“Did you have much contact with him?”
“Enough. Daisy and I were friends, but my dad never let me spend the night at her house. For one thing, the place they moved into was a nasty little dump, and for another, he saw Foley as the kind of guy young girls shouldn’t be left alone with. Daisy was welcome to come to our house. When Foley dropped her off, he’d try to chat me up. I’m only ten years old and I can already tell that he’s a world-class jerk.”
“You thought that at ten?”
“I could see straight through him. Kids operate at gut level and they’re hard to fool. I never told Daisy what I thought of him—she had problems enough—but I avoided him like the plague. Even Pop, who’s what they call ‘a man’s man,’ didn’t have any use for him.”
“Your father’s still alive?”
“Oh, sure. Hale and hearty. Daisy says she put his name on the list of people you should talk to. I don’t think he knew Violet. I mean, he knew her—everybody knew Violet—but mainly because she and Foley hung out at the Blue Moon. Pop’s a part owner now.”
“Isn’t that the Blue Moon where the Sullivans threw some of their big screaming fights?”
“That’s it,” she said. “You can ask the bartender, BW. He witnessed most of ’em. In fact, he and Pop pooled their resources and bought the Moon not long after Violet disappeared. They’ve talked me into taking over the management, if I move back to town.”
The crowd was picking up, and after Tannie brought my sandwich, I left her alone to tend to business. In my bag I had my index cards, so while I ate, I shuffled through my notes, trying to get a sense of where I was and where I needed to go next. The wall of years between me and Violet Sullivan felt as impenetrable as ever, but I was catching glimpses of her.
9
CHET
Wednesday, July 1, 1953
Chet Cramer was late getting back from lunch, having spent an interminable three hours in discussion with Tom Padgett about a partnership in his heavy-equipment business. In Chet’s opinion, Padgett was a fool. He’d married a woman fifteen years older than he was. Tom was forty-one now, which put her somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty-six years old, a shriveled-up old bag. Everyone in town knew it was her money he was after. She’d been widowed after twenty-five years of marriage to Loden Galsworthy, who’d died of a heart attack. Loden owned a string of funeral parlors, and Cora not only inherited those, but the rest of his estate, which was valued at a million dollars and included the house, two cars, stocks, bonds, and life insurance. Tom was a man with big schemes and precious little in the way of common sense. He’d hit her up for one loan in order to set up his business in the first place. He’d borrowed an additional sum from the bank. He admitted he’d been underfunded from the get-go, but now he wanted to expand, capitalizing on the inevitable demand for John Deere equipment as Santa Maria grew. The builders had to lease from someone and why not him? Chet could see his point, but he didn’t much like Padgett, and he sure as shit didn’t want to go into business with him. His suspicion was that Tom had a big balloon payment coming up, and this was nothing more than a push to find the dough before the note came due. Cora must have put her foot down and refused to bail him out.
At the country club, over grilled trout, Chet had been polite, feigning interest when, in truth, he had an agenda of his own. He and Livia were eager for membership, and he was hoping Tom and Cora would agree to sponsor them. The place had an old-money respectability he’d always admired. The furnishings were refined, though he noticed a touch of shabbiness in the corridor on his way in to the dining room. Only rich people had the confidence to offer leather chairs so old they had cracks along the seat. The point was that members here were movers and shakers in town, and membership would put Chet on a first-name basis with most of them. Even at lunch, men were required to wear jackets and ties. He liked that. He’d looked around the room, picturing the entertaining he could do here. Livia was an avid but lousy cook, and he’d done everything he could to steer her off inviting folks for dinner. She didn’t believe in alcohol consumption, which she said was against Scripture. That made meals a dreary proposition. From his perspective, heavy drinking was the only way to survive her enthusiasms, and he employed every manner of ingenuity to keep his glass filled with something more palatable than the sweetened iced tea she served.
Here he could see that members and guests to a man were enjoying midday cocktails—martinis, Manhattans, whiskey sours. Chet wanted to take up golf, and he liked the idea of Livia and Kathy lounging around the pool while colored waiters in white coats served them sandwiches held together with frilly toothpicks. You weren’t even expected to pay for the meal. You signed your name to a chit and then paid in full at the end of the month.
Of course, Padgett was sly. He seemed to sense Chet’s ambition, and he was probably hoping to use it as leverage for the so-called partnership. Chet had stalled him off, suggesting that Tom put together a business plan so he and his accountant could take a look. Chet said as soon as he knew what kind of money they were talking, he’d have a chat with the bank. Which was all a bunch of crap. He didn’t need his accountant to point out the folly of underwriting Padgett’s proposal when he, Chet, was struggling to keep his dealership afloat. In some ways, he and Padgett were in the same fix. Chevrolet expected him to expand his salesroom, services, parts and accessories facilities, along with his presence in the used-car market. The company also insisted that he pay for a product sign, a service sign, and “other necessary signs,” none of which were cheap. He was in hot competition with nine other car dealerships in town—Studebaker, DeSoto, Packard, Buick, Dodge, Plymouth, Chrysler, Hudson, and Cadillac. At the moment, he was holding his own, but he knew it would require a sizeable investment if he wanted to pull ahead.
Poor dumb Padgett had bombed out twice with his get-rich-quick schemes: the first, an amusement park that would have cost the moon; the second, some hare-brained idea about buying a television station. Television was fine, but it wasn’t going anywhere. An Ardmore table-model TV set—like the one he owned—was retailing for $359.95, and how many people could afford to pay that? Less than ten percent of households in the country owned a TV. Besides which, there were already 326 television stations in the country. Los Angeles had nine. What was the point of one more?
The heavy-equipment business was at least practical, though Padgett would probably find a way to drive it into the ground, figuratively speaking. Chet was banking on the fact that Padgett didn’t know the first thing about putting together a business plan. If he managed to come up with the numbers, Chet could always blame his accountant when he finally turned him down. If he was clever about it, he could hold him off long enough for his country club membership to be approved before he delivered the bad news. He’d have to come up with the ten thousand dollars’ initial club-membership fee, but he’d figure that out.
Chet pulled into the dealership and parked in his usual spot. Passing through the showroom, he noticed the big gleaming coupe was gone and he felt a flash of hope. The car was prime, high-powered and streamlined, with all the latest gadgets. Of course, the factory had shipped the car with accessories he hadn’t ordered, but he was good at persuading buyers to accept pricey options. The car had arrived on the lot only two days before, and a sale this quick would be impressive in his ten-day report. Every month, he had to provide the factory with a sales estimate for the next three months. These figures were used to determine factory production, but if he didn’t have the sales, he wasn’t accorded the inventory, and if he didn’t have a good selection of cars his business would steadily diminish.
The dealership felt deserted that afternoon because two of his three salesmen were off for a variety of reasons that annoyed him no end. One had called in claiming he had a head cold, for pity’s sake. What kind of man was that? In all his years in the business, he’d never taken a sick day. Jerry Zimmerman, his other salesman, had come up with an excuse just as lame, which meant he was left with Wi
nston Smith, the new hire, in whom he had no particular faith. Winston had been through the same extensive training every Chevrolet salesman enjoyed, but he didn’t have the fire. Chet wasn’t sure what the kid wanted out of life, but it wasn’t selling cars. His ambitions were airy-fairy, all talk and no substance. He probably pictured sales as a means to an end instead of a calling, which is how Chet saw it. At first Chet thought the boy had promise, but it hadn’t come to much. Winston wasn’t hungry and he couldn’t for the life of him get the concept of closure. Selling wasn’t about having nice long chats with folks. It was about making the deal, getting a signature on the dotted line. He’d have to learn to take control and bend others to his will. In the meantime, the boy was earnest and good-looking, and maybe that would be sufficient to carry him while he developed a spine.
Chet passed through the outer office, ignoring the fact that his potato-faced daughter was busily scribbling on a piece of pink notepaper that she slipped into a drawer as soon as she caught sight of him. It galled him that he was paying a dollar an hour when she had no office skills. Her phone manners were atrocious, and he was forever scrambling around behind her, trying to make amends for her moodiness and her snippy tone of voice.
She was their only child. Livia had lobbied for three, eager to start a family as soon as possible. Chet hadn’t married until he was thirty-two, hoping to be properly settled in life. At the time he met Livia, he was selling Fords in Santa Maria and he was tired of working for someone else. He’d been carefully setting money aside, and according to his reckoning he’d be able to buy his own dealership within the year. He’d insisted on postponing children for at least five years until he’d bought the franchise and gotten the business on solid ground. Livia had “slipped up,” or so she said, and she was pregnant within six months of the wedding, which meant his life plan had taken another hit. He was fine now, but it grieved him to think how much better off he’d be if she’d done as he asked. He’d made a surreptitious visit to a doctor in Santa Teresa, investing in a quick snip that eliminated any further slipups in that department.
Even so, when Kathy was born—six weeks premature—he’d felt so proud he thought his heart would burst. He’d first seen her in the nursery through the plateglass window, with a hand-printed sign that said BABY GIRL, CRAMER. She was such a tiny little thing—three pounds, fourteen ounces. Livia had been in the hospital for two weeks, and the hospital kept the baby for an additional four weeks until she topped five pounds. That bill had set him back yet again, and he didn’t recuperate for years. He hadn’t complained. He was happy the baby was healthy with all her fingers and toes. He’d pictured her developing into a beautiful young lady, smart and accomplished, devoted to her dad. Instead, he’d been saddled with this lump of a girl, pudgy and sullen, who had all the brains of a sprinkler head.
Depressed, Chet went into his office and took a seat in his leather chair, swiveling so he could look out at the side lot with its row after row of gleaming trucks. The Advance Design Series truck had hit the market in June of 1948, and he still marveled at its features—the front-opening hood; the concealed door hinges; the tall, fixed two-piece windshield. Two years later, the company had introduced the NAPCO four-wheel-drive conversion. Since the kit wasn’t factory installed, the customer first had to buy a new Chevrolet or GMC truck, but the light truck was coming into its own and profits had soared.
He knew the specs on every vehicle that came onto the lot and he knew the needs of workers in the area—farmers, plumbers, roofers, and carpenters. As a result, he moved more trucks than any other dealer in the county, and he intended to keep it that way.
“Mr. Cramer? Could I speak to you?”
Chet turned to find Winston in the doorway. The afternoon temperatures had climbed into the nineties and Winston was sweating unattractively. He’d have to find a way to instruct him in the use of antiperspirant. Chet got to his feet and moved around his desk, holding out his hand for Winston to shake. “Good, son. Glad you’re back. I saw you’d taken the coupe. I hope you’ve got a live one on the line. Let’s see if you remember what I taught you about reeling in a sale.”
He intended to go out to the showroom with Winston so he could offer the potential buyer a handshake and his personal greeting. Customers liked to meet the man who owned the place. It made them feel important. He’d answer any questions the fellow had, ask a few of his own, and generally smooth the way. Winston was inexperienced, and Chet thought he’d appreciate his boss stepping in to show him how it was done.
Winston’s forehead was beaded with perspiration, and he had to use his pocket handkerchief to mop his upper lip. His Adam’s apple dipped. “Well, that’s just it. The customer took the car out to get a feel for how she handles…”
“With one of the mechanics? Son, that’s a very bad idea. This is a sales situation. That’s your job. Any question about the nuts and bolts can wait until the deal’s in place. I’ll find a way to turn the situation to our advantage, but you can’t let this happen again.”
He could see Winston was uncomfortable at the correction, but there was a right way and a wrong way to go about these things, and he might as well conform to management guidelines straight off the bat. Chet passed Kathy’s desk on his way to the floor, with Winston hard on his heels. Kathy was suddenly very busy, fussing around her desk, but she flicked a look at Winston as the two men went by. Chet had seen her mooning around and he knew she had a crush on the young man, but her expression today held a touch of guilt. Surely Winston hadn’t made a pass at her. He couldn’t be that dumb.
He caught sight of both his mechanics in the service bay, but there was no sign of the car. He stopped in his tracks, and Winston nearly bumped into him like a cartoon character.
“Mr. Cramer? What happened was…the customer? She’s extremely interested in the car. I talked to her at length and she as good as said she’d be buying it. She even went so far as to mention an all-cash deal. So when she asked for a test drive, I explained for sure that I couldn’t leave the lot, and she said that was fine—she didn’t need my help, because all she was going to do was drive around the block and she’d be right back.”
Chet turned and stared. He felt his heart give a thump, as though someone had punched him, boom boom, in the chest—blows that pumped a thick, cold liquid through his veins. He must have misunderstood, because what he heard Winston say simply couldn’t be true. Cora Padgett was the only woman in town who had the wherewithal to walk into a dealership, take a car off the floor, and pay cash on the spot. But Tom had told him over lunch that she was out of town. Cora had gone to Napa to tour the wineries with her sister, Margaret, who lived in Walnut Creek. She wouldn’t be back until Wednesday of the following week—unless this was meant as a surprise and she’d told Tom a story so she could buy the car without his knowing in advance. “What are you talking about? What customer?”
“Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Sullivan?”
“Yes, sir. Violet Sullivan came in. She’s in the market for a car—”
“You let Violet Sullivan take that car out by herself? What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry. I can see how it might look, what with company policy and everything like that. I told her to come right back, you know, that it wasn’t a good idea—”
“How long has she been gone?” His voice sounded shrill and he knew he was losing control. He made a point of never speaking to an underling in anything other than a civil tone. But the enormity of the error, the possible consequences…
“I didn’t check the time—”
“Approximately, you dolt!”
“I’d say sometime around noon. Well, I don’t know, maybe a little bit before then, but close enough.”
Assume he minimized and what were we talking about here, four hours? Five? Chet closed his eyes and his voice dropped. “You’re fired. Get out.”
“But sir. I can explain.”
“Get off the lot. Right now. I want you out of
my sight or I’m calling the police.”
The boy’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment, and the look Winston pinned on him was bleak.
Chet waited until he could see the boy was leaving, and then he turned and walked back to his office. He’d have to notify the sheriff’s department and the highway patrol. If she’d been involved in a wreck, or if she’d stolen the car outright, she could be anyplace by now. He had liability insurance, blanket coverage for anything on the lot, but his premiums would double the minute he made a claim. Money was already tight. He sat down in his swivel chair and reached for the phone.
“Daddy?” Kathy was in the doorway.
“What!”
“Mrs. Sullivan just pulled in.”
Through the glass he spotted the car and relief washed over him. The vehicle didn’t appear to be damaged, at least the parts he could see. He went out to the floor, knowing that in no way possible could she afford to buy the coupe. Violet turned as he approached, and he was startled by her vibrancy—the flaming hair, the creamy skin, her eyes a vivid green. He’d never seen her at close range because Livia made a point of crossing the street, tugging him by the arm, if she spotted Violet anywhere in town. She thought Violet was a tramp, wearing those sheer nylon blouses you could see right through. The sundress Violet wore today emphasized the suppleness of her arms, and the flowing skirt showed her legs to advantage. Livia was thick-waisted and narrow-minded, critical of others whose circumstances or beliefs or behaviors were an affront to her own. Chet was irritated by her scathing pronouncements, but he’d kept his mouth shut. From afar, he’d seen Violet’s flirtations with married men, and he’d wondered how it would feel to have her attentions lavished on him.
“Hello, Chet. Sorry I was gone so long.”
He circled the car until he was satisfied no harm had come to it. On impulse, he leaned in and checked the odometer: 257 miles. For a moment he was speechless. She’d turned this beautiful new Bel Air into a piece-of-shit used car. “Come into the office,” he snapped.