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1933 Rolls. No, we would scour the country, indeed, the world for exactly the right part. Only the 1931 microphone will do. Guaranteed authenticity will be our motto.”
    â€œUnfortunately,” I said, “I’m not of independent means.”
    Trippet waved my objection away. “We’ll capitalize your twenty-one cars. That will do nicely and I’ll manage the rest.”
    â€œAll right,” I said. “Now I understand the why me. What about the why you?”
    â€œHe wants to get out of the house,” his wife said.
    Trippet grinned and brushed the hair out of his eyes for the twenty-third time that evening. “Can you think of a better method to study the decay of the system than by establishing a useless business that charges exorbitant fees to foolish persons for services and products that are absolutely unneeded?”
    â€œNot offhand,” I said. “But I really don’t think you’re serious.”
    â€œHe’s serious,” his wife said. “It’s the only time he gets serious—when he comes up with a nutty one like this.”
    â€œOf course I’m serious,” Trippet said. “While trafficking in sentiment and snobbery, I strike another blow at the underpinnings of the system and at the same time turn a neat profit. I’m not above that, you know. Must be some trait I inherited from grandfather.”
    â€œLet’s suppose we’re in business,” I said. “Who does the work—you know, the kind where you get your hands dirty?”
    Trippet looked surprised, then offended. “I do, of course. I’m really quite good with cars although I no longer have a liking for them. Prefer horses, actually. Naturally, we’ll pick up a couple of bodies to train and to perform the more menial tasks. By the way, just what is it that you usually do when you do something?”
    â€œI’m an unemployed stunt man.”
    â€œReally? How fascinating. Do you fence?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œExcellent. We should have some jolly times together. But tell me, why unemployed?”
    â€œBecause,” I said, “I lost my nerve.”
    In the two years that followed it worked out much as Trippet had predicted that night in the restaurant on La Cienega. He discovered the A&P building near La Brea and Santa Monica, supervised most of the remodeling, bought the necessary equipment, arranged for the legal papers to be drawn up, and then counseled me to have my own lawyer go over them. When everything was ready Trippet set out to restore a 1930 Packard which was part of my legacy. The car was a straight eight Model 7/34 boat-tailed speedster with a high-ratio rear axle that enabled it to do one hundred miles per hour on the straightaway if its future owner were so inclined. Trippet gave the car fourteen coats of handrubbed lacquer, reupholstered the interior in glove-like leather, supplied it with a new top and white sidewall tires, including those in the fender wells, and then instructed me to sell it for $8,000.
    â€œNot a penny less,” he warned.
    The first day that the Packard went on display, twenty-three persons came in to look at it. The twenty-third was a seventy-year-old retired cowboy singer who now lived in Palm Springs. He walked around the Packard twice and then came back to my office.
    â€œDoes it run?” he asked.
    â€œPerfectly,” I said.
    â€œHow much you asking?”
    â€œEight thousand.”
    He grew a canny expression. “Give you seven. Cash deal.”
    I lifted an eyebrow and smiled what I hoped was a chilly smile. “I’m sorry, sir, but we do not haggle.”
    The ex-cowboy singer nodded at that and went back out to look at the Packard some more. Five minutes later he was back in the office writing out a check for $8,000.
    I thought about some of this, but not all, after the man in the spats had left, trailed by his outsized companion. If they were a problem, so was