The Chicken Suit, Page 2

and right now we’re under performing. ” Spouting the management jargon. When Yama Motors had made their predatory pitch for the business they’d flown Wayne out to Tokyo, stuffed him with sushi and sake and addled his brains until he’d signed a sucker contract for the franchise. Move the metal, that was the Yama Motors mantra, and if you can’t move the metal – sayonara!

  “Remember what your old man always said,” Jack had implored him, “never extend your credit in a recession. ” But Wayne who had inherited the business had gone ahead and done it anyway, run headlong into hock for the lure of a Jap dealership, traded in the old firm where they were ticking over nicely for this lego land fantasy palace. Got himself landed with the iron maiden and a Yama Motors sales team. Come on down to Rising Sun Motors and meet Angie’s boob tube bimbos. The heir to Big John Tully’s dream a kamikaze pilot.

  Jack shrugged. This wasn’t the moment to rub it in. “Hard times all around,” he commiserated, “And not just the motor trade either, everybody’s in the same boat, half the shops down the Elephant are boarded up, nobody’s doing any business. ” He managed a little quip, “remember the days when the only double dip was an ice cream?”

  Wayne shot Angela a glance and some understanding passed between them. Jack felt a coldness creep into the pit of his stomach. He brightened the smile. “Hell, it’s not the first time we’ve been strapped, and it won’t be the last. Something always turns up, remember what your dad always said, ‘think lucky and you’ll be lucky. ’”

  Wayne wagged his head, about to speak, but Angela cut in: “Pathetic, Bowen,” stabbed a carmine fingernail into the spreadsheet print outs strewn across the desk, “truly pathetic. You haven’t turned a wheel in weeks. ”

  Jack kept his eyes on Wayne. “The used trade’s flat and besides how am I supposed to shift the junk you’re taking part ex. Cars I can sell, miracles take a little longer. ”

  “Got to maximise our potential, sales-wise,” Wayne said, shifty eyed, “got to move the metal, Jack,” the words snagged in his throat, “or else…” Let it hang on the air.

  Jack blinked rapidly. “Or else what?” His outburst had a hollow ring, no conviction, “come on Wayne,” he hurried on, “it’s me you’re talking to, Jack Bowen. Me and your dad, we sweated blood building up this business, the best independent dealership in south London, and now you’re seriously telling me you’re going to…what was it again?Downsize? What’s that supposed to mean?”Jack bit his tongue, desperation was creeping in: “I taught you to drive, remember, the old Mark Three still out there on the lot. . ” Left it at that. He couldn’t bring himself to plead, not in front of the witch.

  John Tully’s son had pain in his eyes. “Don’t make it hard on me Jack. ” Angela moved her hand from the chair-back onto Wayne’s shoulder in a proprietary gesture.

  Jack spread his hands. “Hey come on, give me a chance, I can still move the metal, you know I can, they didn’t call me the sharpest used car salesman this side of the river for nothing…matter of fact I’ve got a couple of sure fire deals bubbling right now, just got to reel ‘em in. ”

  Wayne rocked his head, easing the tension in his neck. “Prove it then, Jack,” he looked at his Rolex, “move something off the lot by noon,” the eyes blanked to the same putty grey as the computer screen, “or I’m going to have to let you go. ”

  Angela gave him a triumphant sneer; she’d had her way. “Might as well clear your desk right now Bowen and save yourself the embarrassment,” she purred, “we’ll post your P45. ”

  Jack Bowen trudged back to the lot with the cold, swampy misery of humiliation seeping into his bones. As he passed through the showroom the bimbos flashed him their bright smiles. Should have had the guts to tell Wayne Tully where he could stick his lousy job, he railed at his own perceived cowardice, but just as soon pulled his horns back in; that would have been like expunging a page of history. The business was part of him, all he ever knew, and he couldn’t contemplate tearing himself away. Would be like ripping his heart out. Besides, what would he do? Start again? At the wrong side of fifty, not a chance, dog-eat-dog, that was the motor trade and a burned out salesman with blue veined nose and creaking knees was dead meat. If only he’d taken the risk back then, re-mortgaged the house when Big John had offered him a partnership, but he’d been too chicken. His eyes grew hot with panic. If needs be he’d crawl and whine and plead, roll over and let them put the boot in.

  Scuttled back to his office; looked into John Tully’s face for inspiration, saw only scorn in the eyes. Pressed a button on the old juke box and heard Bobby Gentry wail “Ode to Billy Joe” took out the chicken suit and felt the urge to slip it on, hide himself inside the ratty plumage. On the desk a mug of coffee was going cold while good old easy going Jack Bowen drowned in his own self-pity, going down for the third time. The ache gnawed at him as the one elusive lifeline slipped away. Sell a set of wheels by noon – fat chance!

  He went back out and wandered around the lot, picking his way aimlessly between the bangers until he found himself standing beside the Mark Three tucked away in a corner of the compound. Jack ran his hand over the wing, caressed it like a lover. The old car was an ’87 Ford Capri 280, last of the line, the Brooklands Green paintwork still looking spruce and the trademark quad headlamps and seven spoked alloys attesting to the pedigree of a thoroughbred. His fingers found the release catch and he lifted the bonnet. Could eat your lunch off the two-point-eight mated to a ball bearing Garrett supercharger, and like always, the sight of the gleaming engine took him back to the day he and John Tully had tuned the motor just for the hell of it, squeezed the last drop of power out of the old girl until she went like a bat out of hell. Those were the days, when the Capri had been the ultimate must-have motor; when Bodie and Doyle hammered the wheels off a three-litre muscle car in The Professionals. Nostalgia gnawed at him as he let the bonnet fall and was turning away when a voice behind him took him by surprise, snapped him out of his reverie.

  “Excuse me…. ”

  Turned around and found himself face to face with the tyre-kicker.

  “… I’m looking for a car. ” She pushed the shades up onto her hair to reveal hazel eyes flecked with tiny chips of ice.

  Jack blinked, waiting for the thunderbolt to hit; this had to be divine intervention, like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, the tyre-kicker had blossomed into a punter. Closed his eyes and counted to three; when he opened them she was still there.

  “Well now,” Jack said, offering a silent prayer as he fished a business card out of his pocket, “you’ve certainly come to the right place. ” His spirits began to soar as he proffered the card,“Jack Bowen’s my name, and quality cars are my game, “ the patter slipped easily off his tongue, “so let’s see what I can do for you, nice little runabout, take you down to the shops. ” Studied the woman quickly, sizing her up for the right pitch. The tyre-kicker was wearing a smart navy blue trouser suit over a white silk blouse and three-inch heels, the combat kit of the dedicated shopper. Her ash blonde hair was layered in a razor cut, which complemented high cheek bones and gave her face a faintly oriental look. He put her in her fifties, but well preserved.

  “I need something I can drive away right now,” she said, “would that be a problem?”She smiled, “oh and if it helps, I’ll be paying cash. ” Inclining her head towards the Jimmy Choo slung over her shoulder.

  “Not a problem at all,” Jack said, trying to keep his voice calm, “take your pick, every one a genuine bargain, ready to roll. ” He began to steer her around the lot. “This is your lucky day, all right,” dropped his voice to a confidential murmur, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but we’re getting a transporter in this afternoon, got to make room for new stock, so see something you like, you won’t even have to twist my arm, I’m practically giving ‘em away. ”

  As they walked down the rows of beat up bangers, lolling like down and outs; leering behind their gaudy sales slickers, the tyre-kicker told him her name was M
avis Davis. She didn’t tell him that at breakfast that morning she had finally snapped, watching her skinflint husband, the big shot chartered accountant who made her record every penny she spent, meticulously remove all the chunks from the marmalade smeared on his toast. Waved the toad off in her dressing gown, watched the Mercedes pull out of the drive of their neo-Georgian town house in a gated South bank enclave then went upstairs to his study and lifted the matched pair of Purdys from their cabinet; carried them down to the garage and hack-sawed stock and barrels. Cared not one jot that she was destroying fifty grand’s worth of the most prized examples of the London gunsmith’s art as the saw desecrated the Turkish walnut stock and reduced the perfectly balanced twenty-six inch over and under barrels to stubby snouts which made the hand tooled shotguns resemble the ancient highwayman’s weapons of old. Serve the toad right! First she’d been a golf widow as he spent all his time on the greens with his cronies, pleading the business imperative of buttering up clients. Then when the golfing lustre had worn off he’d taken to game shooting, disappearing to the Essex marshes whenever the fancy took him, to blast anything with wings and feathers out of the