Chapter 6: Not Our Kind of Customer
Chad Merrick saw the old man coming from twenty feet away, and the first thing he thought was not a customer. It was a problem.
He had just finished telling a junior rep about the espresso blend in the lounge when the glass doors sighed open and the man shuffled in wearing a flannel shirt with frayed cuffs, worn jeans, and boots that looked like they'd walked through three decades of gravel. The man stopped before the midnight-blue Halcyon Sovereign on the turntable, hands clasped behind his back, and stared at it like a painting.
Chad smoothed his tie, straightened his cufflinks, and crossed the polished floor with the easy stride of a man who closed cars worth more than most houses. The old man was running one hand along the hood, slow and almost reverent, and Chad cleared his throat.
"Help you with something?" Chad asked.
The old man looked up. His eyes were pale blue and remarkably calm. "Just looking," he said. "Beautiful car."
"It is," Chad said. He glanced at the boots, then the flannel. "That one starts at one eighty-two. Before options."
The old man nodded, unbothered, and kept looking at the car. "She has a presence, doesn't she?"
"She does." Chad folded his arms. Denise glanced up from the reception desk. Chad lowered his voice to sound like he was doing the man a favor. "Listen, friend. I don't want to waste your time."
"You're not wasting my time," the old man said.
"I'm serious." Chad smiled the smile he used on people who wandered in off the boulevard to use the restroom. "The pre-owned lot is across the street. They've got some fine trade-ins over there. Solid cars. This floor is for buyers who are ready to sign today."
The old man tilted his head, studying Chad the way a man might study a scratch in the paint. "And how would you know whether I'm ready to sign?"
"Instinct," Chad said. "I've been doing this a long time. You learn to read people." He gestured vaguely at the flannel. "No offense. This is the flagship floor. These are appointment cars. I'd hate for you to fall in love with something you can't take home."
Denise was watching now, eyebrows climbing. Chad gave her a quick wink that said he had this handled.
"What's your name, son?" the old man asked.
"Chad Merrick. Senior sales consultant. Top closer last quarter." Chad tapped his little gold lapel pin. "If you decide you're serious, ask for me. But I'd start across the street."
"Across the street," the old man repeated, tasting the words. "I see."
"You look like a Ford man, honestly," Chad went on, warming to his own performance. "Nothing wrong with that. My uncle drove a Ford for thirty years. Great trucks." He clapped the old man lightly on the shoulder. "We all drive what fits our life."
The old man looked down at the hand on his shoulder, then back at Chad's face. His expression didn't change. If anything, he seemed almost amused.
"Son," he said quietly, "appearances don't always tell the full story."
Chad laughed, louder than he intended, and covered it with a cough. "That's a good line. Really. I've got to remember that one." He pulled a business card from his pocket and pressed it into the old man's hand. "Here. When you're ready for the real thing, and I mean really ready, call me. I'll even throw in the floor mats."
The old man examined the card. "Chad Merrick," he read aloud. "Senior sales consultant."
"Top closer last quarter," Chad added.
"I heard." The old man slipped the card into his shirt pocket and patted it flat. "Well, Chad. Thank you for your time."
"Anytime." Chad spread his hands. "Across the street, remember. Can't miss it."
The old man nodded once and walked toward the lounge instead of the doors. Chad watched him go, shaking his head, and caught Maya Chen's eye across the floor. She was standing near the brochure rack, frowning.
"What?" Chad mouthed.
Maya shook her head and looked away. Chad grinned to himself. The kid would learn. You couldn't treat every wanderer like a buyer or you'd spend your whole day pouring coffee for ghosts.
He poured himself a fresh, rich espresso and leaned against the counter, feeling quietly pleased with his own cleverness. The boots. The flannel. The way the old man had touched the hood like it was already his. Chad chuckled and said to the empty air, "Appearances don't always tell the full story," in a mock-gravelly voice.
Across the showroom, Denise was still watching the old man, who had settled into a lounge chair with his hands folded, perfectly at ease, like a man with all the time in the world.