Now the gates open via remote control and we tip on in wearing pointy-toed, calfskin shoes—perfect in the club, not so on hot asphalt. It’s warmer here than it was when I left New Orleans, my home of the past three years, and I’m glad for my sunglasses, too. The long, buffed hoods and roofs collect the sun’s rays, shooting them off like laser beams in all directions. I do believe I’m sweating in my black Orlon shirt, a remnant from the last tour. It sticks too close and I flap my arms to loosen it.
Engaged with two customers who stand near a Model-T, Mr. Habib doesn’t see us approaching. His voice rising, both hands fly above his head. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was Fresh Off the Boat, like my friends at the Michigan State University International Center used to say. Yet the man has owned this lot fifteen years, I’ve learned, renting vehicles to movie studios and marking them up later to sell to those who’ll brag Denzel drove their Jag in his latest. Meantime, Ben has started shopping. I step beneath an overhang, watching him mime a shuffling, arthritic gait while running his palms over the mirror-sheen surfaces of Fleetwoods, Continentals, DeVilles. All are classics, lovingly restored by the detailers and mechanics here, only Ben won’t keep our newest once the tour ends. Claims it’s more financially prudent to donate them to charity and take the tax deduction. Thinking of the day care centers, Boys & Girls Clubs, and literacy councils in Jackson and Greenwood with castoff Caddies can be a pleasant image, you ask me. And Ben’s never wrong about taxes. The last two years he’s been nagging me I need to quit 1040-EZ’s and apartment living to take advantage of that homeowner’s deduction.
“No, no, no,” Mr. Habib suddenly says, so loud I can hear him over the traffic noise. “You try to steal from me.”
Ben joins me in the shade. “Found it,” he says, pointing to a long brown ride between a sparkling red Corvette and a silver VW Beetle with a Rolls Royce grille. I shade my eyes with my hand and nod, while Mr. Habib shouts, “Final offer. Final offer.” He raises both hands, tangles them in his fringe of graying hair, then turns and says, “Brother Ben! My favorite customer!”
That’s not the voice I’m used to. He nears us, looks over his shoulder at the two conferring men then turns around. In a voice so American he could sell funeral plots in Topeka, he whispers, “Studio types. Always trying to cut a deal.” His blousy short-sleeved shirt shows no sweat marks while he pumps Brother Ben’s hand and mine simultaneously. “The last one still running?” he says. “The ’72?”
“’74,” Ben corrects. He’s managed to shrink, as if generating a Mississippi accent has taken off pounds and inches, and perhaps a vertebra. “And she pow’ful, Mr. Habib. A luxururus machine.”
“Good, good. Now you’re back for another?”
The studio execs break their huddle. One calls, “Mr. Habib?”
He ignores them, nods slyly at Ben and me. “See anything you like today?” Together, we three form a rich brown spectrum, with Habib lighter than cream-heavy tea, Ben the color of a pecan shell, and me in the Hershey Bar range. I remove my hat, swipe at my forehead with my black sleeve.
“I likes them all,” Ben says. “Ever’ time I comes to the land of Californee I wants every car I sees.” Habib just blinks at the echoes of Mud’s “My Eyes Keep Me in Trouble” and Johnson’s “Sweet Home Chicago.” I put my hat back on and wipe away a smile on my shoulder. I’m quietly humming the harp line of “My Eyes” when both execs holler, “Mr. Habib?”
“Let them call twice more?” he whispers to us. “What do you think, Sam?”
Behind my sunglasses, I blink. My contacts shift and settle, and my lips are dry and stuck together. I’ve been staring, a little jealously, at Habib’s smart, black and white spectator shoes. Takes me a second to loosen my lips, but before I say a word the execs have neared, their loafers creaking. “Mr. Sam Stamps,” Habib says in Ali Baba mode. “Man of few words.”
Ben chuckles and wheezes while his surreptitious elbow catches my ribs, a subtle clue for me to join in. The studio execs now are near enough for me to see their tanned faces, smell their subtle colognes. Smacking the back of one hand against his palm, Mr. Habib shrieks, “What you give me, huh?” Ben keeps slumping as if the hazy Southern California sun is melting his bones. There’s a lot of funny stuff going on right now, and I’m still laughing when the execs and Habib look my way, until Ben’s shoe slips over mine and he puts all his weight down on it.
•••
“Now then,” Mr. Habib says, leaning back in his chair. “What can I do for my favorite customer?”
We’re inside his office, the AC chilly enough to raise gooseflesh on my neck. Habib’s office is large enough to occupy all three of us and his massive desk. Framed photos of Iranian landscapes hang crookedly on the cinderblock wall behind him. A U.S. flag as big as a king-sized sheet stretches across the glass wall near the showroom. Ben leans an elbow on the desk, takes off his hat to mop his brow. The handkerchief comes back dry, I’m sure, but he pockets it swiftly, his hands appearing nimble one moment, bent and aching the next. None of Habib’s rug merchant act is on display now—though ten minutes ago it secured for the Model T a rental fee twice what the execs wanted to pay. Shoes up on the desk, his soles look smooth, like they’ve never touched a surface that might wear them down. He says, “I got a whole new fleet of Caddies two months ago. Did you see them?” He looks at Ben, then me. I nod, while Ben pours it on, thick as cane syrup. “Which the coffee-colored one?” Ben says. “Caught my eye, sho’ nuff.”
“The ‘76 Fleetwood Brougham,” Habib says, his voice softening like a teacher asking questions to the dumbest kid in class.
“Bro-am,” Ben says, sounding out his phonics. He turns to me. “You the educated one, Sam. Tell me how that spelled.”
He’s not talking about my marketing degree from State. He’s referring to the high school diploma Silent Sam’s peoples are so proud of. I shake my head and shrug.
“B-r-o-u-g-h-a-m,” Habib says.
“Sound like some expensive letters,” Ben says, cackling. Habib says something about price, just as Ben’s dry laugh turns to a racking cough that doubles him over. Habib stands, asking if Ben’s all right.
“Fine, fine,” Ben says through a voice close to the grave. His neck jerks twice as he coughs again. “You right,” he croaks. “Let’s get down to bidniss.”
“That cough sounds terrible,” Habib says, looking at me.
Ben’s foot touches mine, a signal the negotiation’s started with him on top. He’s warned me to pay attention to how he haggles in a way that doesn’t seem like haggling. He says I’ll need to do this when I’m performing on my own someday, though neither of us is ever specific on when that day might come. Right now, I don’t even own a car. As poor a light as that shines on a native Michigander, it’s true. One of the reasons I picked the Garden District of New Orleans to live in was its streetcars and buses. I can get most places by my own two feet (and Pelican cabs aren’t too difficult to get when you call the dispatcher). Only time I’m ever behind the wheel is when we’re touring, and usually then on the interstate where I can do the least harm.
Absently, my hand touches the copy of Blues Today. I wonder what Habib would say if I showed him the polls. Among his celebrity photos on the wall, Ben’s is prominent, above Harvey Korman and just below the good son on Dallas. That favorite customer business sure can seem real. The man cuts at least a couple hundred off every purchase I’ve seen Ben make. Because he loves Ben’s music? Or because Ben’s driven so many cars off this lot, always paid Habib in cash? (“Mississippi John Hurt carry Diner’s Club?” Ben once asked me.) I can’t be certain of anyone’s motives anymore. When you spend so much time being someone you’re not, you suspect everyone’s got a con. And you lie waiting for the tipoff that tells what the hustle is.
“Deal then,” Ben says abruptly, his trembling left hand