Gatekeeper's Secret
Copyright© 2026 by Fick Suck
Chapter 18
No one came around the next morning. Grady shifted his priorities and drove to town. After months of farting around and refusing to take the initiative, he drove into the car lot and walked into the dealership. The salesman who greeted him was as smarmy as they come, quickly putting Grady on edge. When Grady indicated that he was interested in the heavy-duty pickup down the aisle, the salesman began his pitch that a kid like him needs to take all kinds of things into consideration, and there were many options available for those who qualified for financing.
Grady gave the man his best squint eye. “I’m paying cash.”
The salesman launched into a serenade about many quality, pre-owned vehicles he could drive off the lot today, when Grady stopped him. In a loud voice Grady asked, “Do I look like an idiot to you?”
The man tried to calm him down, but Grady was not willing to cooperate. Louder he asked, “You didn’t answer my question. Do I look like an idiot to you?”
At that point, the man took a step back and stared at Grady flustered. Grady caught the movement of someone coming out of the back office and moving towards them. The older man was wearing boots and a button up shirt under a sports coat. He sported a white beard that was neatly trimmed.
“I could hear you all the way back in my office,” the older man said. “How can I help you, Mr. Um?”
“Grady Wolcott, sir.”
“Ah, I take it you’re related to Jedidiah,” the man said. “Our families have done business going way back. I assume that you’re his grandson.” When Grady nodded the man continued, “My condolences on your loss. Your grandfather was a character, generous of spirit and sharp of tongue.”
“Yes, sir, he was.”
“I’m Lucius McKinley, and I’m the owner of this dealership. People call me Luke.” He turned to his salesman, “I’ll take care of this account; I’ll speak with you later.”
Grady waited until the smarmy man walked out of earshot. “Well, sir, to get to the point. Jedidiah needed a new truck before he passed, but we never got to that item. You have a blue extended bed truck out there that’s been gathering sand and dust for quite a while. If you’re willing to part with it, I’m willing to negotiate a price.”
“Saints alive, you speak like Jedidiah,” Mr. McKinley laughed. “Let’s go take a look at it.”
As they examined the truck, the interior, the truck bed, and under the hood, Mr. McKinley was full of reminiscences and questions. At one point, Grady turned back to the man and asked him if his wife was one those regulars for “teatime” at the tavern like his grandma had been. Mr. McKinley chuckled, admitting that his favorite aunt was often a visitor there. After that small confession, Grady drove the truck around the block.
Back inside the dealership, Grady was escorted to the top dog’s office, which he thought was surprisingly dated. There were stacks of manuals and catalogs and a couple of piles of paperwork. Grady pulled out his phone and brought up the numbers he had researched at the automotive websites. When Mr. McKinley began discussing the quality of the installed trim, Grady gave him his best raised left eyebrow. “If I wanted to brag to the guys at the construction site, or in the Blue Comet parking lot, your trim is certainly well positioned. This is a ranch truck. If you had put a Rhino™ seal on the truck bed, we’d be singing a different song.”
“You’ve got to take your girl out on a date,” Mr. McKinley said. “She doesn’t want to show up at the ski resort in a work rig.”
Grady mulled that point for a moment. “I’ll concede that point for the moment, but if she goes on about how a truck should look, I’m pulling over and putting her out on the road. She can find her own way home.”
Mr. McKinley let out a laugh at that statement. “I’m taking that one home tonight to the wife. She’s whining for one of those top-heavy SUV’s that I don’t trust in the winter.”
After that exchange, they dickered over the price until they reached a mutual agreement. Once they shook hands, Mr. McKinley asked if the truck was being charged to the business account for the Twin Sisters Ranch. “Most definitely,” Grady answered, not realizing that the account was known around town.
As they walked over to the finance director, Mr. McKinley explained that his daughter was running the desk for the time being. “She’s home from college and getting some experience running the business. Perhaps you remember her from school, Leslie McKinley?”
“Yes, she was two years ahead of me. I know her face, but we never crossed paths or talked,” Grady said. “Are you hoping she’ll take over the business when you retire?”
“I’m keeping my fingers crossed,” Mr. McKinley said just before they turned into the next office. He introduced Grady and invited him to sit. Leslie gave him a professional smile and extended her hand across the desk. When Grady sat, her father disappeared.
The conversation was short, because there was little to discuss. A call to the insurance company was the only matter that took a few minutes. Leslie explained that processing the paperwork and prepping the vehicle would take a few hours. When Grady said he understood, the conversation shifted from business to life in the big old town, college, and the ranch. He asked her out to lunch, but she declined.
He took his old truck and swung by the hardware store and then the post office. The post office had a nifty trick where they permitted their rural patrons to use the post office’s street address and the P.O. Box was listed as Suite #. UPS was not going to readily deliver out to the ranch, usually holding his packages for days or a week before sending somebody out, absolutely outside of company policy but no one cared to listen to his complaints. He picked up burritos at the food truck south of the high school.
He tried Randy first, but he texted back that he could not help today. He texted Bettina and asked her if she wanted to use his truck. The answer was <Hell, yes.> He swung by her mother’s house and picked her up.
“What’s this going to cost me?” Bettina said when they exited her mother’s house.
“I can’t take money from a friend,” Grady said, kicking a stray stone off the walkway. “What do you have on barter?”
She gave him an indecipherable look, “You make it sound so simple, Grady. You’re a dirty old man before your time.”
Grady gave her a look of shocked innocence, “I said nothing of the sort. Besides, for my truck nothing less than your hand in marriage would suffice. Now, if you owned a boat...”
Bettina snorted. “I know that joke, Grady. ‘Wanted: a new wife. Must own boat. Please send picture of boat.’ Your jokes are a little stale, maybe a bit out of date.” She climbed into the cab. “You’re good for the soul. You remind me that not all men are shit heels. Where’re we heading.”
“To the dealership – my Maserati is waiting, and I’m impatient,” he said. “It’s blue with a trim that’s supposed to impress the young women. I tried it out on the owner’s daughter; I invited her to lunch, and she turned me down. I think I’ve been had, now that I think about it.”