There was a strip club located about two miles from the Ford store. We were practically neighbors, so there was some mutual exchange of trade going on between the salesmen and the ladies at the “Gentlemen’s Club”. Some salesmen spent most of their off time conducting research of the female anatomy. A big buffoon named Odie came in one morning after a night of data collecting

He broke the world down into purely rudimentary numeric terms. He saw each person he met as a part of some grand unified economic theory. “I spent ten dollars to get in the door,” he said in his morning lecture. “And I saw twenty pussies. That breaks down to fifty cents a pussy. Anyway you look at it, that’s a solid deal. I call it my Cost-per-Pussy equation.”
No matter what I thought of him as a person, I had to admit he had put a lot of thought into this.

Odie had a second set of business cards printed up for special occasions. They read: Oscar Dalliforth Owner Bypass Ford. He used these to impress the semi-literate professional ladies at the club. The number on the card was a cell phone his wife didn’t know about. Some days his hot line would ring. Odie would take his call away from the showroom.

His end of the conversation always ran something like, “Yeah…sure…how much you got to put down? All right. Meet me behind the building.”

One afternoon Odie was busy with a little old couple he went to church with. Odie was a deacon in a very conservative church. The man he was with was the Right Reverend Mallory T. Cantrell. Both the reverend and his wife were dressed in funereal black. A solemn look on their faces. They made it obvious that they didn’t approve of Odie or me or this entire dealership. Odie had spent most of the morning kissing up to them. He used the church as a prospecting pool and it paid well.

The stripper phone vibrated in his pocket. His other customer base was calling. “Excuse me a moment,” he said to the couple. “Yes…okay come by in an hour,” he whispered. “What? You’re here now? I told you to call me before you come by. No, no I’m not ashamed of you.” He looked my way. “Come on in. I’ve got an…assistant for you to talk to. Yeah. Come in through the service department.”

“Burke,” he said to me. “How would you like to make some easy money?”

Whenever a car salesman utters those words, look out.

“I’m a little busy right now-“

“No Burke, I’m serious. I’m going to introduce you to a woman here in a minute. All you got to do is help her pick out a car, fill out her paperwork, put her in finance and I’ll give you fifty dollars. Tax free.”

He really thought I was that stupid. “No thanks. You’re telling me I do all the work and out of your five hundred dollars, you give me fifty.”

He glanced back at the Right Reverend. He glared at Odie and tapped his watch.
“All right Burke. You got me. I was just testing you. We’ll split the deal. You get two-fifty for an hour’s work. Here she is now.”

He made a grand sweeping gesture toward two women coming up the steps from the service department. The theme that day was cleavage. They were dressed in ultra short skirts. The one on the right was wearing a T-shirt that had been carefully ripped to expose her enhanced bosom.

The one on the left wore a man’s shirt tied around her waist, unbuttoned to just this side of legal.

“Go cut them off,” Odie said. “Don’t let them near my other customers.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “You guarantee that we split the deal. Fifty-fifty.”

The ladies came closer.

“Hell yes,” he shouted. The Reverend’s ears perked up. ”And hell is the wages of sin, young man,” He said loud enough for the Reverend to get the idea. “Now go and do your duty.” He pushed me toward the undulating pair.

“Mister Dalliforth is tied up at the moment,” I said. The two women looked over my shoulder at Odie.

“He over there with his preachy friends?” The T-shirt clad woman asked.

“I believe he is,” I said. “Now, can I help you?”

They sized me up. “You’ll do,” The one on the left said.

They picked out a new convertible Mustang. I didn’t believe either one of them could afford a new car. I kept trying to steer them toward a nice cheap used car. “Listen,” T-shirt said. “I’m putting nine thousand, nine hundred dollars down as a payment. Now will you let me drive that damn car?”

As we drove away, all the techs in the service department lined up to pay tribute to them as they jiggled over the speed bumps. We came back to the office and wrote up the deal. “Okay,” said. “Place of employment?”

“BJ Enterprises,” T-Shirt said.

“What does the BJ stand for?” I asked.

They both smiled at me. “You don’t get out much, do you?” she said. “Just write that down.”
“And the phone number to verify employment?” I asked.

She dug a business card out of her purse and recited the number. I dialed it. After four rings a man’s voice said, “Yeah, who is this?”

“This is Paul Burke with Bypass Ford. I’m calling to verify employment for Candy Striper.”

There was a very familiar ring to his voice. It dropped an octave.

“Yes, yes. Miss Stripper, I mean Striper has worked here at BJ Enterprises for two years now. A fine employee.”

I saw Odie in his office, hand over his cell phone. Now I knew why the voice sounded familiar. “And what is her job title?” I asked.

Odie stopped talking and looked over at me. “Damn it Burke. Write down ‘Public Relations’. Write down anything you want. Just quit screwing around and do your job.”

Two hours later, we finished the deal. I made sure my name was on the front. A group of salesmen watched as I explained the features of the car to Candy and her friend. They played it up for them. Bending over the hood, sitting in each other’s laps and patting each other on the butt.

Sweat beads collected on Odie’s brow. He was still with the Reverend and his wife. The receptionist’s voice rang out over the speaker, “Mister Dalliforth, please come to the front, your wife is here.”

Odie looked like a man on the verge of aneurism.

The Reverend, his wife, Mrs. Dalliforth and the little Dalliforth children all congregated around the receptionist’s desk. He glared at me and made sweeping motions at the two women.
T-shirt took offense at that. She said to me, “Is that his wife and kids?”

“I believe it is.”

“What the hell,” she said. “I’m moving to Atlanta next week. I’ll find me a new salesman down there. This bastard was a lousy tipper anyway.” She sidled over to the desk. “Why Odie, is this your wife?” Mrs Dalliforth and the Reverend looked wide-eyed at her. Odie’s five year old son tried to look up her dress.

Odie stammered “Hominy, hominy hominy…”

“Has he ever told you about his Cost per Pussy Equation?” T-shirt said before she walked away. “Get him to explain it. It’s quite a story.”

A circle formed around Odie. It was his family, the Preacher and his wife. He was a man without hope. I hurried to the finance office to turn in the deal.