Point Doom Page 5

  Marta Spivak had twelve dollars in the wallet—a five and seven singles—plus loose change. She had one credit card, a Visa.

  As he was dropping the coins back into the purse’s change slot she opened her eyes again and seemed to want to speak. The sock he had inserted into her mouth was her own filthy sock.

  He removed the tape from her face and extracted the sock.

  Spivak cleared her throat and spoke in a near whisper. “Take it all,” she said. “Whatever you want. Take it.”

  As their glance met, he noticed that she had interesting eyes. Remarkable eyes, even. They radiated fear, of course, but in them there was also a dignity and a sense of what might be a quiet elegance. It made him recall the eyes and expression of the Egyptian statue of Nefertiti. He owned an original miniature from the Metropolitan Museum in New York and for years the tiny gold and black figure had been on view in a glass case on a shelf in the lower guest bathroom of his Malibu estate.

  Mel Tormé was now crooning “Moon River.”

  He leaned closer to Spivak. “Your first name is Marta. That’s a pretty name,” he said.

  “Please. Please let me go.”

  “Are your parents East European? Perhaps Ukrainian? The name Spivak means singer. Is Spivak your married name?”

  “I’m not married. Look, take the money. Take the wallet. You can get more from the ATM too. I have about eight hundred dollars.”

  “You have remarkable eyes, Marta,” he whispered. “In fact, you have the eyes of royalty.”

  “Please—just let me go, okay?”

  It was only now that he came to understand the real purpose of their meeting. No question, it was her eyes.

  For him the universe was one of symmetry and order. There were, of course, no accidents. True, Trooper Spivak had been the source of a possible summons that afternoon but he had nearly squandered their coming together by his haste and destructive emotions. He had nearly lost the opportunity for this . . . intimacy.

  “You’re quite tall,” he said quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Look—”

  “Yes or no, Marta?”

  “Yes. Okay. Sort of.”

  “You don’t have his photograph in your wallet. Will you tell me why?”

  “I threw it away.”

  “You threw his photo away? Why would you do that?”

  “We had an argument.”

  “ You strike me as a by-the-book type of person. Is that accurate?”

  “I don’t know. I just try to do my job.”

  “Is this boyfriend employed by the California Highway Patrol? Is he also a trooper?”

  “He works construction.”

  “How long have you been dating?”

  “Look, please listen to me. You can still let me go.”

  “Tell me, Marta, have you had an energetic romantic life with this . . . boyfriend?”

  “Please—I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  “What’s the boyfriend’s name? I’d like to know it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Louis. His name’s Louis.”

  “Does Louis look into your eyes . . . in romantic moments? Does Louis do that?”

  “I don’t know. Yes, I guess he does that.”

  “Has Louis ever told you that you have the eyes of royalty, Marta—the eyes of an Egyptian queen?”

  “No. He’s never said that.”

  “Well, you do. I assure you that you do.”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Do you believe it possible that you and I are here today, let us say, for a purpose?”

  “I just try to do my job. That’s all it is—just a job.”

  “I believe that who we are is how we express ourselves in the world. If I may, I will quote Heraclitus, the ancient Greek philosopher, who said, ‘Ethos anthropos daimon.’ Character is fate.”

  He looked down at Marta’s brown boots and excised clothing. Then he picked up the contents of her purse from her chest and set them on the floor with her other things. He then brought his mouth to her ear. “I apologize for my rudeness this afternoon. I admit to have behaved poorly. In fact I now believe you to be a special person. I believe that you have been selected.”

  “You’re going to kill me. Is that it?”

  “I broke the law this afternoon by not using my turn signal. I am guilty as charged. I will send in the money. How much is the fine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I pride myself on keeping my word, Marta.”

  He picked up her mirrored sunglasses and put them back on her. Then, with his large hands, he forced her jaw open and shoved the sock back inside her mouth. Then he retaped her face.

  Getting up, he crossed the carpet to a row of built-in supply cabinets made of natural mahogany. He had paid several thousand dollars extra during the construction of his motor home for natural wood instead of the standard laminate facing. Opening one of the cabinets, he removed a jar of petroleum jelly.

  Returning to Marta he reached down and picked up the long-barreled stainless steel flashlight. As she looked on, he coated the tube with lubricant; then he leaned close to her ear. “It’s time to begin now, Marta,” he whispered.

  It was after midnight when he punched in the number of his assistant Raoul at his Malibu estate. His call was answered on the second ring.

  “Raoul,” he said, “I’ll need your help.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m at the Bescara Inn off Route 1 an hour or two north of Santa Barbara.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring two cars and two of the men.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Burn the motor home after you dispose of the remains inside. The motor home should look as if it were vandalized—torn seats, stolen electronics, broken fixtures. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Burn it to the ground.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “I’ll be asleep. My suite number is 125. There are two tall potted cactuses on either side of my room’s door. I believe they are Adenia glauca. Leave the keys to one of the cars on the floor behind the cactus. The one on the left as you face the room.”

  “Will you be returning to Malibu, sir?”

  “Good night, Raoul.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  SIX

  The next morning, after less than two hours’ sleep, after another dream about reaching into my jacket pocket and finding the severed and bloody hand again, I reported for work. I parked Mom’s red shitbox up the block from Sherman Toyota, on Ninth Street. A legal spot. No meter.

  It was seven forty-five A.M. Saturday morning. I was wearing a new pair of pants and a stiff, new unwashed white shirt that was already scraping a red mark on my neck. I had a new tie, too, but I’d stuffed it into the glove compartment before I went in, in case I needed it later.

  The conference room at Len Sherman Toyota had no windows and no pictures on the walls. In fact the room wasn’t a conference room at all. It was a working replica of a high school classroom, complete with two dozen one-piece pine and metal student desks. There were pads and pens resting on the desktops and my friend Woody was the only other person in the room. I waved hi. Not only had Woody gotten me my job, but over the last several months he had come to be a good friend. On two occasions when I was freaked out and on the verge of getting drunk it was Woody I’d called both times. He had driven all the way out from Santa Monica to Point Dume to talk me down and save my ass. “How’s it going, big guy?” I asked.

  “Just ducky, JD. Pull up a chair. The big show’s about to get started.”

  Then he pointed to a large corkboard pinned to the wall to my right. “But first have a look at those mug shots and see who you’
re working for.”

  I turned and saw a gallery that contained all of Sherman Toyota’s retail sales permit photo IDs. Stepping closer to the board I couldn’t help but notice that Robin Baitz’s ID was above all the others. Robin Butler Baitz, aka Rhett Butler, Sherman’s new GM. Apparently Rhett Butler was a nice, spiffy, fake sales name.

  I sat down in the back row next to Woody. He was sipping from his Pete’s Coffee espresso cup. “Welcome to the shitstorm,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Yesterday Max filled me in about the management shake-up. He also said they pay every other Friday. I gotta tell you, Woody, I’m a happy camper.”

  “You won’t be, pal. I met with Butler yesterday afternoon and had a talk with him. Your new boss is a one hundred percent gold-plated ball-breaker. He bumped five of the old staff while I was out on the lot talking to a customer. Just walked in with his huge belly, holding that dumb-ass pink coffee mug he carries that’s shaped like a pair of tits, and points at the staff: ‘You, you, you, and you, and you, too. See me in my office.’ Half an hour later their desks were cleaned out and they were gone. Ba-boom. All bumped on the spot.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “It’s the car business, pal. Heads roll. Max let me know that Rhett is changing the schedule too. I guess he’s trimming the fat by cutting the staff. That’s how a dealership can fire five people in one day. Charming shit, right?”

  A FEW MINUTES later, as the wall clock got to eight, the room was populated by the rest of the sales staff: four more guys and one girl, the ones who had not been fired in the latest show-of-power car-business purge. Then, the great man himself entered with Max behind him, carrying a clipboard to make notes and Butler’s coffee cup with the tits.

  “I’m Rhett Butler,” he snarled with a capped-tooth grin, “for those who don’t know me yet. I’m here to increase sales. My goal and Max’s goal is to up our gross by twenty-five percent in the next thirty days. That’s what they pay me for. You’ll soon find out that I’m hard on salespeople. But I have another side too—I’m also a greedy son of a bitch. I’m here to make you and me a shitload of money. If you produce, we’ll get along and you’ll make bigger bucks than you ever did before selling iron. If you don’t, you’re down the road. Understood?”

  Most of us nodded.

  “Next thing you should know: all days off are canceled as of today. Max has your new work schedule. Do it, Max.”

  Max handed Rhett his coffee mug with the tits, then pinned the new schedule to the corkboard by the door.

  Rhett kept talking: “Bottom line, no more weekends off. No more banker’s hours. No more split shifts. One shift a day for everybody. Bell to bell. And from now on, everybody works weekends. All salespeople will get one day off a week. A weekday.”

  Next to me, Woody groaned.

  “You! You got a problem? Let’s hear it!”

  Woody rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything, so Rhett snarled again: “Right, that’s what I thought!”

  Then he went on. “Also, now hear this: if you have to come in on your day off to deliver a car, then you’d better be here at the store to deliver it! If you are a no-show for a delivery and your customer arrives to pick up his vehicle, the salesman who delivers your car will get credit for the sale and also get your commission. Understood?”

  Moans and grumbling from the asses seated in the classroom chairs.

  “And here’s the new dress code. This includes all managers: no more casual dress on weekends. From now on it’s dress shirts and ties for the guys, skirts or dresses or slacks for the women, seven days a week. If you arrive out of uniform you will be sent home. Understood?”

  Dead silence from the staff.

  “Last thing, the demo car you are driving is not your car. That vehicle is for sale like everything else on this lot. It belongs to this dealership. Just because you drive it for your own use does not mean it belongs to you. It is a dealership spiff—a free gimme. And if the inside and outside of that car is not one hundred percent clean at all times, you will receive one ding on Max’s attendance sheet. If you get two dings, you’re a pedestrian for the next thirty days. That means everyone, sales managers included.

  “Okay, now here’s the deal with the ups: from now on everyone has their own sales area on the lot. No more number system. The number system is a joke. Max will assign each of you an area on the lot. Your personal patch. You are to be outside on the lot at all times on that patch unless you got a mooch in the box or you are at your desk, working a deal or making call-backs. Any mooch that stops in your area to check out a car, that mooch automatically becomes your up. And there will be no skating other salesmen. That shit will not be tolerated.

  “Here it is again. Listen up: if the mooch stops in your area by a car, then he’s your up. If he stops. If you are caught skating in someone else’s area, and a sale is made, you will lose that sale.

  “Okay, that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Any questions?”

  TRUDY, A TALL and skinny saleswoman in a short skirt and tight blue top, had a question and held her hand up.

  “Excuse me, Rhett,” she said, “I go to my second job twice a week at five o’clock. I have to be on time. Can I work something out?”

  Rhett smiled. “No exceptions. Zero.”

  Trudy rolled her eyes.

  “Now, all of you, check the board to see what your new day off is. Last thing: we have a new bonus policy at Sherman Toyota. Here it is. This is the good news, so listen up, kiddies! Beginning this weekend, the salesman who delivers the most cars will get a five-hundred-dollar cash bonus. And from now on, any salesman who delivers three cars in one day gets a five-hundred-dollar cash bonus. And any salesman who delivers ten cars in one week from now on will receive a five-hundred-dollar cash bonus in addition to his commission. And from now on, the first sale of the weekend gets a five-hundred-dollar bonus. In cash. All cash bonuses are off the books.”

  This information brought wide smiles from most of the sales force—all except Woody and Trudy.

  Rhett went on. “This is the car business, my friends. You work for Rhett Butler now. If you give me my pound of flesh I’ll make you a lot of money. If you don’t, you’re history. It’s as simple as that. I know you think I’m an asshole. Everybody thinks I’m an asshole. I’m known all across L.A. as an asshole—a rich asshole. Play ball with me, I’ll make you a fat paycheck every two weeks. Any more questions?”

  There was only one. It came from Fernando, the dealership’s only Spanish-speaking salesman. “Scuze me, Rhott. My dae hoff ez disa Sunday. Tomoro,” he said. “I got me some planz to go out of tonn. I steel got my dae hoff?”

  “Meeting’s over,” Rhett barked. “Let’s go to work.”

  AFTER EVERYONE HAD left the room only me and Woody remained in the chairs. He made a face. “See what I said: This sucks,” he said, “in plain fucking English. I got dinner with my sponsor twice a week. I go to two noon AA meetings. Now that’s all down the shitter. I move an average of twenty cars a month for this joint. I’ve been the top guy here for months. My weekends and nights are now history—that means I start going to late-night AA meetings. Until ten minutes ago I had a sweet deal.”

  “I hear ya,” I said. “Mercury retrograde.”

  “What? Mercury-fucking-what?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Look, screw this shit, JD. I’m outta here. I’m done. I’m going home.”

  “What for?”

  “To make some phone calls. I’ll have another gig in a couple days. No big deal. Effective immediately. Rhett Butler and his plaid sports jacket can suck my ten-inch dick.”

  Woody unhooked his demo’s car keys from his key ring and handed them to me. Then he pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. “Do me a favor, pal, and give those to Max. I’m calling a cab to take me home.”

  “No so-long to Max and Rhett?
No kiss-my-ass? Nothin’?”

  “Don’t you get it, JD? In the car business you’re a turd—a photo mug shot on a bulletin board. Those boys don’t give a rat’s ass about us. Tell Max I’ll be back to pick up my check.”

  Then Woody stood up and held out his hand. “Anyway, good luck, pal. You’ll need it. I hope you make some money. See you around.”

  THE RAIN STARTED coming down half an hour after the meeting broke up. I had retrieved my tie from Mom’s Honda, then I watched from the showroom as Woody got into his cab.

  Rain came down for the rest of that day. Steady. It was Saturday—the best day of the week in the car business. The rain killed everything. The weather forecast was for two more days of it. I was the only male salesman that day technically in uniform. Skinny Trudy had gone into Max’s office to plead her case about her second job. Five minutes later she, too, had cleaned out her desk.

  By noon most of us were soaked and none of us had had one legitimate up. Three or four service department customers came into the showroom to wait but none of them wanted to buy cars and were just killing time. They picked up brochures or eyeballed the polished iron, got a free cup of coffee, opened and closed the doors and kicked the tires of the cars on the floor, but there was no action at all.

  Max and Rhett both stayed in their offices watching sports on TV and the sales staff, me included, after getting drenched outside, spent the rest of our time reading or talking on our cell phones. An hour later Fernando and I played penny-and-nickel draw poker but that got boring quickly. At three o’clock Rhett marched out of his big office and passed out literature on the Avalon and the Prius. He told us to spend the rest of the afternoon testing each other on our hybrid product knowledge.

  By six o’clock, with no business at all and the rain still coming down, Max told us all to go home, that the store was closing early.

  SEVEN

  By 9:30 A.M., two days later, after the rain finally quit, I had sold my first car and made the first sale in three days for the Sherman Toyota dealership. My mooch turned out to be a couple originally from Mexico City. They drove onto the lot in a twenty-year-old Toyota pickup that was a beater—no trade-in value. It was my area of the lot and the people stopped at a five-year-old 4Runner SUV, so I got the up.