Not Exactly a Brahmin Read Online Free

advantages of conducting your interviews in this model,” he said, indicating a huge silver vehicle with a bar and television in back.
    “Or barring that, I could just move in.”
    It was a moment before he smiled, a moment that said he was forcing a polite response to an unamusing comment. He looked like William Powell in a Thin Man movie: repartee was all important, and I had made a remark that hadn’t measured up.
    “There he is,” I said, spotting Misco. In contrast to the salesman, Misco suddenly seemed small, dark, and frenetic, and very comfortable. “Thanks for your help,” I said to the salesman.
    He caught my eye, smiled, and ambled off, like William Powell heading for another drink. I turned to Misco. He was standing near the rear exit with the mechanic, an Asian of about thirty-five or forty.
    Indicating him, Misco said to me, “Sam did the work on the Palmerston car. The car was right where we are now. Checked out, huh, Sam?”
    The mechanic extended a wiped hand. “Sam Nguyen,” he said with something of an accent. “I have told your colleague that I have completed all essential adjustments on the Palmerston vehicle. I have changed oil personally and lubed. Palmerston vehicle is A-l.”
    “You checked the brakes?”
    “I checked brakes, of course. I examined whole car.” His voice was rising. “I am not what you call a trainee. Sam Nguyen did not become a mechanic here on a government refugee program.”
    I nodded.
    “I am a mechanic. I was a mechanic in Saigon. There Sam Nguyen was esteemed. Everyone with a limousine came to Sam Nguyen. Many mechanics worked for me. I had a villa by the river, many servants.” A smile of recollection flashed across his face. “They said, the powerful men who owned limousines, ‘There is nothing Sam Nguyen cannot do.’ I make a car that was bombed run again. I make customized job: bulletproof glass, no problem; folding bed, no problem; secret cargo space, no problem; machine gun—”
    “I’m sure, Mr. Nguyen. But you’re saying Mr. Palmerston’s car was in perfect condition when it left here?”
    “That is correct.”
    “Do you know when that was?”
    “One-thirty, pronto. Mr. Palmerston is very particular about his car being waiting at that time.”
    “Do you know why?”
    He looked at me oddly for a moment, as if I had asked a ridiculous question, then his face sank back into a noncommital expression. “It is no problem. It does not take longer. I finished at one o’clock.”
    “You signed the work order. So at that time you guaranteed the brake lines were in good shape?”
    His dark brows pushed together. “The brake lines were okay. I inspected them this morning.”
    “Could they have been faulty?”
    “Holes large enough to let fluid through? Never. I, Sam Nguyen, checked the lines before okaying them. In Saigon, I go over everything looking for danger. Those holes would not escape Sam Nguyen.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    Misco walked with me to the door. “I guess this case will be yours by tomorrow, huh, Smith?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, what I came out here to tell you was that Sam Nguyen is on the up-and-up. He really is a genius with cars. Trent Cadillac is lucky to have him. He’s known all over the area, not just in Berkeley. Over there, in Saigon, they didn’t have spare parts. When a manifold went, that was it, unless they could get the car to Sam’s. Word is there’s nothing he couldn’t repair, replace, or improve on. The joke is that he revamped a Citroen into a villa.”
    “Loses something in the translation.”
    “Yeah, well … in a couple years this could be Nguyen Cadillac. Or maybe Nguyen Motors will be somewhere else. Sam doesn’t just work on Caddies.”
    “So you believe him when he says the car was perfect when it left here?”
    “Mechanically, he’s the best.”
    “What about ethically? Could he be bought?”
    “I don’t know. But not about this. If Sam Nguyen had sabotaged Palmerston’s car, we would