Breck Kasle took one look at you and he knew if you were a buyer, a browser or a sucker. Buyers got his attention. Browsers were ignored. Suckers got the hardsell, because sometimes a sucker could become a buyer, if you worked him right.
Charlie the finance guy pointed out the window of the office RY and asked, “What is he?”
“Damned if I know,” Breck Kasle said.
“Come on! Admitting defeat and he just walked onto your lot? I say he’s a sucker.”
“Maybe. When in doubt you treat ’em like suckers.” Breck tightened his polyester garage-sale tie and went to greet the new arrival.
The little Jap in the girls’ clothes was evaluating the lines on the 1961 Airstream. He was older than Methuselah but damned if he didn’t have the straightest backbone this side of the Mighty Miss.
“Morning.”
The old man didn’t notice him. Probably deaf. “Morning,” Breck said to the younger man, in an ivory T-shirt and Chinos. He was another unsettling character, what with extrathick wrists and eyes like one of those biker dudes who’d kill you just ’cause he didn’t approve of your hair plugs.
Still, the younger man had a tolerant, resigned look, and Breck got the picture. Young man taking care of an old man who’s prone to impulsive acts, and the best thing was to just go along with it These two were browsers.
“This caravan is outfitted with a working cook-stove?” the old man squeaked.
‘Yes, sure.” In a twinkling Breck’s assessment changed. That wasn’t the kind of specific question a browser asked. These were definite suckers.
“Not electric, I hope?”
“Propane. You hook up the tanks in the back. How would you like to see the inside? This is a real work of art.”
The old man turned away from the Airstream and seemed to glide away. He was heading for the ’46 Spartan. Breck Kasle followed behind him, trying to stay casual. You never wanted to look like you were trying to make a sale.
“That’s a 1946 Spartan Manor,” he said. “Man, that one’s a real gem.”
“This caravan has been fitted with nonoriginal components,” the old man announced, and he speared a rigid finger at the undercarriage of the Spartan, where a bright yellow metal piece was visible.
“Oh. Yeah. Well, we do take liberties with the mechanicals,” Kasle admitted, and now he was mentally salivating. These were buyers! Definite buyers! The old man knew his stuff, and now Breck saw that the old man’s robe was some sort of hand-stitched original artwork all on its own. Valuable. These folks had cash! “You see,” he continued nonchalantly, “we don’t make museum pieces—we rebuild vintage RVs that people can use. We install new brakes, new electricals, various safety features. You want an RV restored to
“You work on these things?” asked the young man, but he didn’t really seem to care.
“Naw. My brother does all the labor. Hard to believe what he can do with some of these old hunks sometimes. Takes a lot of love and a lot of elbow grease.”
The old man flipped open the door of the Spartan and skipped inside. Breck was sure it had been locked—every RV on the lot was kept locked. The younger man sighed and followed the old man in.
“I thought you wanted to live in a jet,” Remo said, ignoring the salesman who followed them in.
“A jet must always stay at the airport,” Chiun replied. “A jet that is sufficient in space would be too large for the small-town airports to which we are often dispatched.”
“Yeah, and Smitty would freak out if we started traveling around in our own 777.” Remo hadn’t wanted to live in an airplane anyway. But he wasn’t into living in a camper trailer, either, even a nice one.
Chiun was examining every aspect of the pristine RV interior, which was stifling in the heat and thick with the smell of new plastic and fresh-cut plywood. Someone had done a good restoration job. The interior was narrow, but one end opened into a massive wraparound kitchen with a vast expanse of brand-new, salmon-colored countertop. The only thing that broke it up was the sink and a decorative pair of pink champagne glasses on a white doily. Above it was a huge, three-segment picture window that offered a 180-degree view.
“Man, imagine backing that up to the Grand Canyon,” Remo said.
Chiun furled his brow. “Why do such a thing?”
“Just think of the view you’d have while you heated your franks and beans.”
Chiun didn’t dignify the comment with an answer.
“Quite a kitchen, isn’t it?” the salesman offered.
“You could do an autopsy on that countertop,” Remo said.
Breck Kasle didn’t have a ready response to that.
“So what about the tour bus idea?” Remo asked Chiun.
“What tour bus?” Chiun turned on the propane stove. An automatic igniter clicked and produced a small blue flame. Chiun looked at the salesman significantly. The salesman struggled to come up with an affirmation about the stove; Remo could see the effort in his quivering cheeks.
