The Blackstone Commentaries (20 page)

Reedy's Banner Days

Anything down and a HOME is yours!!
Lo monthly payments!

His first customer had appeared only moments after he climbed down off the ladder, washed his hands and slipped back into his suit jacket. Winthrop never minded getting his hands dirty if there was a reason.

The customer had been a rough-looking, darkly tanned man Winthrop judged to be a little older than himself. The man was wearing dirty tan chinos, a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, a red bandanna around his neck and high work boots with oil stains on the toes. Stringy blond hair like a hippie's hanging down to his shoulders, he'd thundered in on a black Harley-Davidson. Scarcely ten o'clock in the morning, it was already painful to look at the sunlight bouncing off the cars speeding along the bypass, but especially the chrome on that Harley. The smells of burned gasoline and French fries from a nearby Hardee's hung in the heat and dust.

“That's a fine-looking motor you're driving, mister,” Winthrop had said as the man shoved the stand down with his heel and leaned the bike onto it.

The man squinted up at Winthrop, who was standing on the steps to his office with his thumbs hooked over the belt of his soft-blue suit pants,
his elbows pushing the matching double-breasted jacket out to the sides, exposing a yellow shirt and a wide tie that looked as though it might have been ripped out of Grandma's brocaded sofa. Without a word, the man dismounted and walked right past him and the office into the back lot, glancing here and there like he knew what he was looking for.

“We got a lovely model, the Adobe, right over here, sir,” Winthrop gasped as he trotted to catch up. He steered the man toward a tan fiftyfooter with thunderbirds painted in a soft red on each side of an arched hacienda-type main door. Black carriage lamps were mounted on each side. “Southwestern decor. Three picture windows, built-in dinette. Fully furnished. You tell Winthrop Reedy what you want, and because it's Banner Days, it will mean a real bargain for you, Mr.… What did you say your name was?”

“I didn't. Grady Snipes. I want that one.” The man pointed to the rear of the lot at a spare white box on wheels with small horizontal jalousie windows just below the roof. “How much?”

“Thirty-eight hundred dollars cash, delivered. We can arrange an easy five-year installment plan for only $144.50 a month. For an additional $20 a month, we'll furnish it.”

“With
what
?”

“Why, with our Delacourte furniture suite. It's an excellent buy.” Winthrop smiled. He felt sweat break out on his forehead. This boy certainly wasn't your ordinary hippie, judging by the First Cavalry Division tattoo on his left arm. Somehow, this didn't feel like a great way to begin a day. “And I'll throw in a free TV and antenna. For just a little more, you can have a lovely lot—”

“That's damn near five thousand dollars for a free TV and antenna, without the furniture.” The man reached into a front pocket and pulled out the biggest roll of money Winthrop had ever seen and started peeling off battered twenty-dollar bills. “You know where they're building that new power station below Sentry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“About a mile past the gate, same side of the road, an unpaved road runs off down in the woods a bit.”

“Yessir, used to be a CCC camp out there. I'm a scoutmaster, you see.”

“I'll be waiting there at nine next Thursday morning. Bring some blocks.”

“Sewer hookup?”

“Hundred more for incidentals. Count it.”

A few minutes later, the man, hands on the handlebars of the Harley, came flying down on the kick start, his long hair sailing down after him, then thundered off. Winthrop was feeling dissatisfied; he'd sold something, sure, but he hadn't done any
selling
. He started to turn back into the office when a ratty-looking hearse swung off the bypass and pitched under the sales banner with a clunk.

Oh
,
sweet Jesus
, Winthrop thought as he watched a scruffy-looking little man with a beret and a ponytail climb out.
Just what else I goddamn need
. Then he remembered the fair. “Why, it's the Living Dead!” Winthrop said, grinning, hand extended as he strode across the yard to greet the newcomer. “I was at the fair three nights running on account of your burial, and Puma and old Red.”

“You don't say.”

“Yessir, but I sure am sorry to say I missed the resurrection. How'd that boy come out? I heard he was positively blue.”

“He's right happy now,” L. D. said, looking past Winthrop at the mobile homes gleaming in the morning light. Some had little portable picket fences in front of them that Winthrop liked to unroll, along with placing a flowerpot or two.

“I imagine! Two hundred whole dollars.” Winthrop laughed. “What can I do for you, Mr.…”

“They call me L. D. Last name's Skinner. Was that Grady Snipes I saw?”

“Yessir. You know Mr. Snipes?”

“We go way back. Went in the army together, but I haven't seen him in a while.”

“Well, he just bought himself a nice home. You looking to buy one, too?”

“Thinking about it, if there's someplace to park it around Damascus. I'm thinking about putting down some roots.”

“Well, you couldn't pick a nicer place on God's green earth. What do you have in mind?”

“Something nice,” L. D. said.

Winthrop folded his arms across his chest and studied his customer gravely. “You married?”

“What's that have to do with it?”

“No, no,” Winthrop laughed, holding up both hands. “But if you like the bachelor life, I got just the thing.” With a wink, he gestured for L. D. to follow him. They stopped before a big mobile home with a double main door and sidelights and two bay windows, one at the front end, the other at the back end, the front one almost floor-to-ceiling. Winthrop slapped the metal. “The Raconda!” he said.

Inside, L. D. found himself facing a solid mirror wall, his and Winthrop's images darkened by the blaze of the sun behind them. Gold filigree framed the giant mirror and two archways, one on either side of them. Heavy velvetlike curtains hung in both archways. Grinning, Winthrop threw one aside, revealing an enormous round sofa perhaps ten feet in diameter, piled high with pillows and sunk a foot into the floor. The floor was covered with thick wine-red shag carpet. Reaching around the corner, Winthrop turned a knob. Lights hidden behind boards near the ceiling began to glow, growing brighter and brighter as he turned the knob farther. “The Relaxation Nest,” he said.

“Damn!” L. D. said. Then he spotted the bar, all dark wood and black leather-looking vinyl, complete with three matching barstools and a brass foot railing. Winthrop opened the doors of a tall cabinet beside the bar, revealing a big television, a stereo set and speakers. “Is this a color TV?” L. D. asked.

“You bet,” Winthrop said, then flipped a switch. A humming sound filled the room. With a velvety swish, the curtains surrounding the back half of the couch began to move, disclosing a bay window and the glare of the sun bouncing off the next trailer. “Imagine looking out on your own swimming pool and barbecue pit,” Winthrop whispered, taking L. D. by the shoulders and turning him toward the window.

“But before we go any further, maybe we should remove our shoes,” Winthrop suggested. L. D. looked down at the scuffed boots he was wearing, then watched Winthrop remove some snappy brown shoes with pointy toes and leather flaps instead of laces.

L. D. soon found himself looking at a kitchen with a dishwasher, a stove
and a linoleum floor, all in matching white. He'd never seen anything so clean looking and shiny. “Alabama Flash,” Winthrop said, lightly tapping the glossy paneling that lined all the rooms except the kitchen. Winthrop had once heard a state fire marshal use the term on the Charlotte TV news to describe highly flammable pressed wallboard that burned with such speed and ferocity that the cotton curtains hanging in the windows of a gutted trailer were barely scorched. But such a great product name! “Dark cherry.” Then, with the twist of a knob, a brass chandelier burst into dazzling light. “Twenty bulbs in that chandelier. Isn't it just beautiful?”

L. D. nodded, feeling that to utter a word at that moment would be blasphemy.

Starting down a narrow hallway on one side of the trailer, Winthrop threw another door open and flipped another switch. “The powder room,” he said as L.D. thrust his head in and saw a narrow room done in striped pink wallpaper, a white counter running its entire length and a huge mirror covering the wall above the counter, except for some big globes with lights in them attached to the mirror, just like in a Hollywood movie. Two metal chairs, their backs in the shape of hearts, stood in front of the counter.
Two of them!
L. D. thought, struck by the import.

The next door had a porthole in it. “Push,” Winthrop commanded, and the door swung away into the biggest bathroom L. D. had ever seen, all carpeted and with mirrors on every wall. He could feel his toes sink into the soft shag as he took in the pink commode and matching sink with gold-colored fixtures, the square bathtub that needed a little wooden ladder to get up into it and could hold maybe three people.

“That tub come with a diving board?” L. D. asked as he let himself be guided to the end of the hallway.

“Ha-ha,” Winthrop chortled as he slowly turned the knob of a louvered door. “I saved the best for last.”

All L. D. could see at first was darkness. Then Winthrop pointed to a knob on the wall. “Push and turn slowly, L. D.,” he whispered. L. D. did. Like the dawn of creation, a red glow began to fill the room, growing brighter as he turned the knob.

“
Damn
!” L. D. whispered as a huge, round bed covered in a dark red satiny fabric materialized like an altar in the center of the room. “Where'd they get a round mattress?” he asked, amazed.

“Custom, L. D. This home is
totally
custom.”

“This Alabama Flash, too?” L. D. asked, tapping the woodwork, which was interrupted every few feet by floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

“Old English burl walnut. Now, hold this down.” Winthrop pointed to a switch beside the knob L. D. was turning. L. D. obeyed. Once again, he heard a soft swish, as the curtains at the back of the room parted, revealing a partial bay window and the overflowing trash bins of the restaurant next door. “Duplicate switches on a control panel here,” Winthrop said, reaching down beside the bed.

“You have a place where I can park her?” L. D. asked as they made their way back to the office. He felt a little dizzy.

“Willow Run in Little Zion. Up by the Ebenezer Pentecostal Church. Individual concrete pads for the homes, trees, lawns, mailboxes, your own parking place. The rent, including all hookups, is only ninety dollars a month. I could have you set up tomorrow.”

L. D. stopped, reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out a bag of Bull Durham and began to roll a cigarette. “Must be a chunk of money,” he said finally.

“Just $14,987, complete as you see her. I repeat, $14,987, or $257.50 a month for ten years, not including rent at Willow Run, which if you were to sign today, I'd let you have for the first six months at $42.50, or just $300 a month total for everything.

“It's a real investment,” Winthrop added after a few minutes' silence. “Why, in three or four years, you can probably sell her for twice again what you paid. These are
homes
, L. D. Homes appreciate. Oh, and all aluminum wiring, too.”

“That's good?”

“You bet.”

“I guess I do have a little to invest,” L. D. mused as he turned to follow Winthrop toward his office.

“I imagine,” Winthrop said. “Funeral expenses being what they are.”

“Says here ‘References,' ” L. D. said a few minutes later, looking up at Winthrop, who was filling out papers on his side of the big metal desk.

“You know anyone around here?” Winthrop asked him.

“My daddy. Lives up in Terpville. Harold Skinner.”

“That'll be just fine. Now, you want a ten-year mortgage, and space
number 26 out in Willow Run, for $42.50 for the first six months. I'll need to have the first month's rent separate. How much do you want to put down?”

“Hold on a minute,” L. D. said, and headed out the door just as a shiny black Firebird with flames painted all across the hood tooled into the parking area and jerked to a halt in a small cloud of dust. A lithe, pretty young woman, her blond hair in a ponytail, jumped out. She wore blue slacks, a white blouse and spike heels.

“Hey, there!” she called, wiggling the fingers of one hand at L. D. as she started up the office steps. L. D., a hand on the rear door to his hearse, stopped to stare.

“Hi, Lambchop!” she whispered as she plunked herself down on a startled Winthrop's lap, causing him to drop his pencil. “Making us millions?” She thrust a hand down between her husband's legs.

“Not
now
, Lizzie!” he said, and pushed her away. “Jesus!” He leaned over the arm of his chair looking for the pencil while she wiggled around on his lap a bit more, then mussed his hair.

“Lambchop all upset? Mama and Daddy want us out Sunday after church.”

“Girl, I'm on a roll! Try nineteen thousand dollars already this morning, this deal goes through,” he whispered. “That man's the one buried the kid up at the fair! He'll have cash.”

“That's the
Living Dead
?” she whispered back, eyes widening.

L. D. elbowed his way into the office, both arms wrapped around a TV set with a steel cashbox balanced on top. Winthrop introduced his wife, glanced at the TV, then spotted the cashbox with obvious approval.

“Ma'am,” L. D. said, depositing the TV on the desk, turning it so a piece of electrician's tape covering a broken corner wasn't so visible. He took his seat and studied the woman standing a few feet away. Then he opened the cashbox, feeling her eyes on him. Seeming to know her interest wasn't about the money, he looked up and met her gaze.