CHAPTER SEVEN
A streakless blue blanket of warm, sun-golden Monday morning air hung promisingly over Los Angeles. Now at ten o'clock in the morning the door of Foreign Flare's Auto Showroom had unlocked to the curious public. The salesmen stood scattered about the carpeted showroom dusting off the Mercedes, Bentleys and Morgans between sips of adrenalizing coffee.
"Well, if it isn't our star salesman!" boomed Ralph, his hulkish shadow emerging from the sanctity of his inner office. He slapped Josh on the back as if trying to dislodge a morsel of food from his esophagus and with strong fingers pinching the nape of his neck, guided him toward the closed door of the secretary's office. "I left a map with the secretary along with the keys."
A smug conspiratorial grin broke out across the
