ColdScheme (4 page)

“Patti, who kidnapped Johnny?” I asked hurriedly when she
paused.

“The black bishops, black men, blank men. He said they were
blank bishops but I know he meant black. They kidnapped him, tortured, murdered
him. He came back and wouldn’t talk about it but I knew. I smelled grease. I
saw the bruises, bones and wings. He said he fell in the park. I saw their
greasy paw prints in his skin. They tore him apart and sewed him back. They
tortured him.”

“Patti, did Johnny ever say who these black men were?” Ken
asked.

“The clerks, the foreigners. They take over our
neighborhoods. They poison our groceries. They cheat us, never give back proper
change. The 7-Eleven black men. They don’t speak English. They rattle beads and
smoke black coffee. I will smash their coolers and crush all their chips.” She
stopped suddenly and leaned across the table. Her dark eyes flashed. She
smacked her lips softly, wordlessly.

“Patti, Patti, Patti. You don’t like it when your chips are
all crumbled.” Patterson clicked his tongue. It had to be means to redirect and
refocus the patient.

“I will crush them. I will crumble them.” She sneered at
him, all the time making smacking noises.

“Patti, Patti, Patti.” He clucked his tongue again. “You
know what happens when you don’t behave. The tape will be blank. The popcorn
will be cold. The TV will be dark and the pop will be flat. You hate flat pop.
You spit it out.”

The childish threats worked. She sagged into her chair.

“Did Johnny ever say what these black men wanted from him?”
I asked.

“His soul. Chips, popcorn, pop. Money. Our TV. His job. His
face. His body.”

Her answers were odd. It was as if she were carrying on a
conversation on another level and giving us phrases taken out of context. It
sounded like a program, a feature presentation from which all padding has been
removed, censored.

“Did Johnny mention any names, Patti?” Ken asked.

“Black men. Bishops. Armandos. Commandos. Monsters. They
push. They pull. They stick needles into your arms.” Her words were like
bullets. Had she not sat in front of me, I would have said I was listening to a
fledgling actress, practicing her elocution lessons.

“This is about as much as I’ve heard in four years I’ve been
here,” Patterson said in a gentle voice. I was surprised he could soften it so
much. The words of prayer were normally delivered to heaven on such a fleecy
cushion.

Patti sat there and though she must have heard his words,
she didn’t react. It was as if she was programmed and had a switch.

I motioned at Ken. He understood. This was the end of the
interview. If we lingered, it might not be beneficial for the patient.

Patterson led us outside. As we passed by, I glanced at the
lounge again. The woman, who looked so much like Brenda, was still slumped
against the wall. Her head rolled from side to side. The rhythm made me
nauseous. Ken followed my glance.

“Doctor Patterson, the patient by the wall, moving her
head—what is her… I mean why…what got her here?” I wasn’t sure how to word it.

He smiled and his slate eyes sparked. It looked as if he was
charging off a battery.

“Life is stranger than fiction,” he said. “You and I may not
get upset over something like that but the next person may react. She’s a lot
worse off than Patricia. Totally non-verbal, though there is a similarity in
their case history. She went out with a fellow for fifteen years, never
married. One day he left and never came back—though his wasn’t a disappearance
case, like Johnny. He just walked out on her after fifteen years of dating. Her
reason got stuck in the no-man’s land. A total emotional collapse,” he
finished. He turned, before I could see whether the battery was still charging,
or whether he had unplugged his wit.

Ken didn’t say a word, all the way to the Guilford Fine
Cars, Domestic and Imports.

* * * * *

“I really can’t say, Officer. He was with us such a short
time. He was about my height, maybe taller and normal weight…” Mr. Ruggiano
said and trailed off with a labored frown. It was supposed to show us that he
was doing his best to recall but frankly, for him this employee was
unmemorable.

He had a business card that would have drawn a crowd in any
Smithsonian art gallery. He was a work of art too—tailor’s, trainer’s,
manicurist’s, stylist’s and cobbler’s.

Ten seconds into the meeting, I realized that I was staring
at my annual salary, before taxes. I understood why he didn’t offer to shake
hands. I wasn’t wearing gloves and my raw hand might have spoiled the results
of his last hot-wax hand treatment.

Guilford was now on Curtis Street, in Donchester Heights. I
thought it was off the beaten motor path. The “domestic” product was missing
from its name. It was dropped by popular demand. The dealership had relocated
three times since Mr. Twain was issued the business card. Each move was into a
bigger and better showroom.

“Why did you move out of the Jamieson Car Market?” I asked.
“It’s a large plaza with a dozen dealerships. Surely teamwork is good for
business.”

Mr. Ruggiano adjusted his gray-striped cravat. He measured
me with a superior look and said huffily, “Our products appeal to motoring
enthusiasts with refined taste.”

I smiled. “I guess showcasing exorbitantly priced exotic
imports, while surrounded by domestic mediocrity, must have scared away a lot
of potential customers.”

“It was nothing like that,” he bristled. “Our client list is
full. Indeed, we have a long waiting list for many of our imports.”

“I guess those long waiting lists must have annoyed many
potential customers sufficiently, to skip next door to the Chevy or the Ford
dealer and drive away in a new car,” Ken quipped.

We didn’t connect with the manager from the start. His
appraising look had dismissed us the moment he saw us. We were not customers.
He would try to get rid of us quickly. Our presence didn’t enhance his showroom
products. We wore jeans and our jackets were department store articles, not
tailored apparel.

He said he didn’t remember Brick-Twain but admitted that he
had been hired, as a sales manager, when Guilford was still at the old
location. I asked to see Twain’s file. It scared him.

“I don’t have access to historical personnel files. They
were sent to archives, off-site, in storage. Naturally, if the police require
such information I’ll make arrangements to retrieve them. However, it will take
time.”

“How long?” I asked.

His memory awakened. “Twain was a good sales manager, well
liked—by everyone,” he said.

“Who is everyone?” I pressed him.

“Well, myself, my secretary and our part-time salesmen.
Twain suggested that we seek a bigger and better location. He had alerted me to
the ‘prestige’ factor. Specializing, focusing was the answer—showcasing our
product. It’s the right way to leap into the century.”

“So he advised you to drop the domestic product,” I said and
looked around. “How many of these imports did Mr. Twain sell in his two months
of employ with the dealership?” I asked.

“Several.”

“Surely you must have sales records?” I challenged.

“Only current ones. The historical files are stored in the
archives. It would be difficult to search them, time-consuming.”

By now, I wondered whether the Dead Sea Scrolls were not
hidden in those dealership archives. Ruggiano certainly didn’t want to search
them.

“So you knew Mr. Twain very well after all,” I probed.

He flinched. “Well, like I said, Officer, he was with us
only two months. I mean he was a valuable employee…we discourage socializing on
the job.” He found a face-saving loophole. I saw that it had just occurred to
him.

“A great salesman, a brilliant motivator, not a fan of
domestic cars, visionary, your height, average weight—and not inclined to stay
and see whether his motivating techniques worked,” I summarized, watching his
face.

“In this line of work, Officer, the staff turnaround is
great. It’s a norm,” he assured me.

“Do you know where he lived while he worked for Guilford?”
Ken asked another dangerous question.

Ruggiano bowed. “I’m sorry but there is nothing more I can
tell you about Mr. Twain.”

“Did he ever tell you why he was leaving Guilford?”

“Since we were negotiating to leave the Car Mart location,
his decision to leave could have been a result of our pending relocation.”

I sensed that the dealership’s mobility was a ticklish
issue. I decided to see how much it would bother him. “Four years ago, this
dealership was located on Pratt Street, correct?”

“Yes, of course,” he snapped impatiently.

“Pratt is downtown. That was a good location—for domestic
and exotic products. Why move to the Jamieson Car Mart? Your domestic line was
secondary to your imports. A car mall like Jamieson, flooded by every possible
domestic make and model, would overwhelm, indeed strangle, all your sales of
domestic product. Why squeeze into a location where the majority of customers
are not in an economic bracket that would allow shopping for the kind of cars
you have here?” I swept my hand over the huge glass and granite showroom. It
held two Ferraris, one exotic Cheetah, a Porsche, two Maseratis and three
Lamborghinis. All were separated by roped-off walkways.

It was daring to amass several million dollars’ worth of
exotic automobiles on one floor. This was a dealership, not a convention
center. It would have security but the showroom was street-accessible. Hell, a
brazen thief with a Bronco could gun down the pedal and fly right through the
glass, to land on top of the Lamborghini Diablo GT. It was burnished ochre,
with the ubiquitous black spoiler. I had touched it, when I bumped into the
brass information post, trying to read its specs and price. The manager was
descending the magnificent staircase. In a bullhorn voice, he sternly warned me
not to touch the product again.

Briefly, I wondered what he would say if I told him that I
got a Diablo GT2 for my sixteenth birthday, in lacquer cherry red. And when I
tested the gift, I drove it through the estate security fence, setting off an
alarm in two counties.

“Our lease expired on Pratt. We were considering another
location in the first place. Is there anything else?” He flashed his hand. It
left the air scorched with the imprint of his gold and diamond ring.

“Did your lease expire at the Jamieson Car Mart as well, or
did the rest of the dealers force you out when you dropped the domestic product
line?” I asked.

“Really, Officer, what does that have to do—”

“This is the third location for your dealership in less than
two years. It’s magnificent. The business must be brisk. I was just wondering
whether the Car Mart dealers were jealous of your success—with high-end imports
in a mall that’s almost exclusively populated by domestic product. After all,
the last two Guilford locations were progressively bigger and better than the
one you had at the Car Mart.”

“We target a very specialized market,” he said and wrung his
hands until his knuckles cracked.

“In summary, the Guilford Exotic Import dealership is doing
extremely well,” Ken nodded.

“Yes,” the manager said with relief.

“Finally,” Ken fired.

Ruggiano’s wrinkle-free face froze in shock. However,
immediately his backup system kicked in—a gentleman’s exasperation.

“Really, Officer, I’m not sure what you’re suggesting. I
have answered your questions about Mr. Twain. I told you all I know. I cannot
help you any more. I must ask you to leave.”

Ken said, “Four years ago this dealership was located on
Pratt and surviving mostly on sales of the domestic product line. The exotics
were there just to tease the eye and draw the customers—to buy the American
product. The lease expired. It was a business decision to seek a less expensive
rental location, to cut down on the operating costs. You found such a location
at the Jamieson Car Mart. That lease didn’t expire. It ran for five years. But
just over a year into the lease, the Car Mart is no longer considered a
suitable location and—since a five-year lease can only be terminated with heavy
penalties—the dealership drops the domestic product line. It then chooses to
pay out the remainder of the lease, so it can move to a bigger showroom. We’re
now standing in the biggest showroom I have ever seen, in any dealership. The success
of this highly specialized business must be staggering.”

“Our products come with a high markup,” Ruggiano declared.

I saw that if he had a cell phone, he would have dialed
9-1-1 just to interrupt this interrogation.

Ken nodded at the burnished orange Diablo. “That’s a five
hundred thousand dollar car. How much profit is there, built into the price?”

“Eighty thousand,” I answered.

Ruggiano’s lids drooped. I feared he was going to faint. I
snapped my fingers to interrupt his act then pointed at the sports car. “And if
you sell one of these a month, then indeed you can claim spectacular success.
Do you?”

We left the dealership, so the manager could reflect on that
dangerous question, as he lay prone on the polished granite floor.

“They hired Brick as a sales manager when still at the Car
Mart location,” Ken said, when we were already in my Acura. “And two months
later, they’re dropping the domestic product, stocking up on exotics and paying
off the lease. Brick, the brilliant motivator, is moving on. Guilford is
heading into bigger and better digs. I sure would like to hire that kind of
lucky charm for my sales manager.”

“Maybe he was more than a lucky charm.”

“You don’t believe that he could have turned that dealership
around?”

“He was a messenger, Ken.”

“A messenger of good tidings?”

“I was thinking more like of cash influx.”

“Do you mean that he bankrolled…”