Page 43 of Plentywood
I studied the cleft in his chin and thought of a young Clint Eastwood or James Dean. He was obviously a rebel and had perfected the look of a bad boy. But after getting a closer look and a good chat in with him at Smitty’s, he was more than that; he was also profoundly direct and honest. Even going so far as to admit he’d been a male escort in New York City.
“I want to sell my Mercedes,” I stated, drubbing my fingers on my desk while I fought my sexual response to his presence.
“To someone in this town?” he responded, laughing. “Good luck with that.”
“Why?” I asked.
He motioned toward the back of the building where I’d parked. “That’s an S Class AMG 63,” he stated.
“And?”
“And that car cost over 200k.”
My mouth dropped open. “No, it didn’t. A hundred and forty was the price.” He shook his head. “It did?” I asked. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive, doc. You bought a car and you don’t know how much you paid for it? Fuck, dude. Youareloaded.”
I was embarrassed to admit the next fact, but I needed advice and he seemed savvy about guy stuff and cars. “A gift from my father,” I admitted. “For finishing my residency.”
His eyes saucered, and he kept returning his eyes toward the parking lot even though a wall with no windows separated us from the Benz. “You own that machine? Outright?”
“A pink piece of paper in the glove box seems to say I do,” I said. “It has less than two thousand miles on it. I only drove from New York City to here, and now the car just sits out back.”
“And you wanna sell it? Already?” I nodded. “You’ll lose your ass, doc.”
I’d made a promise at Smitty’s to resurrect the theater. I planned on keeping that promise. He didn’t need to know why I wanted to sell a car I didn’t currently need. “I didn’t pay for it, so how’s that possible?”
“But still. The moment you hit the curb with that car after buying it, you lost half its value,” he informed me. “That’s brutal, even for a rich guy like you.”
“So, no buyers around here?” I asked. “Even if it’s cheap enough?”
Charlie put his hands behind his back, causing his tight T-shirt to lift, revealing washboard abs. I gulped from the exposure and diverted my eyes. I was positive he noticed my quick glance—and that I looked away—when he grinned. I wondered what it felt like to ooze such a sexual vibe. He had to know he was a stunning specimen of man.
“Nobody that lives in the country like us has a use for a car like that, doc. It’d be useless in the winter, and no one has that kind of money in this town anyway,” he said.
He noticed me nibble on my lips while I considered his assessment. “Darn,” I finally said, humming my disappointment while I considered other ways to raise funds quickly. “I was hoping you might know someone.”
He raised his index finger. “Now wait a sec,” he began. “I do have a friend who knows a guy whose son went to school with a dude, whose father owns the Mercedes dealership in Missoula.”
“So, you’re real tight with this person,” I quipped.
He wagged a finger at me. “Be nice, doc. I’m trying to help you out here,” he replied, giving me a hurt look in jest. “Hang on a sec.”
I watched as Charlie scrolled through his phone, listened as he called a friend who gave him another number, and thenwaited for him to finish dialing again. “Mr. Bolton,” he greeted, all masculine and charming in his voice. “Skip Johanson gave me your direct number. We’re frat brothers like you, sir.”
I could only hear a one-sided conversation, but the other end was very animated based on the chatter from the other person coming through the cell phone. Charlie nodded and hummed in between breaks, smiled at me a few times, and was patient.
“I need a favor, sir.” Charlie waited for a reply. “Yes, sir. And thank you, sir. So, a friend of mine was gifted an S class AMG 63. He doesn’t like expensive cars and lives up here in Plentywood with me.”
More chatter met silence from Charlie. I lifted my palms toward him, questioning what was happening. He waved me off and continued. “Yes, sir. Brand spanking new. The car has been titled and my buddy owns it, free and clear.” More gaps in the exchange. “Uh-huh. Very low miles, sir. Less than two thousand miles. A bit more if we drive it to Missoula for you to check it out, sir.”
Charlie pointed to a notepad on my desk and wiggled his fingers for me to slide it to him, pointing at a pen as well. The man on the other end of the call was going a mile a minute with questions while Charlie grunted or nodded silently.
Charlie wrote numbers on the notepad. “Yikes, sir,” he suddenly said. “That much depreciation?” More talk on the other end. “Can you do a bit better, sir?” More back and forth. “Yes, I understand, sir. Mm-hmm,” he added. “Please hang on, Mr. Bolton.”
Charlie cupped his cell phone, crossed out an original number, and wrote a slightly higher number on the notepad, pushing it toward me. My mouth pulled tightly at seeing that number. Had I not known what my father had paid for the car, I wouldn’t have given shit. Mr. Bolton’s offer was a lot of moneyhad Charlie not educated me on the price of what my father had paid.
I nodded and tapped the number on the paper. “Yes,” I said.
