April Evil by John D. MacDonald

could hear him less. He reflected that he would dearly love to bust Parks firmly in the nose.
    Mooney was a restless man, an itinerant auto salesman. He had broken in on the used car lots of Dayton and Cleveland and Columbus. He was forty and looked thirty. He was restless, unattached, world-wise. He knew he was no good on the long-term contract sales. He had no stomach for clubs, or golf games, or cocktail-party chatter. He knew he was the best floor man and best lot man he had ever seen. He could club the drifters. He felt alive when he was jamming the sale down their throats, making it taste sweet to them. He’d sharpened his weapons in Los Angeles, in Detroit, in the Bronx. He’d drifted down to Florida right after Christmas. And he’d unloaded a lot of iron for one fatheaded Dil Parks. Now the season was tapering off and it was time to think of heading north. The wallet was fat enough. Maybe just ease around for a month or so.
    This Parks didn’t know one thing about running an agency. That had been clear right from the start. On sales of the used stuff he’d been able to clip the agency regularly with one of the oldest tricks in the book. Look in all directions and say, in a low voice. “Okay, he’s got a three-fifty tag on it. Personally I think that’s a touch high, but I’ve got no authority to cut the price on it. But I like you and I think you ought to have a break. Suppose I write it up for three hundred. I’ll get a hell of a chewing out, and I might lose my job. So how about twenty in cash. It saves you thirty bucks on the car. But for Christ sake don’t tell anybody.” Then tell Parks he had to let it go at the minimum listing of three hundred, and take the commission on that figure.
    Parks didn’t appreciate salesmanship.
    Take that joker that came in yesterday, just looking around. Didn’t want any help. Just looking. Got into conversation with him. Gave Manny the sign to go look over the sucker’s car and make an estimate. Manny, on his way back through, held up seven fingers, showing that they could go to seven bills on the trade-in. Then never quote the total difference. Split it up in your head into payments.
    “I got a demonstrator outside. You say you’ve got to pick up the wife at the beauty parlor. Okay, suppose I run you over there and drive the two of you back here. No obligation. Glad to do it. Hell, you can drive it. See how it feels.”
    The wife was sore. “You thinking of another car already?” she squalled.
    Mooney stepped in. “He isn’t thinking of a new one, ma’m. But if he was, it isn’t a bad time. In another six months it’ll be twice as hard to move the car you’ve already got, and I understand the list on this one is going up. The difference will be a lot bigger. Right now you could drive this one away for just about fifty bucks a month. You know, if you get too far behind, it’s damn hard to get back to a new car. Might be up around a hundred bucks a month next year.”
    A little push here and a little push there. Fifty bucks a month. That didn’t include the insurance, but you didn’t tellthem that. Plenty of time for that in a day or two. Tell them you thought they carried that separately. The payments will total about sixty-six a month, but they’re happy. They’re rolling on new rubber. They have their feet on a few more horses.
    “Why the hell weren’t you on the floor?” Parks demanded. “We had some customers in here.”
    “I was out selling one.”
    And that didn’t mean anything to Parks. He wanted you handy to step on when he felt like it. He wanted to show you what a truly enormous wheel he was in this town. Address these postcards, Mooney. Here’s the list. Set up that display. Run over to railway express and pick up those parts for Bernie.
    He used his sleeve to wipe some fingerprints off the roof of the car he was leaning on. He didn’t like to peddle this make of car. This make was like Dil Parks. All noise and flash and no guts