Chapter 10

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 original condition, well, those’ll cost you about twice as much and you can’t even drive it. Nobody will insure it for road use.”

“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.

“You remember the tour bus that those idiots from Union Island drove to Mollywood? You fell in love with it And before that you were all gaga about a yacht”

Chiun tapped the polished, salmon-colored countertop experimentally like a skater testing the ice. Remo knew from the sound that the cabinets were solid and well-constructed, probably more durable than the original equipment. But, man, that sure was a lot of salmon-colored Formica.

“Well made,” Chiun announced in Korean.

“So?”

“This craftsman succeeded in recreating the original lines and palette.”

“Why am I not surprised that you’re an antique RV buff?”

The salesman—who was sweaty and had the sporadically racing pulse of the meat-eating, habitually deceptive type—was almost in tears. Remo guessed he was profoundly disappointed because the Korean conversation kept him out just when he needed to exploit a weakness.

Breck, whose name tag read HI, THE NAME’S BRECK!, perked up and nodded at the English word “RV.”

“What power level?” Chiun demanded as he turned the stove on again to its highest setting.

“Power?”

“Power! How high does this get?”

The salesman fussed over the stove until he got the grate out of a front burner and discovered a label. “Eight thousand BTUs.”

“And this means what?”

“It’s a nice little stove….”

“It is too little to be nice! And what fool requires four feeble burners? Why was it not installed with two adequate burners instead? How can water be heated to steam on such a pathetic flame? What sort of rice would come from this butane lighter?”

The salesman was in a rare state. He’d never quite had a sale go this way before.

“We could always put in more powerful burners.”

“How powerful?”

“I think we can get something at about fifteen thousand BTUs, maybe even higher if we go to a commercial kitchen supplier. I’ll need to talk to my brother—”

“The bunks—how much time would it require to have them removed?”

“Removed? I’m not sure. We’ve never had that request. I can find out—”

“The carpet?”

“Very plush, isn’t it?”

“It is hideous!”

“We’ll rip it out in no time.”

“And replace it with what?”

“How—how—-how about a linoleum that matches the original equipment?” The salesman’s heart was racing, stymied at every turn but convinced he was close to a big sale.

“What would be put in the place of the master bedroom bunk?” Chiun demanded.

“What would you like? Storage closets? Library? Meditation room?”

The vintage RV with the new-car smell went quiet as a tomb. The salesman didn’t know why. Had he insulted the old man with an Oriental stereotype? Had he cost himself a sale?

“Remo, a meditation chamber!”

“Be kind of squeaky for meditating.” Remo knew that resistance was futile, but he had to put up a token fight. “Why squeaky?” Chiun chirped.

“Yes, why would it be squeaky?” the salesman asked, sincerely not understanding.

“This thing’s solid as a New York City bus, Chiun,” Remo pointed out. “It’s got a thousand bolted-together parts that will be creaking and settling and moaning even when it’s standing still. How are you gonna meditate in all that racket?”

“A house does the same thing—the two-flat settles constantly,” Chiun argued.

“Yeah, well, imagine the two-flat if it was made from an Erector set by a kid who can’t get the screws really tight—that’s what it would be like trying to meditate in an RV.”

Chiun glared. “You want to deny me a proper home.”

“The two-flat’s proper.”

“Look at me,” Chiun said to the salesman. “What is wrong with me that I should be treated with disrespect?”

Remo jumped in before the salesman even hinted at an answer that could get him killed. “There’s nothing wrong with you, and you can have any kind of house you want. So why not a house with room, something solid? Maybe a mansion. Hell, we’re just a stone’s throw from that Victorian bed-and-breakfast that you liked in Oklahoma City. Let’s go buy it and have it moved out east”

“Fah! Victorian is unsightly as that junkyard beyond the fence.”

“You told me you liked that place.”

“You are mistaking me with someone else.”

Remo sighed. “How about another church? I mean, another Castle Sinanju. In Boston, even. The Boston Catholic franchise must be having a fire sale these days to pay off the lawyers of abused kids. We’ll go make them an offer on the biggest, god-awfullest piece of Christian architecture we can find. Then we’ll rip the insides out. Wouldn’t that be fun? And we’ll redo it however you want.”

Chiun considered it. “You would be amenable to such a home?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I seem to recall you mentioning, once, a dislike for the Boston castle.”

“No,” Remo said sincerely. “You are mistaking me with someone else.”

Chiun nodded, then turned on the salesman. “Remo is right.”

“He is?”

“I am?”

“This dwelling is not sturdy! I need one built to a higher degree of strength.”

Remo gave up and slumped on the plastic sofa, trying not to breathe its particles.

“Sir, I assure you this is a finely rebuilt camper, and my brother puts in extra reinforcements to make it extrastable.” The salesman placed his hand on the wall and shoved. The wall didn’t budge.

“It is flimsy!” Chiun stamped his foot. The Spartan trembled and rattled as if it were in the midst of a tornado. The pink champagne glasses toppled and shattered.

“We could do better!” the salesman pleaded. “Extra reinforcing foam in the walls and triple-paned windows and we’ll weld steel reinforcement bars under the floors!”

Chiun glared around him. ‘Too small. Show me another.”

“This is the largest model we have complete at the moment…”

“What caravans await refurbishment in your scrap heap?”

“Oh. Uh. I would have to ask my brother—”

“Take me to him!”

The brother was a night owl who had to be prodded out of bed, and he came outside with wild hair and one unbuttoned flap on his overalls. He started out peeved, but became excited as he showed the old Korean the ancient hulks strewed about the salvage yard.

“He’s an intense gentleman,” the salesman mentioned to Remo as he glugged a can of lemon-lime Fanta and sat on the stoop of a rusted-out GMC camper trailer that stank of mouse droppings. The salesman had been excused from Chiun’s presence. “I admire a man who knows what he wants,” he added hastily.

“He knows what he wants this afternoon,” Remo clarified.

“Tomorrow he’ll want to live in an Austrian sod hut or some crazy-ass thing.”

Two hundred feet away, Chiun paused midsentence and looked at Remo balefully, then went back to his conversation.

“He actually have enough money for this?” the salesman asked, finally getting the nerve.

“Unfortunately, yeah.”

“He rich or something?”

“Theoretically, it’s me who’s the master of the money, not him.”

Chiun glared again, and Remo could swear his flesh started to singe. He added, “But that’s only a theory.”