Running From The Law

conditioning, and the occasional squirt of a spray bottle from a man in a coarse blue jumpsuit, cleaning the windshields. Late-afternoon sun poured through mullioned windows that bordered the room. Reproductions of Chippendale end tables flanked the entrance, which opened on to five spanking-new, factory-delivered Jaguars of various colors. Each car gleamed under its own set of track lights, like babies in a multiracial nursery.

“But nobody told me about this,” said the confused salesman. His navy blazer roughly matched Sal’s and his loafers were almost identically tasseled. Am I good or am I good? “I should have been told.”

“We sent the fax yesterday,” I said authoritatively. “It would have mentioned me, Miss Jamesway.” I had my hair knotted back and my glasses on, in case he recognized me from the newspapers. “And your name is Mr.-”

“Henry.”

“Well, Henry-”

“No, Mr. Henry,” he corrected. “I don’t recall any fax.”

“That’s odd. The home office said they’d take care of it.”

“The home office? You mean Detroit or Mahwah?”

“Mahwah.” It was more fun to say.

“Then it would have come directly from Jim Farnsworth, the CEO.”

“Yes, that’s right. Jim said his assistant would send it.”

“But we didn’t get it.” Mr. Henry patted his dark hair, which was combed and slightly perfumed, like a groomed Scottish terrier.

“No matter. We’re here now. We don’t want to keep Mr. Livemore waiting, do we?” I nodded at Uncle Sal, who was standing beside a sparkling Rose Bronze Van den Plas XJ12. His arms were folded imperiously over his skinny chest and he frowned at the Cream interior of the car in as British a manner as possible, as per my instructions. I’d ordered him to keep quiet because his English accent had proved to be a cross between Crocodile Dundee and Batman.

“Mr. Livemore? I don’t recall that name.”

“That’s because he rarely leaves Coventry. He’s the operations manager at Brown’s Lane, and he hates to travel.”

“Operations manager, you say? He’s rather old for the job, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but experience tells, don’t you know. We really should get on with it. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“But it’s not procedure. We have our procedures, our channels of authority here-”

I leaned close to him and whispered, “It’s my job on the line. Cut me a break, will you? I’d do the same for you.”

His brushy black mustache twitched, his blue eyes were as bright as the XJS in front of us. Sapphire, they called the color, with an Oatmeal interior. Six cylinders and $66,200 of gorgeous. But since I was pretending to help build these beauties, I did not drool on the showroom floor. “I don’t like this at all, Miss Jamesway,” he said.

“Please? I need this job. I’m a single mother, trying to make a living.”

He softened. “Oh, all right. Where do you work, Miss Jamesway? England or the U.S.?”

“I go back and forth.” Between truth and falsehood. “Now, as I said, Mr. Livemore has been very concerned about the paint quality on the black models in recent years. Have you had any complaints about the black paint?”

“Exterior enamels? Not that I recall. Most of our customers are very satisfied, very loyal.”

“Have you had complaints from your customers about chipping? Particularly around the doors? In the black models?”

He thought a minute. “No.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sal run his finger along the polished side of a Kingfisher Blue XJ12 Coupe. His greasy fingertip made a streak like a slug’s trail on the car’s virgin surface. “Mr. Livemore would like to locate the owners of black Jaguars in the area. He wants to contact these customers to see if they are as satisfied as Jaguar wants them to be. Do you have such a list?”

He blinked. “Not per se, no. We have a list of the cars sold in a year, but not by color. We sell many black cars, as you know. It’s one of our most popular colors after British Racing Green.”

Over my shoulder, Sal was opening and closing the long door of a Flamenco Red XJS Convertible with a Coffee interior. The ca-chunk sound echoed harshly, the only rugs in the room were squares under each Pirelli. Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk. The convertible door closed fluidly each time, but Sal grimaced like an Uberfieldmarshal.

The salesman caught Sal’s expression. “He’s very thorough, isn’t he?”

“It’s his job to be very thorough,” I said, wanting to wring Sal’s stringy neck.

“Maybe I should call my manager. He’s at the dentist, but he has a beeper.”

“No, you wouldn’t want to bother your boss. You know what Mr. Livemore would do to me if I called him at his dentist?” I glanced at Sal, who was climbing into the driver’s seat of the low-slung convertible. His puny frame vanished into the cushy leather seat. “Let’s just get on with it, can we? Before Mr. Livemore starts testing the ashtrays.”

“But the ashtrays are fine!”

“How about the electrical system?” The automatic windows on Fiske’s car stuck constantly and the door locks were possessed.

“The electrics have improved since the quality controls we’ve instituted with Ford.”

“Yeah. Right. This is me now, not Autoweek,” I said, and he winced. “Look, I know how popular black is. That’s why they’re so concerned, back in England, that the paint on the black models is chipping and flaking.”

“Flaking, too?” His face went white. Glacier White, to be exact.

“Mr. Henry, just so I understand the scope of the problem, I would guess there are hundreds of black Jaguars sold by this dealership.”

“Hundreds? Thousands would be more like it, including the leases.” His hands fluttered to the knot on his rep tie. “Chipping, really? You would think I would have heard about it.”

“It occurs on very few models, but Mr. Livemore wants us to stay on top of the situation. Uphold the quality of the marque. Don’t you agree?”

“By all means.”

“And you’re the only Jaguar dealer in the greater Philadelphia area, is that right? There’s one in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, and none in Delaware?” I’d let my fingers do the walking.

“Yes,” he answered, distracted by Sal, who had found the convertible’s pristine shoulder harness and was snapping it back and forth. It retracted with a high-quality craakkk and the salesman flinched each time, like it was a rifle shot.

“Do you think I could see your list of cars sold or leased in the past, oh, three years?” Then I would have a list of everybody with a black Jag in the area. Maybe one of them had reason to frame Fiske. “I can pick off the black cars myself.”

“That would take an enormous amount of time. It’s a huge number.”

“I have an assistant. In Mahwah. Mr. Farnsworth’s assistant.”

Mr. Henry shook his head slowly. “Maybe I should call my manager.” He walked toward a desk located behind a glass partition before I could stop him.

Shit. “Mr. Livemore!” I called to Sal. “Perhaps you should come along. We may be phoning the manager.”