Chapter 2
They called it Little Dick’s Chevrolet, but not where Mr. Tate could hear them. And it had only taken Jem a day to figure out why.
Richard Tate, Junior, went by Rick. But there was the junior.
And the fact that his daddy—Big Dick—was one of the biggest Chevy dealers in the state.
And the fact that he’d set up his son with a dealership of his own.
And, most importantly, the fact that Rick Tate, Junior, was a piece of shit.
Anyway, it wasn’t hard to see where the name had come from.
Out on the lot, ears puffy with the cold, Jem leaned against the big, black Silverado, fiddling with his tie because otherwise he was going to rip it off.
“This is the top of the line right here. Leather upholstery, wood trim, heated and cooled seats. But look, you’re buying this truck to work, right? ”
The man nodded. He was one of those desk jockeys with a middle-age gut.
He was sweating inside a Canada Goose puffer, with a belt buckle the size of Jem’s hand and boots that looked like they’d never touched grass, much less dirt.
His wife, on the other hand, was too blond, too tan, and had inch-long fingernails studded with rhinestones.
She looked like she thought she was twenty years younger.
“So, I’m going to tell you the truth: this is hands-down the best truck you can buy for work. Period. We’re talking a six-point-two liter V-eight engine with a ten-speed transmission. Add to that the integrated trailer brake, the power tailgate, and over twelve thousand pounds of towing capacity.”
“Does it have CarPlay?” the woman asked.
“You bet,” Jem said, and he shared a manly look with—was his name Ted? Todd? Tim? “And ma’am, I know some women aren’t comfortable driving a vehicle this big, but I can tell that’s not going to be an issue for you.”
She looked up from her phone long enough to laugh.
“Not only are you getting luxury and power,” Jem said, “but you’re getting safety. We’re talking driver assistance technologies like collision alert, lane assist, automatic braking. And that’s on top of all the standard safety features you’d expect from a Chevy.”
“I want you to be safe,” the woman said to Ted/Todd/Tim, as though he’d put up some kind of argument.
“I’m not going to talk you into it,” Jem said. “But this isn’t just a vehicle. This is a legacy. These things run forever. You can drive it into the ground if you want, or you can hand this off to your kids when they’re ready for it. You’re not just buying a vehicle. You’re buying a lifestyle.”
His brain snapped on at that point and told him he’d already said something similar—and was this truck a legacy or a lifestyle?
As usual, it didn’t matter.
“What about the rebate?” the man was saying.
Jem pulled a pained face. “The bad news is that deal was for a different model.”
“But on your website—”
“I know, I know. We can’t get the website guy to keep it up to date.”
“We came in here because there was a dealer rebate,” the man said. “When I called, the man on the phone said you were still offering the rebate.”
Jem’s pained expression grew a little tighter. “Let me see what I can do, but I’m going to be honest: my manager isn’t going to like this.”
He left the couple on the lot with the Silverado; the sound of traffic from I-15 thinned behind him. The woman had dropped down inside her phone again; the man was touching one of the truck’s side panels like he was about to start petting it.
Inside the dealership, Jem went back to the employee break room.
He got himself a cup of water, considered the donut box that now held only a single, stale cruller, and took out his phone.
He watched a couple of YouTube videos. There was a guy he liked.
He sold cars too, although that was a coincidence.
What the guy did—what the videos were about, and what Jem got a kick out of—was talk to strangers.
He pretended to know them. And nine times out of ten, maybe nine-point-nine times out of ten, the people went along because they were too afraid to admit they had no idea who he was.
And the best part was, he could get them to agree to all sorts of things—to call old friends they’d never heard of, to reminisce about teachers they’d never had, to spill secrets about their health, their careers, their marriages.
It was this little window, and Jem kept cracking it open, getting glimpses of this other world that was, occasionally, like a mirror.
A world where you could just do shit. And shit happened.
“Hey.” The voice cut through the buzz of conversation on the video. “You’ve got a couple out there who’s waiting to drop forty thousand dollars on one of my trucks.”
Little Dick was maybe five-seven, a hundred and fifty pounds, and he told everybody who’d listen that he’d wrestled in college, and back in high school he would have won state except he’d pulled his groin. That was how he said it every time: pulled his groin.
“Yeah,” Jem said. “I’m getting them a better deal. You’re being a real hard-ass about it, and I’m fighting for them to get our dealer rebate, and I swear to God, my manager is never going to let me do this again.” Jem caught himself fiddling with his tie again. “I’m giving it two more minutes.”
Little Dick grinned. He always grinned when he thought Jem was—as Little Dick liked to put it—giving it to them up the ass. He had capped teeth that were a little too small for his mouth. “Are they going to finance?”
“That’s a condition of the rebate.”
Little Dick’s grin got bigger. “You are un-fucking-believable. See if you can get them to swallow the dealer prep fees—oh, and nitrogen in the tires, that’s been popular lately.”
It had been popular lately because Jem had made it popular. But he nodded. He even smiled.
“God,” Little Dick said with a laugh. “If I had ten guys like you.” As he left, he slapped the wall and called without looking back, “Now get your ass out there and sell my cars!”