“I’m pleased to meet you,” he said. “Mabley’s the name, an’ if you’re lookin’ for a good bus you’ve come to the right joint.”
Dillon said, “We’re lookin’, brother, but maybe we won’t buy, then, maybe, if we find somethin’ good an’ cheap, we will.”
Mabley put his thumbs in his trousers pockets and raised himself on his toes. “That’s fair enough, mister,” he said. “You look around.” He leant up against the wall and watched them.
Dillon spotted the car right away. It was a big, shabby-looking Packard standing in a corner by itself. It was the only car of the lot that looked as if it could hit a wall at sixty and not dent its fenders.
He didn’t go over to it at once, but made a pretence of looking at the others first. Myra followed him around, not saying anything. She left it to him. At last he walked over to the Packard and examined it carefully. He opened the door and got in. The springs were good.
Mabley came over and dusted off the hood with a flick here and there. “You like this one, I bet,” he said.
Dillon got out of the car and leant against the fender. “Maybe we could use it.”
Mabley opened his eyes wide. “Listen,” he said earnestly, “that car’s got guts. There’s plenty under that hood. Suppose you come for a run an’ see?”
Dillon nodded. “Sure,” he said, “I don’t mind givin’ you a break if it will hold together.”
Mabley ran his hands through his hair. “If it will hold together… you’ll see.”