. “Hey, what do you know, Birdseed? Like I said, you wear bib overalls.”
“And that makes you a better person than me, right, Leo?” I shot back. “The fact that you dress up for work like a high-class gigolo?”
Lorna looked over at me. I cleared my throat, looked away.
“No, Birdsey, it doesn’t make me a better person. Or a worse person, either. Because we’re all whores. Even what’s her face—that dried-up little nun over there in India, looks like a monkey. Even the Pope. Even housepainters.”
I snorted at him. “How’s a housepainter a whore?”
“Would you climb up a second-story ladder and scrape paint up your nostrils for free? For the fucking art of it? You got your bod out there like the rest of us, Numb Nuts. Don’t fucking kid yourself.”
“All right. How’s Mother Teresa a whore?”
“I couldn’t tell you how,” he said. “I don’t know the woman personally. I just know the theory’s right. That we’re all playing bang-for-the-buck. Putting whatever we got out there on the open market. I’m just being honest about it.”
A couple of racquetball games ago, Leo himself had called car sales a “whore’s game.” Had started blabbing about this top-secret book on the psychology of selling cars that no one in the business is ever supposed to talk about. Last winter, Gene, Costas, and Peter Jr. went to some “Meeting the Challenges of the Nineties” convention down in Miami—Leo got his nose whacked out of joint because he wasn’t invited—and when they came back, the three of them with their Mediterranean tans renewed, they began making changes. Pushing leasing, hiring women and minorities to sell. The Old Man paid big bucks for these “consultants” to come in and work with the new sales team. Taught them how to categorize each potential victim who’s outside on the lot peeking at sticker prices. They’ve got this system where they know before someone even walks through the door which salesperson’s going to stand up smiling with his hand stuck out, and which approach they’re going to use.
Minority customers is what Omar’s assigned: blacks and Ricans, according to Leo. He also gets sports nuts, women in their twenties, and—get this—gay guys. The obvious ones—the ones sizing up his butt and his basket when he goes back and forth to Costas’s office during the “good cop/bad cop” routine—that game they play where the Nice Sales Guy has to keep checking the numbers with the Big Bad Manager and the customer’s supposed to sit there with his free cup of styro-coffee and feel sorry for the poor guy’s humiliation. Isn’t that weak?
The consultants even worked with Leo and the others on the kind of shit they have laying around on their desks and filing cabinets. They call it “image projection.” Omar’s got two or three of his trophies sitting behind him and these autographed pictures—one of him and Larry Bird and another of him with President Bush. Leo’s got framed pictures of Angie and the kids. They face out toward the customers, not in at Leo. Lorna keeps magazines on her desk—Glamour, Cosmo, People. She’s got this picture of Michael Bolton taped to her filing cabinet.
“So who does she get?” I asked Leo. “All the women in love with Michael Bolton?”
“Nope,” he said. “I get them. Lorna gets professional white guys who think they can outdeal some dippy broad. Not that I should be telling you any of this, Birdseed. I could get in deep doo-doo for talking about it. But you should see these guys who buy from Lorna—they strut out of here with their bill of sale, cocky as hell, like they just fucked her or something. Not a clue in the world that two hours before they signed on the dotted line, we sold the exact same model with two or three more options for five hundred dollars less.”
Leo claims he’s fucked Lorna twice—once at her place and the other time in a LeBaron lease car they had to deliver in Warwick, Rhode Island. According to Leo, the two of them were sitting there in this parking lot where they’d stopped for coffee on the way to Warwick and she just started playing stroke-a-thigh with him. She was so hot for him, he says, he had to pull off somewhere on the Old Post Road and put her out of her misery. Doubtful, though. Sometimes Leo’s life sounds a little too much like a porn movie to be real. “If this stuff really happened and isn’t some pipe dream,” I told him, flat out, the day he told me about him and Lorna, “then you’re a fucking idiot. She took you back once, Leo. Twice might be pushing the envelope.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Leo told me, grinning. “I’m a sex addict. Me and Wade Boggs.”
When I got up to go, Leo walked me back to my truck. “Body on this thing’s getting some corrosion, huh?” he said, fingering the passenger’s side door panel.
“Well, stop poking at it then,” I said.
I got in. Started her up and backed out of the space. Gave Leo the peace sign and began driving out of the lot.
“Hey, Dominick!” he yelled. “Hold up!”
He came running toward me, that fancy suit of his fluttering in the breeze. He bent down to the window. “Hey, I was just thinking,” he said. “You know that visitors’ list you were telling me about? How many visitors did you say your brother gets?”
“Five.”
“Well, tell him he can put me on it. If he wants to. I wouldn’t mind going down there, seeing how he’s doing. Saying hello. I mean, what the hell? 1969, you said? I go back a few years with Thomas, too.”
I nodded—took in the gift he’d just given me. “I’ll mention it to him,” I said. “Thanks.”
“No problem, man. Later.”
See, that’s the thing with Leo: he’s sleazy and he’s decent. He takes you by surprise. I drove away, one hand on the wheel, the other wiping the goddamned water out of my eyes. Leo, man. The guy’s a trip.