MAY 24, 2019 – One day my dad came home from work and told a funny second-hand story, which means I’m making it third-hand. But if you read The Art of the Detail on this site (May 22), you’d know that Dad was a man of precision. I’m sure that in relating the story to me, he was close to 100% accurate based on how it had been told to him.
Dad’s source was Judge G, a local district court judge, who, of course, had been a lawyer before ascending to the bench. Plus, the judge smoked cigars pretty much continually except in the courtroom, so we might have to discount the accuracy of his version of the story. The ultimate source of the story was Judge G’s brother, owner of a local Buick-Cadillac dealership. In other words, the story originated with a car salesman.
All of which underscores the reason for the rule barring hearsay testimony in a courtroom.
In any event, here’s how Dad told the story:
Judge G’s brother had sold a brand new Fleetwood Cadillac to a wealthy customer. Money Bags drove off, happy with his new status symbol . . . until he noticed a rattle somewhere on the left side of the front passenger side of the car. Perturbed and perplexed, the customer drove back to the dealership to have the problem fixed. A mechanic rode in the passenger’s seat while the cranky millionaire drove around the block and up and down the street for a few minutes. No rattle.
The customer drove off. Next day, the rattle returned—periodically. He returned to the dealership. This time, a mechanic suggested that the cause was inside the passenger’s side door. He lowered the window and shined a flashlight down into the window slot. Nothing.
Off went Mr. Money—a third time. The annoyance soon reappeared. Steamed, he drove back to the dealership and demanded a fix. “You get rid of that rattle,” he said. “It’s a Fleetwood Cadillac, for crying out loud!”
A mechanic was ordered to disassemble the door to get to the heart of the problem—assuming that the rattle was somewhere in the door.
The mechanic went to work. Once he’d managed to remove the inside panel—no easy task—the problem was exposed, as plain as day.
An empty, miniature, liquor bottle dangled from the end of a length of fishing line, which, in turn, was tied to the top of the inside door frame.
“Well, well, well” said the mechanic. “What do we have here?” He cut the bottle free from the line and noticed that although the little vessel had been drained of its liquid contents, it was not empty. Inside the bottle was a roll of paper. With the end of a very small screwdriver, the mechanic pulled the paper out of the bottle and unrolled the miniature scroll.
It bore a simple message:
“So you finally found it, you rich son of a bitch!”
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
