Spider Robinson - The Magnificent Conspiracy

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THE MAGNIFICENT CONSPIRACY

By the time I had pulled in and put her in park, alarm bells were going off all over

my subconscious so I just stayed put and looked around.

After a minute and a half, I gave up. Everything about the place was wrong.

Even the staff. Reserved used-car salesmen are about as common as affable

hangmen—but I had the whole minute and a half to myself, and as much longer as I

wanted. The man semivisible through the dusty office window was clearly aware of

my arrival, but he failed to get up from his chair.

So I shut off the ignition and climbed out into un-air-conditioned July, and by

God even the music was wrong. It wasn't Muzak at all; it was an old Peter, Paul and

Mary album. How can you psych someone into buying a clunker with music like

that? Even when I began wandering around kicking tires and glancing under hoods

he stayed in the office. He seemed to be reading. I was determined to get a reaction

now, so I picked out the classiest car I could see (eas-ily worth three times as much

as my Dodge), hotwired her and started her up. As I'd expected, it fetched him—but

he didn't hurry. Except for that, he was standard-issue salesman—which is like

saying, "Except for the sun porch, it was a standard issue fighter jet."

"Sorry, mister. That one ain't for sale." I looked disappointed.

"Already spoken for, huh?"

"Nope. But you don't want her."

I listened to the smooth, steady rumble of the engine. "Oh, yeah? Why not? She

sounds beautiful."

He nodded. "Runs beautiful, too—now. Feller sold it to us gimmicked 'er with

them pellets you get from the Whitney catalog. Inside o' five hundred miles you

wouldn't have no more rings than a spinster."

I let my jaw drop.

"She wouldn't even be sittin' out here, except the garage is full up. Could show

you a pretty good Chev, you got your heart set on a convert-ible."

"Hey, listen," I broke in. "Do you realize you could've kept your mouth shut and

sold me this car for two thousand flat?"

He wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief "Yep. Couple year ago, I

would've." He hitched his glasses higher on his nose and grinned sud-denly. "Couple

year ago I had an ulcer."

I had the same disquieting sensation you get in an earthquake when the ground

refuses to behave properly. I shut the engine off. "There isn't a single sign about the

wonderful bargains you've got," I complained. "The word `honest' does not appear

anywhere on your lot. You don't hurry. I've been here for three minutes and you

haven't shaken my hand and you haven't tried to sell me a thing and you don't hurry.

What the hell kind of used-car lot is this?"

He looked like he was trying hard to explain, but he only said, "Couple of year

ago I had an ulcer," again, which explained nothing. I gave up and got out of the

convertible. As I did so, I noticed for the first time an index card on the dashboard

which read $100. "That can't be the price," I said flatly. "Without an engine she's

worth more than that."

"Oh, no," he said, looking scandalized. "That ain't the price. Couldn't be: price

ain't fixed."

Oh. "What determines the price?"

"The customer. What he needs, how bad he needs it, how much he's got."

This of course is classic sales doctrine—but you're not supposed to tell the

customer. You're supposed to go through the quaint charade of an asking price, then

knock off a hastily com-puted amount because "I can see you're in a jam and I like

your face."

"Well then," I said, trying to get this script back on the track, "maybe I'd better

tell you about my situation."

"Sure," he agreed. "Come on in the office. More comfortable there. Got the air

conditioning"

I saw him notice my purple sneakers as I got out of the convertible—which

pleased me. You can't buy them that garish you have to dye them yourself.

And halfway to the office, my subconscious identified the specific tape being

played over the sound system. Just a hair too late; the song hit me before I was

braced for it. I barely had time to put my legs on automatic pilot. Fortunately, the

salesman was walking ahead of me, and could not see my face. Album 1700, side

one, track six: "The Great Mandella (The Wheel of Life)."

"So I told him

"That he'd better

"Shut his mouth And do his job like a man And he answered Listen (father

didn't even come to the funeral and the face in the coffin was my own but oh God

so thin and drawn like collapsed around the skull and the skin like gray paper

and the eyes dear Jesus Christ the eyes he looked so content so hideously content

didn't he understand that he'd blown it blown it bl)own it very long, Mr. Uh?"

He was standing, no, squatting by my Dodge, peering up the tailpipe. The hood

was up.

If you're good enough, you can put face and mouth on automatic pilot, too. I told

him I was Bob Campbell and that I had owned the Dodge for three years. I told him

I was a clerk in a supermarket. I told him I had a wife and two children and an MA in

Business Administration.

I told him I needed a newer model car to try for a better job. It was a plausible

story; he didn't seem to find anything odd about my facial expressions, and I'm sure

he believed every word. By the time I had finished sketching my income and outgo,

we were in the office and the door was closing on the song:

"Take your place on

"The Great Mandalla

"As it moves through your brief moment of (click) time that Dodge of yours

had a ring job, too, Bob."

I came fully aware again, remembered my purpose.

"Ring job? Look, uh ... " We seated ourselves.

"Arden Larsen."

"Look, Arden, that car had a complete engine overhaul not five thousand miles

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