Crime Components

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Of all the establishments on Van Buren Street, known to the locals as Auto Row, none are more magnificent than the Acme Auto Agency. Brand-new, highly polished Fords fill the three plate glass windows. I admire the layout for a few seconds before pushing through the glass doors and into what seems to be a deserted showroom.

Soft music plays as I wander down the hall bordering the sales offices. The maroon carpeting is thick and very plush so, without notice, I come upon a gentleman with a full head of grey, neatly trimmed hair. He’s wearing a dark blue blazer, red striped tie, a white shirt, and grey slacks. I can smell his expensive aftershave. He’s engrossed in an in-depth story about the fall prospects for the Arizona State College football team. He almost goes into shock when I speak in his ear.

"You must be a ‘Whizzer’ White fan."

His eyes widen and he reaches somewhere to find a reply. "I sure am. Wilford ‘Whizzer’ White is the best running back in the nation, and this is the year the Sun Devils are going to a major bowl."

"You'll get no argument from me on that subject. I think Arizona State College will take the Border Conference Championship and be playing in the big time come New Year's day."

The gentleman puts down his paper, stands, and we shake hands.

"Sorry, I get carried away with Sun Devil football. My name is Bill Broaddus and I'm the owner. Can I show you some of our great new cars?"

I could use something to replace my battered heap, but I give Mr. Broaddus the facts of life. "I'd love to own one of your new models, but it's not in my budget this year. I'm Gene McLain of the Arizona Reporter, and I'd like to know something about a couple of your salesmen that I understand are missing."

Broaddus clears his throat and starts to ramble. "It's kind of a funny thing. Early last Saturday, the Saturday before Easter, a young guy came in. Good looking kid. Tall and slender with dark curly hair. It seems he has an old Ford at home that he's thinking of trading. He asked for a demonstration ride, so ‘Big George’ Williams, the salesman on duty, said ‘fine, let's go.’"

The name George Williams rings a bell loud and clear. When Broaddus refers to ‘Big George’ Williams, I am ninety-nine percent sure I know who he’s talking about. "Hold on a second. This ‘Big George’ Williams you mentioned, is this the same George Williams who was once a member of the Arizona Highway Patrol?”

"One and the same. All six feet four, two hundred and forty-five pounds of solid muscle. That's George, all right."

"If I were you, I wouldn't worry about George. He's one tough cookie."

Broaddus waves his arms to signal me to stop talking. "You don't understand. I would never worry a second about George. He goes on a jag about twice a year. These little ‘vacations,’ as he calls them, can run from a week to an entire month or more. Since he's on straight commission, it's no big deal. When George is here he sells twice as many cars as any other salesman."

"Okay, so what's the difference about George being gone this time?”

Broaddus's face flushes as he starts to twist and turn. "Mr. McLain, the problem is not George. The problem is Severson. Harold Severson is a top quality young man who’s only been with us for two months."

"Mr. Broaddus, I don't quite follow you. How does Severson get into George William’s act?"

"George was all ready to take the young client for a demo ride. Severson had just gone off duty and he asked George if he would drop him at his apartment while George and the client checked the car out. George said okay, and the client didn't mind, so Severson went back to his office, cleaned off his desk and announced he was ready. At 6:15, last Saturday evening, the three of them drove out of here with the car. That was a week ago. The car, the client, George and Severson have all vanished. My guess is that George and Severson dumped the client and after a couple of beers, George talked young Severson into going with him to enjoy the booze, the gambling, and the ladies that the lovely land south of the border has to offer."

Something doesn't fit. I run Broaddus' dialogue through my mind on fast forward. "Didn't you say the client didn’t drive here in the car he wanted to trade?"

"That's right. Someone drove him in or he got a ride. Anyway, he left the old car at home."

"That's really different, if you want to talk about a trade. What car did George use to give the client a demo ride?"

Broaddus wipes the smile off his face, which turns stern. "That's what really ticks me off about this whole affair."

"How's that?"

"They took the only convertible I have in stock. A real beauty—apple red with a white top. I just hope it doesn't get scratched or dented while they are visiting the flesh pots. It's a beautiful piece of merchandise."

I let the tape in my mind make one more pass on the information that Broaddus has furnished. "Thanks, Mr. Broaddus. You've given me some things to think about."

The smile is back on his face. He looks the part of a successful businessman. Very fashionable and slender.

"Anytime that I can be of help, please feel free to call on me, McLain."

I start to move through the cars on the showroom floor, then stop and look back at Broaddus, who is standing where I left him.

"You know, Mr. Broaddus,” I say to him, “you seem so certain that a spree in Mexico is the answer. Something inside me tells me this never happened."

I push through the glass doors out into the warmth. I look back. Broaddus hasn't moved. Instead, he looks as though my final words have hit him like a ton of bricks.