Chapter 19

When he got back to Betty's there was a note on the refrigerator saying she had gone over to Martha's to borrow something and would "be back soon." He thought back to a place they had driven by on the way home. It wasn't too far. He'd just walk up there and see what he could do about having his own car. He left Betty a note saying he'd gone on his own errand and might have a surprise for her when he got back.

The place he'd seen was the car lot in Circleton owned by "Rascal Rick", whose name was proudly displayed on a sign big enough to park a bus on, along with the emblazoned motto "Rascally Good Deals" in big red letters. Bob chose it because they sold Chevrolet's. In fact, he was met when he walked in by Rascal Rick himself. Rascal Rick looked the part. He had a big belly that hung out over his belt and made him look startlingly pregnant. His snow white handlebar moustache hung down clear past his chin and, with the white cowboy hat on his head, framed his rose tinted glasses. Rick used to chew tobacco, but it stained the tips of his facial hair, so he'd given that up and chewed gum now. He had a bulbous red nose that suggested, based on the tiny blue lines that seemed to criss cross it, that he knew good bourbon and rarely said no to an ounce or two ... or ten.

Rick was a hearty, friendly fellow, one of those back slapping, loud talking, draw-attention-to-himself sorts of guys. He was that way naturally, which was good, because he didn't make diddly on cars these days. All that crap that the Great State of California made them put on the cars he sold made them three or four thousand more to buy than in neighboring Nevada. You could breathe the air in California, which was good if you didn't have major moolah, because you were walking in all that fresh air on account of how you couldn't afford to buy a car. Besides, neither movie stars or wannabe movie stars bought Chevies.

No, in fact, if Rascally Rick made five or six hundred dollars clear on a new Chevy, he called that a good sale. If he got the buyer to finance it through any of his several financial partners, it was a great sale. That was because Rascally Rick got a kickback on each car that was financed with them because they made a killing by lending money to buy a new car. Take, for instance, the average $35,000 loaded mini van. With no money down, which sounded like a great deal, but wasn't, you could hop in your brand spanking new Rascally Rick minivan and drive away happily, knowing you could afford your payment. Of course nobody ever actually added it all up. If they had, at the end of those five years, which also sounded like a good deal, but wasn't, they'd have found out they actually paid closer to $43,000 for that car, which was worth, at the end of five years, about eight or ten thousand bucks, depending on how many miles were on it.

So the thousand dollars he got for every sucker he conned into financing a new car was actually more than he made on the car itself.

Rascally Rick was, in fact a rascal. He'd most lately figured out that, if you got a down payment of a couple grand, and then sort of forgot to actually add that into the calculations mathematically, most people just didn't notice. You had a line on the finance paperwork that clearly said "Down Payment : $3,000.00" But that three big ones wasn't actually deducted anywhere from the price of the car. If there were factory rebates in the deal, that messed up the accounting even more. Making sure that dealer prep and transportation costs and every possible thing was listed in the contract also helped. And, if you got caught, you loudly cursed the computer for letting you put things in the wrong box, moved it to where you should have put it in the first place, and smiled your great big whiskery Rascal Rick smile. If it was a woman who had caught you, you called her "little lady", regardless of her age. If it was a man, you called him "Stud" if he was under about forty and "Compadre" if he was over that.

This was the lion-occupied den that Bob sauntered into that afternoon.

"Welcome to Rascal Rick's, home of rascally good deals." boomed Rick effusively. "I'm Rick. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking here?"

Bob, raised to be polite, stuck out his hand. "Bob." he said. He had adopted an aversion to using his last name lately.

"Well now Bob, what kind of beautiful new car can I put you in today?"

"What have they done with the Chevy Styleline lately?" asked Bob. "I've always wanted a Styleline Deluxe two door convertible."

Rick had no idea that a Chevrolet Styleline Deluxe was a model of car produced by Chevrolet in the forties, or that there had been the whopping (for that day) sum of 32,392 made in 1949, the year model Bob had seen last. He didn't know that the car Bob was asking about had a selling price brand new of $2,297.00, which is why Bob wanted one. He had money now. He wanted an expensive car. In 1949 you could buy any number of brand new cars for less than a thousand dollars.

But Rascal Rick was a pro. He heard the words "two door convertible", which to him meant Camaro, since Bob didn't quite look like the Corvette type to Rick. And, it being California and all, Rick had three Camaro rag tops on his lot. Smiling his rascally smile, he waved his hand toward the side door and said "Stud, this is your lucky day! I have exactly the car you're looking for!"

Bob had seen modern automobiles, of course. He was aware that they looked much different than they had back in 1950. In fact, the sheer quantity of different brands, styles, and colors made them all turn in to a blur for the most part. Once in a while one stuck out and Bob would examine it, but for the most part, after his initial gaping, he ignored them.

He didn't ignore the Camaro Rick showed him, though. He fell in love with it instantly. He almost salivated as Rick showed him all the features, putting the top down and then back up and then down again.

"Sit in it!" urged Rick. "Try her on for size."

Bob sat. He put his hands on the wheel. Rick showed him how to push a little lever that let the steering wheel go up or down so that it was most comfortable. It had electric seats too, something Bob would never have thought about.

"If you have a suitable deposit I can let you take her for a spin." teased Rick.

Bob looked up at him, squinting in the sun.

"Why don't I just buy it. Then I can drive it all I want."

"A man after my own heart." gushed Rick. "Come on inside stud. I have a financing deal that's going to make you piss your pants with joy. I can put you in that sweet baby for less than five hundred a month!"

Bob got out and walked back to the sales room with Rick.

"Can't I just pay for it and be done with it?" asked Bob.

"Sure can stud!" snickered Rick. "Let me get the card on that car and I'll see what the damage is."

Rick sat down and dug through a box, pulling out a card. He got out a form and began filing in blanks on it. With the base price and the options that were already on the car, the price came to a little over thirty thousand. Rick looked at the sucker and put a "1" in front of the figure for dealer prep. People hardly understood that. If they asked questions Rick just said it was part of getting a car ready to drive in California. Everybody knew how California screwed the owners of cars.

He wrote the total at the bottom with a flourish and turned the form towards Bob.

"There's the cost on that one. You picked a good one ... lots of popular options for this part of the country and with the financing deal I can offer you I can..."

Bob held up his hand. He looked at Rick and then back at the paper.

"I only wanted one car." he said. "Not the whole lot full."

Rick's eyes went narrow. "Son, I'm making you a hell of a deal on that car. There's no need to be sarcastic. As you can clearly see here," he pointed to boxes on the form, "that is the base price right there, and these are the options on the car. Then there's the shipping and handling from the factory. I may be getting on in years, but my math is fine. That car costs exactly thirty-two thousand seven hundred eighteen dollars and seventy-three cents. Now that doesn't include sales tax, of course, but you can't finance the sales tax. I have to have the sales tax up front.

Bob blinked. "May I borrow your phone?" he asked.

Rick frowned and nodded toward the phone. Bob called Betty. "Hi honey" he said into the phone. "Is it possible for a car to cost as much as thirty thousand dollars these days?" He waited as Rick gaped. "Really?... that much? Who in the world would spend that much for a car? ... okay ... no, everything's fine. I'm just looking at a car and it seemed to cost an awful lot ... okay, I'll see you later. Bye." He handed the phone back to Rick, who was looking at him oddly.

"Okay," said Bob. "I'll take it."

"Well, that's right nice," said Rick carefully. "Now, about the financing..."

"Can I just write you a check?" asked Bob, pulling out his brand new checkbook.

"For thirty some-odd thousand dollars?" asked Rick. For the first time he got the feeling he was missing something important here, and that it was quite possible he wasn't going to be happy when he found out about it. If this guy was an escapee from some mental institution, there could be trouble. "Of course I'll have to check with the bank to make sure everything's okay." he said smoothly.

"Sure," said Bob. The idea that anybody could sit down and actually write a check for that much money had him a little numb. He carefully printed where he had been taught to print, and put numbers where he had been taught to put numbers. Then he signed his name in his usual illegible scrawl. It didn't occur to him that his name and address were not printed anywhere on the check. He looked up. "What should I put here?" he asked, putting his pen on the payee line.

"Ah ... I have a stamp," said Rick. He accepted the check and peered at it closely. In her excitement, Tiffany had grabbed the usual starter kit, which started with check number 0001. Rick now was convinced that something flaky was going on. He picked up the phone, trying to remember where that damned .25 automatic was that his wife had insisted he keep in the store for protection. He hadn't even seen the damn thing in months.

"Hello, yes, this is Rick, down at Rascal Rick's. Do you suppose I could have a teensy little word with Tiffany?" Rick had done business with the Circleton Savings and Loan for years. Their kickback for financing transactions was lower than some of the others, which was why they got less of his business. Still, he knew Tiffany. She came on the line and he explained that he needed to verify funds for a starter check. She said he could already have done that if he hadn't bothered her and made her stop doing something important. He explained it was a starter check for over thirty grand, and there was silence. Then she asked him if the account number on the check was 15668-23390 and he said it was, in fact. The knot in his stomach seemed to grow somewhat at that. Her reaction, however, wasn't anything like he could have even dreamed of expecting.

Tiffany had been raised in a Navy family, and she used every curse word and epithet she had ever heard in informing Rascal Rick that if he caused their client any discomfort in any way whatsoever, or overcharged him even one penny, that the bank's relationship with Rascal Rick's would be terminated faster than he could say "Rascally Rick". Nor would funds ever be available to him for credit again. In fact, she threatened to buy the mortgage on his home loan personally and foreclose if he made the man sitting in his office unhappy.

Rick tried his always winning style. "Come on Tiffy, all I wanted to do was verify funds. You're getting all excited over nothing. If he's got the funds, he's got the funds, right?"

"You lame brained swindler!" shouted Tiffany. "That man could buy and sell you and me and the whole bank. You send me the bill for whatever car he wants and I'll pay it. And I'm going to have the contract gone over with a fine tooth comb Rick, so don't try any of your normal crap! I'm not fucking around with this Rick. You give the man the keys and kiss his ass goodbye. And fill it up for him before he takes it anywhere, do you hear me Rick?"

Shaken by her vehemence, Rick did exactly as she told him to do. He walked out of his office and handed the keys and the check to Bob. "Uh, your bank will take care of everything. You don't have to write the check after all." Then he handed him a card that was good for one fill up at a gas station down the street. "Just give that to the guy in the window and that will take care of your first tank of gas."

Bob smiled and got up. "Thanks." he said, heading for the lot, and his new car. Rick was so upset that he forgot to put a temporary plate on the Camaro. Oh well, the guy would be back sooner or later to get it. California's finest would be quick to convince him of that.

Bob had driven before, of course. But what he'd driven most recently had been either four cylinder sedans, or six cylinder minivans. His own Desoto had been powered by a flathead six cylinder motor with 82 horsepower.

His new Camaro was supercharged, and developed 253 horsepower. It was a four speed automatic. It had Goodyear Eagles on it when he bought it, with a total tread depth of eleven thirty-seconds of an inch. When he pulled out of the lot and stepped on the gas, he left a cloud of white smoke and about four thirty-seconds of an inch of rubber in pretty wavy lines for about half a block. He was trembling when he finally got the car stopped.

On the way home, he figured out how to keep the car from making those wavy black lines on the road. Now he could make them straight.

Rascal Rick watched the news that night, and finally found out the identity of the man he'd sold the Camaro to. The man was on the news. In fact, he was on the news twice. The lead story involved the interview of a former security guard of the Amalgamated Indemnity of America company who complained that he got fired for doing his job, while "that Rip Van Winkle creep" got fifty million dollars for making threatening movements. There was a picture of Bob, the same one that was on his new driver's license, and the "breaking news" of a settlement between "Rip Van Winkle" and Amalgamated Indemnity of America. The announcer took great glee in winking and telling the audience that the deal between Amalgamated and Bob Winkle was "secret".

The second story was about how California's finest had, indeed, pulled "California's newest multimillionaire" over. The same photograph was flashed on Rick's screen again. They wrote him a ticket for not having a license tag, and being unable to provide proper registration and proof of insurance. But mostly it was for driving a hundred and twenty in a fifty-five zone. The car had been seized, but later released, according to the State Trooper who was interviewed on camera and said "He's a nice guy. He just wasn't used to the car." Then it was back to the anchor woman who flashed a smile and a little innuendo about the privileges of being wealthy. Smiling the whole time, she ruined Rick's day. He had four Corvettes on his lot too.

Bob had, in fact, been escorted back to Betty's house by a trooper earlier in the evening. In the driveway he got a good natured lecture from the young woman, while Betty came out to see what was wrong. Bob told her to call her sisters and have them come over because he had something important to tell them.

Betty made the calls while Bob chatted with the trooper, who asked for his autograph before she left and waved at him as she drove away. In Martha's case, Sunny was there when Betty called, so she naturally called her cousins. The younger cousins found out from their mothers that something was up, and as it turned out, all nine of the women were together when Bob informed them that his estate had grown considerably. Since Bob's former "estate" had consisted mostly of stuff up in Martha's attic, the change affected the women rather dramatically.

"We're millionaires?" asked Sunny weakly.

"Your grandfather is a millionaire." corrected her mother.

Bob held up his hands. "Look, I don't want there to be any fussing about this. You all took care of me for fifty years. Now I can return the favor. I don't want you to all go out and go on a spending spree, but at the same time I don't want any of you to have to scrimp and save to get something you need." He frowned. "I already went out and bought a car, and I probably shouldn't have. I should have consulted you all first. I don't know anything about cars and I probably got the wrong one. That lovely young State Trooper thinks so. The woman at the bank said something too that I didn't understand ... something about money markets and accountants and all that, and I don't know anything about that. What I know is that, if we treat this money like a limited resource, it will last all of us for a long long time, and that's what I'd like to happen."

"So," said Martha, "No mansions, no sports cars, no movie star lifestyle" She looked around at everyone. "We go on like we were, with some improvements and maybe a little redecorating."

June spoke. "This would be a good chance to start a family business." she offered.

"I'd love to quit my job," said Gidget. "To have my own business, I mean ... or a family business, like you said Mom. If I'm going to control inventory, I'd like it to be ours, instead of my boss's."

Sunny, who was a bookkeeper for an industrial plant outside of town nodded. "I've been thinking about taking some night classes, to get my accounting degree. Why should we hire an accountant if one of us can do that?"

"I was an accountant." commented Bob. "I can't imagine that much has changed, but if it has maybe we could go to school together ... you know, help each other with our homework."

There was talk of investments. No one in the family owned any stocks or bonds but Fran was in the investment club at school. Their investments, though only on paper, had been in the black for two years and Fran knew that the teacher who was the club sponsor had contacts in the investment world.

The odd thing was that none of them, including Bob, could think of anything that they were just dying to run out and buy. Things were mentioned, to be sure, but other than "a pair of shoes to go with that dress I bought last month and haven't worn yet" and "Maybe I can fix that running toilet now" and "It's time for tires for the Bronco" everything somebody brought up was then tossed aside as something "I don't really need anyway."

Nothing was decided, except to all go out for ice cream together. They went to a neighboring tourist area on the Indian reservation, where no one knew them and sat around at tables pulled together, having frozen desserts of one kind or another and talking more about different ideas for a family owned business. They spent two hours in animated discussions before deciding to head back to Circleton for a celebratory meat loaf dinner at Martha's.

The news vans were back when they got back home.

Bob had taken his daughters for ice cream in his new car, with the top down and a lot of giggling going on. On the way back, Fran claimed the front seat, and Val and Becca climbed in the back, having just as much fun as their grandmothers had.

It was dark by the time they got back home and that was probably why Bob had a chance to get away. When he saw the van sitting in front of Betty's house, where they had all left from, he turned into an alley. Like a well rehearsed maneuver, the van with the older women in it went on to Betty's, where they got out and hurried inside. Sunny, driving her Bronco, drove slowly by and went to her mother's house, where another news van was camped out. She didn't stop, but went on to her own house. It was being surveilled too. It didn't take long to figure out that all six houses were being watched, waiting for the big break that each eager news crew hoped to be able to capitalize on. They arrived at Gidget's house last, and decided to run the gauntlet there. Once inside they called Betty, unsure of what to do. Martha answered the phone.