Singapore Wink by Ross Thomas Read Free Book Online Page B

man,” he said. “You can say no in Washington.”
    â€œI’ll say it here.”
    â€œI must not be too good at persuasion.”
    â€œYou’re fine,” I said. “I found your message this morning. Very neat work.”
    There was a pause and then he said, “I suppose now I’ll have to think up something that will persuade you.”
    â€œDon’t bother,” I said and hung up.
    I pushed a button under the desk that rang a klaxon horn in the shop. Trippet came in, dressed in his white siren suit with Les Voitures Anciennes stitched across its back in green Old English letters. Our crew of three wore similar ones. I think they even wore them on their dates.
    â€œHe called,” I said.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œHe said he was going to think up something that will persuade me.”
    â€œAny notion of what it may be?”
    â€œNone.”
    Trippet produced a box of Senior Service and offered me one. He always offered them and I always refused. He was extremely polite.
    â€œI seriously doubt that he’ll try anything here tonight,” he said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe police. They said they’d keep an eye on us for the next few days.”
    â€œThey say anything else?”
    â€œThey wanted to know who did it—you know, perhaps a disgruntled customer. I, of course, told them that we had no disgruntled customers.”
    When the police came I had been out to lunch with a prospective client, a man who owned a string of drive-ins that featured twenty-cent hamburgers. He was anxious for us to restore a 1933 Stutz DV-32 Bearcat that he had found in somebody’s garage in San Francisco. We passed one of his drive-ins on the way to lunch and I had a moment of apprehension when he slowed down, but it was only to check the volume of business. We ate at Scandia’s on Sunset and while we were waiting to be served he showed me some snapshots of the car. I looked at them, nodded politely, and handed them back.
    â€œCan you do it?” he asked.
    â€œProbably,” I said. “But we’ll have to see the car.”
    â€œI’m having it trucked down next week.”
    â€œIf you like, we’ll look at it then.”
    He nodded happily at that. “How long will it take?”
    His name was Fred Cooper and he called his hamburgers Cooperburgers. I had yet to try one, but quite a few million other persons had, enough so that he could eat at Scandia’s and play around with old cars.
    â€œThat particular model had a straight eight engine with thirty-two valves,” I said. “It also had one of the best hydraulic brake systems ever built, plus automatic lubrication, and it retailed for about $5,000 in a year when very few people had that kind of money. The company went broke or folded in 1935. Parts are scarce. Very scarce.”
    â€œWhat if it needs parts that you can’t find?”
    â€œThen we have them made to the original specifications—and that can get expensive.”
    Cooper nodded again, not so happily this time, and drank the last of his martini. “How much? I mean for everything.”
    â€œI wouldn’t even guess. As I told you over the phone, we charge by the hour for actual work performed. Our rates are high, but we guarantee authenticity. We had one car—a 1934 Hispano-Suiza that we kept for eighteen months. The final bill was almost twelve thousand dollars, but it was in sorry shape when we got it.”
    Cooper flinched at that, but not too much, and then nodded quickly. He seemed to like to nod a lot. “They say you guys do the best work on the coast. Maybe after you look at the car you can give me an estimate.”
    â€œWe’ll be able to give you a minimum price. The maximum will depend upon a number of things.”
    â€œIt was a hell of a car,” Cooper said.
    â€œNot many people remember it,” I said. “They get it confused with the Stutz Bearcats of the