The Yellow Packard (17 page)

“Okay,” came the salesman’s reluctant reply. “I doubt if it is that good, but I’d be a fool not to at least take a look. You go get it while I finish my meal. I’ll meet you out front.”

The sandwich was the best thing Landers had eaten in days. He was tempted to order a second one, but there was a deal he needed to make or pass on. He figured it would be the latter. So, he pushed his one-hundred-sixty pounds off the stool and out the door. Just as he stepped out into the lot, the Packard rumbled up.

The owner left it idling as he stepped out. “Runs real smooth.”

Landers nodded. The body was razor straight, the dark blue paint shiny, the chrome good, the tires had lots of tread, and the interior was only stained in a couple of places.

“Want to take her for a drive?”

“Sure,” Landers answered, opening the door and sliding behind the wheel.

“Want a smoke?” the man asked.

“No,” the salesman replied, “don’t use them.”

“Suit yourself.” The man pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, used his index finger on his left hand to tap out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, grabbed the Packard’s lighter, took a long draw, and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. As the smoke hovered in the air, Landers twisted the key and hit the starter.

With the owner in the passenger seat smoking, the salesman put the car through the paces. He pushed it up to seventy, slammed on the brakes, went through the range of gears several times, and attacked a series of bumps and potholes. In each case the Packard performed and handled like a new car.

“Your uncle did take good care of it,” Landers said as they pulled back into the diner’s parking lot. Stepping out of the car, he carefully looked it over again. “Tell you what. Let me step back into the diner for a minute. I’ll come back out, and we’ll see if we can make a deal.”

With the car’s owner standing hopefully by the sedan, Landers went back into the diner and over to the counter. Catching the kid’s attention, he leaned forward and posed a simple and direct question, “What do you know about the guy who’s trying to sell me the car?”

The kid looked up and smiled. “He’s been in here every day for the past couple of weeks. He lives with the Hooks family down the street. They’re pretty good folks. Other than that, I don’t know much. Why?”

“I’m just wondering,” Landers mused, “if the car could be hot. I mean this is serious business, and I can’t afford to play footsie with the law.”

“Well, a lot of cops eat in here,” the kid shot back. “If that was the case, I figure that guy would be hanging out somewhere else. And he’s driven it up here a few times.”

“Thanks, kid. That’s what I need to know. Here’s a buck toward your car repairs.”

The kid was still grinning when Landers strolled back outside. After waving at the man he asked, “Will you take a C-note?”

The man grinned. “How about a hundred and a quarter?”

The salesman nodded.

“I’ll give you a bill of sale,” the man replied. “The title is with my uncle’s things at the bank. Give me your address, and I’ll mail it to you next week when the will is read and the property distributed.”

“You sure you own this car?” Landers anxiously asked.

“Yep, but in a few minutes you will.”

If his job hadn’t been on the line, Landers would have walked away. After all, that was what his gut told him to do. But it was either this car or the unemployment line, and that appealed to him even less than the risk of getting into trouble with the law. Besides, if he was picked up and the police told him the car was hot, he could just explain the situation. After all, he was getting a bill of sale, and that had the seller’s name on it. So he had his bases covered. Now all he had to do was get his stuff out of the Studebaker and head for Indiana.

Chapter 30

Y
ou just tell your company they’d better reserve lots of boxcars to get aluminum to us. We will quickly become your biggest customer! These Brits need a lot of planes right now.”

“Thank you, sir,” Landers said while reaching for Paul Bowan’s hand. “I’ll make sure the trains are ready and the materials are here in time.”

“Landers,” Bowan’s booming voice caught the salesman right before he stepped out the Airflow Company’s president’s door.

Turning on his heels, the salesman quickly answered, “Yes, sir?”

“Landers,” Bowman repeated his name, “see my secretary on the way out. Have her give you the contact information for Lester Franks. He heads up Franklin Aircraft. They are looking for good sources for aluminum as well. I think he’d be a good customer for you, too. You could circle by his office in Lexington on your way back to Arkansas.”

“I sure could!” Landers assured him. “Thanks again, sir.”

He couldn’t believe it! After months of not being able to even get in to talk to the president of any company, he just made the biggest sale in the history of Bynum Aluminum. Not only had he saved his job, he had likely earned a huge bonus. What a difference a day could make!

As he slid into the Packard, Bill Landers had a smile on his lips and a song in his heart. For the first time in his life he felt lucky. What had happened? Why suddenly had everything gone right?

Patting the Packard’s dash, he said, “Old Blue, you and I are going to have a beautiful friendship.”

It was almost noon, and hunger had set in with the force of a winter wind. Landers knew very little about Indiana and had no idea where to grab a bite. Thus he stopped at the first place he saw—Plunky’s Café.

There was no counter, so Landers slid into a booth. Judging by the crowd, he figured the food must be great. He spied a man to his right who was carving up a large steak and savoring every bite. Licking his lips, Landers anxiously glanced around for someone who could set him up with a piece of that choice beef. As he waited to be served, he looked around the building. From the cowhide cushions in the booth to cowbells lining the walls to the huge photos of prize-winning steers hanging on the wall, everywhere he looked there was a cattle theme. So he halfway expected the waitress to moo when she came to take his order. And he didn’t care as long as she got to him soon. Yet the place was so busy it took another ten minutes before a cheery looking heavyset girl in her twenties headed his way.

“What’s up, big boy?” she asked.

He grinned. “Looks like you’re busy. You have a special or something?”

Her eyes swept the room and fell back on him. “It’s always this way. You got here just in time. By twelve thirty there will be an hour’s wait just to grab a spot to rest your behind.”

“I’ve been lucky all day today,” Landers announced, “and it seems my choice of places to eat just continues that run. By the way, what’s the story on this place?”

“I have the speech memorized.” She laughed. “Every outsider who comes in here wants to know. So here it goes. Alexander Plunky, the owner, had a farm about twenty miles east of Indianapolis. His wife, Gladys, had long been known as the best cook in the area. In 1934, the husband and wife combined what they did well and opened Plunky’s in this empty barn on the outskirts of town. The result was a steak place that has earned a stellar reputation all over the Midwest.”

Landers shook his head and grinned. “Well done, if you will pardon my pun. Now what do you think is the best thing on the menu?”

“Well, it’s kind of pricey,” she explained, “but I’d say the T-bone with the baked potato. But you might not want to spend the two-fifty it costs, so perhaps you’d want to go with the sirloin. It’s tender and tasty and costs half that.”

“Bring me the T-bone and make it medium.”

“You must be in the chips.”

“I’m getting there.” He laughed. “Or as we say in the south, I’m walking in high cotton!”

“What do you do?” she asked as she scribbled down the order.

“I sell aluminum to the manufacturing industry.”

“Really?” she quipped, her eyebrows lifting halfway up her forehead. “You’re not going to believe this, but there’s a guy a couple of tables over who comes in every day. His company builds farm equipment, and he uses a lot of the stuff. He’s always talking about how difficult it is for him to get enough to keep his plant running. Maybe you should talk to him.”

Landers grinned. “Where is he and what is his name?”

“The name is Biggilo … Mick Biggilo,” she explained as she pointed over her shoulder. “You see that huge hunk of a man wearing the gray suit in the corner booth? Well that’s Big Mick.”

Big Mick had earned his moniker. Even sitting down he looked tall. His hands were twice the size of a normal man’s, and he used them as his spoke. At this moment the man with him was getting more than an earful as Mick’s mitts were flying in all directions to emphasize his every word.

Beyond his hands, Mick’s shoulders were wide as a yardstick and his neck would have dwarfed the trunk of a ten-year-old oak tree. Clean-shaven with a thick and unruly crop of blond straw on his head, the man’s green eyes sparkled like a lake on a summer day.

Landers shook his head and noted, “The guy’s grandfather must have been Paul Bunyan.”

“Yep.” She giggled. “You’re not the first person to say that. But he’s really a teddy bear. He tips great, too. Do you have a business card? I’ll take it over to him.”

Landers fished in his coat pocket and pulled out a card. As he handed it to the woman, he glanced back toward Big Mick’s table. The factory owner was still involved in some heavy conversation with the smaller, thin man. Whatever they were visiting about seemed pretty serious, too, as neither was smiling.

Bill’s eyes followed the waitress as she pushed through the crowd to Mick’s table. Once there she leaned over, handed the large man the card, and pointed to where Landers were sitting. Mick nodded, gently slapped the woman on the shoulder with his big right hand, and pulled himself from the booth. Five steps later he was peering down at the Arkansan.

“Says here your name is William Landers.” His deep, booming voice matched his size.

“I am, but most folks call me Bill.”

A ham-sized hand came forward, and a second later Landers was experiencing a grip firmer than any he’d ever known. He half expected to have to see a doctor when the big man finished the greeting. Finally, Big Mick dropped his massive frame into the seat opposite Landers. He wasted no time spelling out what he wanted.

“This tells me that your company can fill anyone’s needs for aluminum. Is that right?”

“I believe we can,” Landers assured him, “and our price is right, too.”

“Price is important, but not as important as volume. I can’t make enough of a newfangled hog feeder I designed. Everyone wants to buy them. And now I’ve developed cattle feeders as well. May not sound like much when compared to the aircraft industry, but I can assure you there are a lot of pigs and cattle in this world that have to eat, and farmers want feeders that will stand up in the weather. So I need a lot of aluminum. You see where I’m headed here?”

Smiling even though his right hand was still stinging, Landers nodded.

“Bill, I’m going to write a figure here on this napkin. You take a look at it and tell me if you can deliver anywhere near that much to my Muncie plant each month.”

The big man took out a pencil and scribbled a number on the white paper. He then pushed it across the table toward the salesman. Landers could feel Big Mick’s stare as he studied a number that was ten times what he expected.

“Mr. Biggilo.”

“Call me Big Mick.”

“Big Mick, would you give me time to make a call to our office? I want to guarantee how much we can deliver before I commit.”

“There’s a phone in the back.” He pointed to a door that had O
FFICE
written in six-inch blue letters. “Tell Plunky that Big Mick will pick up the long-distance charges.”

Landers hurried across the crowded restaurant to the office. He knocked and waited for a voice on the other side.

“Come in.”

“Big Mick sent me back here to make a long-distance call,” Landers explained. “He said he’d pick up the charges.”

The tall, dark headed, beady-eyed Plunky grunted, pointed to the phone, and got up and left. Two minutes later Calvin Bynum was on the line.

“So, Bill, you’re telling me that this guy is looking to buy this much every month?”

“He says he can’t make them fast enough,” Landers assured him.

“And you got the Airflow contract, too? And neither balked at our price?”

“Well Airflow didn’t, and Big Mick assured me he was more concerned about getting the material than what it cost. So, Mr. Bynum, can I can cut this deal?”

“Okay, Bill. We might have to add another shift, but if you close on this, both you and I are going to make a lot of money. In fact, you can get rid of that old Studebaker and buy a Packard or a Lincoln with the bonus you’ll be earning.”

Landers laughed. “Already got a Packard, but I’ll find a way to spend it. Don’t worry about that. I’ll call you later when we get everything signed.”

Setting the phone down, the salesman got up from the desk and walked over to a mirror. He straightened his tie and grinned. He had gone from the bottom of the barrel to the top of the mountain in less than a day, and he’d ridden there in a Packard. Not a bad way to go at all!

Chapter 31

W
e might have something, Helen,” Reese announced as Meeker walked into the room that had become their Chicago office.

The woman didn’t have to ask if what he had was good news. His face told her that the story was discouraging. Nine would get you ten that this was the news she had anticipated but hadn’t allowed herself to even think about. Setting the six-ounce bottle of Coke on her desk, she perched on the corner of the worktable and nodded.

“They found the body of a little girl along the Wabash River last night,” he explained, his tone as ominous as the subject was horrifying. “It was discovered about fifteen miles from where the Halls dropped the cash.”

Meeker pushed off the table and, with her arms folded across her chest, slowly walked over to the window. The news was hardly unexpected. History proved it was far easier to kill the victims in a kidnapping than leave them alive so they might be able to identify the person or persons responsible. Yet for the past three weeks she’d been hoping that this case would be different. As she’d studied the photos of Rose Hall, as she found out more about her personality and her likes and dislikes, as she’d come to know her favorite color and foods, the little girl had become very real to Meeker. She could almost hear the little girl singing along with Glen Miller on the radio. Now Helen wished Carole Hall had never shared that story with her. This was not just a case number with an objective, this was an almost three-year-old child whose parents loved her dearly. So the news was hard to stomach. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to face it. She didn’t want to know that she hadn’t saved Rose Hall.