Free Backup Men by Ross Thomas

again.”
    Karl had worked for Padillo and me in Bonn where he’d been bored by both the Bundestag and whatever passed for social life in that village on the Rhine. Although I found it difficult to decide which of the capital cities was duller, Karl thought that Washington glittered and regarded Congress as an endless drama. He was on a first-name basis with at least fifty Representatives and a dozen Senators, knew how the rest of them voted on every issue, was a primary source of backstairs gossip for half of the town’s society reporters, and was occasionally consulted by a couple of syndicated columnists who also put great faith in the philosophical pronuncia-mentos of New York cabdrivers. In addition, Karl was also the best bartender in town. Padillo had seen to that.
    “When’s Mike coming back?” he said.
    “In a couple of days.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Out of town.”
    “I was hoping I could talk to you guys about something.”
    I sighed and turned from my vigil at the door. Plomondon could find me easily enough when he arrived. I had a more important problem. My bartender wanted to borrow some money.
    “What barn did you find it in?” I said.
    “You’ll never believe it.”
    “That’ll make it easier to say no.”
    “Listen,” Karl said and patted a stray lock of long blond hair back into place. I think he may have pioneered the trend because he’d worn it long for more than a dozen years. “It’s a Dues.”
    “You can’t afford a Duesenberg,” I said. “Nobody can.”
    “It’s a 1934 blown SJ with a Rollston body.”
    “What kind of shape is it in?” I said, getting interested in spite of myself.
    “Cherry.”
    In addition to being the town tattle, Karl was also a classic car buff. He’d owned a series of them beginning with a 1939 Lincoln Continental that I’d found for him in Copenhagen. He’d keep one awhile and then sell it for a respectable profit in what seemed to be a steadily rising market. I didn’t share his passion, but after all, they’d only made 500 of the things, and he probably wanted this one so much that it hurt.
    “How much?” I said.
    Karl busied himself with the glasses again. “Twenty-five,” he said in a voice so low that it was hard to decide whether it was a whisper or a whimper.
    “Jesus,” I said.
    “Look,” he said, whipping out a ballpoint pen and using a paper napkin to figure on. “I know where I can get fifteen tomorrow for the Hispano-Suiza.” That’s what he was then driving. “I got five saved so really all I need is another five.”
    “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Twenty-five thousand dollars for a car that’s nearly forty years old.”
    “It’ll be worth thirty-five easy in less’n five years.”
    “It’s in good shape?” I said, feeling myself weakening and hating it.
    “Perfect.”
    “I’ll talk to Padillo when he gets back.”
    “This guy can’t hold it forever.”
    “When Mike gets back.”
    “I’ll call the guy and tell him I’ll take it.”
    “Look, I didn’t say—”
    “I think your luncheon date’s here,” Karl said.
    I turned and watched Plomondon the Plumber move across the room toward the bar. He was a small, compact man, not quite forty and not over five-five who walked on the balls of his feet and swung his arms a little more than necessary, something like a British soldier who’s never off parade. He had brown curly hair that was cut close to his head, which may have been a little too big for his body, but which he carried at a proud angle with chin out and shoulders back.
    He nodded at me as he came and when he was close enough he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Bill Plomondon.”
    I shook his hand, which was dry and hard and also too large for the rest of him, and said that I was glad to see him and asked whether he would prefer to have lunch in a private room.
    “I like things out in the open.”
    I nodded and turned to survey the dining room. It was a little past two because