The Switch. Olivia Goldsmith

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       5

      Bob Schiffer drove his car down Longworth Avenue and pulled into the Crandall BMW lot. The sun glinted off the cars. It was a perfect day, but Bob felt uneasy. Well, worse. How long could he get away with this? Sylvie was upset and his girlfriend, well, she was pressuring him. Roger, from maintenance, waved as Bob pulled past him into the special parking space he had reserved for his car. She purred to a stop and he switched off the ignition and patted the dash. “You’re beautiful, Baby,” he said to the car, which was how Sylvie had given it the name. He got out of the car and carefully closed the door. If he left her in the sun for any length of time he covered her, but he’d had a roof built over this spot so that her perfect paint wouldn’t fade.

      The Crandall BMW car lot was on the edge of Shaker Heights. Jim Crandall, Sylvie’s father, had started the business almost thirty years ago when Beemers ran unbelievably behind Mercedeses in status and sales. He’d struggled for years, first against Detroit and then against Japanese imports. Finally, when he’d welcomed his son and son-in-law into the business, his days of glory had commenced. Now the lot spread over an entire block on Longworth Avenue and Jim was as proud of the neat landscaping, lush grass, and pristine building as he was of the healthy bottom line. Bob knew that Jim found his own son, Phil, a disappointment. He also knew that Jim thought of him as a son rather than a son-in-law. And Bob, whose own father had died when he was twelve, looked on Jim as a father. And, why not? After all, he spent more time with Jim than Sylvie did. The old man could certainly be a pain in the ass at times, though.

      Now Jim was crossing the lot, his white hair glaring in the autumn sunlight. So was he, and talking before he was close enough for Bob to hear. “Let me get this straight,” he was saying. “She drove the car right into the pool?” Jim asked. He’d asked the question several times already last night and this morning over the phone.

      Bob nodded. “Into the pool, Jim.”

      “Wasn’t she looking where she was going? And why was she driving in the backyard?”

      “That, indeed, is a legitimate question. But what is the answer?”

      “Insanity,” Jim barked. “Not that your mother-in-law can drive. She’s had more fender benders than a demolition derby. Well, Sylvie didn’t get it from my side of the family. Crandalls can all drive.” Bob forbore to mention the several accidents Jim had been in. “You making the arrangements?”

      “Yeah. I’m on it. So I guess we’re canceling the commercial shoot?”

      “No. In fact, I got an idea. Let’s use the car in the pool as part of the commercial.”

      Bob looked at his father-in-law. “Is a wet Beemer an inducement to purchase?” he asked. “I mean, it’s not like the old Volkswagen beetle. Believe me, Jim, this car is not floating.”

      “Hey. We don’t shoot it in the water. We shoot it in the air. When they’re lifting it out. Hell, even Phil can think of the patter. Christ knows he’s good with bullshit.” Jim turned around and started back toward the office. “Me, I’m playing golf this afternoon. You can get me at the club if you need to.”

      Jim was in what he called “semiretirement,” but one of the problems was you never knew at which moment he was in “semi” and which moment he was in “retirement.” Bob shrugged. This morning appeared to be the former and would therefore be a killer. They were in the process of doing inventory, preparing for the special promotion, shooting a commercial, and now, as if that weren’t enough, he had to keep an eye out for Jim and take care of Sylvie’s little … mishap. He shrugged and pulled his phone out of his sports coat pocket. He punched in a number. It was busy. He hated that. It was almost the millennium. Hasn’t everyone heard of call waiting? Bob sighed and began to dial another number. He was a man with a lot on his mind.

      “A crane. That’s right, a crane … because it’s in the pool, that’s why…. Please don’t make me say it again.” Bob had finally gotten through to the wrecking company. He was at the farthest end of the lot, overseeing Sam Granger and Phil, who were going through the inventory. It had been a busy morning, except in terms of sales. Now a woman, middle-aged but attractive, was idly wandering among the gleaming cars, a row behind Bob. Normally he would approach her, but she had the look of a brow ser, not a buyer. Despite the risk, Bob motioned to Phil. “Why don’t you handle her?” he asked. Phil nodded and moved toward the woman. Since Phil had been put in charge of service he relished selling opportunities. Bob just hoped Phil didn’t take his suggestion literally.

      Since his divorce, Phil blamed everything that was wrong in the world on women. The fact that he’d caused the end of his marriage by continuously cheating on his wife never entered his mind. Lately he was also slightly delusional, assuming every female was interested in him in a carnal way. Bob looked at his brother-in-law. He was still sort of good-looking, despite his receding hairline, his paunch, and his questionable taste in clothes. Yet he saw himself as Ohio’s answer to Brad Pitt. This was a guy who would order a hamburger at lunch and, when the waitress asked how he wanted it, would leer and insist her question was a double entendre. “How do I want it?” he’d repeat, nudging Bob, who’d squirm with embarrassment while the bored waitress stared out over the parking lot. Invariably, after the girl left, Phil would begin his excited whisper. “You heard her. It’s not like I started it. How do I want it? Why doesn’t she just give me the key to her place? I tell you, they can’t leave me alone.”

      The woman was looking at the sticker price of a sedan. She was squinting in the sun. Phil looked over at her. “Did you see that?” he asked Bob.

      “What?”

      “The way she stared at me, checking out my package,” Phil cried hoarsely. Sam Granger snorted. Bob rolled his eyes. Phil was a danger. to himself and others, Rosalie the Horrific might have been a witch, but she’d certainly had her hands full with Phil.

      “Phil, behave,” Bob warned. “Take it easy or I’ll tell your father on you.”

      “Hey! She better take it easy. The laws against sexual harassment cut both ways, ya know.”

      “Control yourself, Phil. Try to sell a car.” Bob’s cellular rang and he pulled it out. He moved away from Sam Granger and put the phone to his ear. “Hello. Bob Schiffer. Oh,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Hi, Cookie Face. I can’t talk now. No. Really. I can’t.” Bob looked around. Phil was leaning up against the sedan, talking to the poor female prospect while Sam had disappeared into the front seat of a model a row away. “Come on, honey. You know this isn’t a good place for me to talk,” Bob murmured into the phone. He laughed out loud. “Sing? If I can’t talk, how can I sing?” She always made him laugh, but after four months he still wasn’t sure if it was intentional or accidental. That was part of her charm. Now he listened to her request. “But you called me. The song makes no sense if I sing. No. Of course I do. All right, but then I have to go.” Bob began to hum into the phone, then tried for a Stevie Wonder voice. “I just called to say I love you … I just called to—”

      When he was tapped on the shoulder, Bob must have jumped eight inches straight off the ground40. John Spencer, Bob and Sylvie’s best friend, was standing behind СКАЧАТЬ