Lucky Chuck

   Chuck Fellay always knew where to find the best deals. He kept his eagles eyes on the prize, and hunted down with much enthusiasm the lowest price around. Lucky Chuck was his nickname with all his employees at the used car dealership owned by his Uncle Richard. His fellow Lodge members called him “The unshakeable one”, for his uncanny ability to talk to anyone, and sell them anything.

   Lucky Chuck's job was to keep inventory on the lot, and to make sure they bought low and sold high. He was so good at his job that the dealership made triple their money back on every car.

   One vital trick in Lucky Chuck's arsenal was his ability to spot those car owners who were down in their luck, and needed a quick source of cash. He had found certain spots in town where the picking was easy; payday loan parking lots, pawn shops and thrift stores were gold mines for his business. His motto was simple: “Mexicans and blacks get the business in the black.”

   Lucky Chuck was out on his usual route that Tuesday morning when he met the Mexican. As soon as Chuck spotted Pablo, he knew the poor Mexican needed money, and needed it soon. The stocky, middle-aged man was standing near his car, a red, 1999 Ford Taurus SE, in the parking lot of Louie's Pawn Shop. He estimated that the car was easily worth $1,000 to $1,300 without any work to it. Chuck ran his lucky comb through his light brown hair; he did the same thing before meeting his targets. He saw it as preparation for the hunt, and the killing he was guaranteed to make.

   Chuck held out his hand to the Mexican. “Hola.” Chuck said. “Habla Ingles?”
 
   The Mexican slowly glanced in Chuck's direction, with what Chuck thought was a particularly absent-minded expression. “Yeah.” the Mexican said drolly. “What do you want?”

   Chuck decided to put on the charm and charisma of a Evangelical preacher, one he knew well in his youth. “Well, sir, it's a beautiful day on God's earth; sure is.” Chuck said, smiling at the Mexican. “Yes, a wonderful day, indeed.”

   Chuck slyly stole a peek into the back seat of the Mexican's car. It appeared to be filled with clothes, and other assorted items. Chuck realized the Mexican was either selling, or he had bought those items from the store. Either way, it meant the Mexican didn't have much money. Chuck needed a hook, something to lure the penniless Mexican into selling his car.

   After seeing the car, he double-checked his intended target. The Mexican was wearing some disheveled clothes, as though the Mexican had slept in them. The Mexican wore a sleeveless vest, and had on some sort of religious medal on his dark-colored, button down shirt. Chuck wrote off the medal as a silly, Catholic superstition, and a sign of a lack of mental development in his target. Dried mud and grit covered the Mexican's shoes. Chuck assumed the man was some sort of hired hand, a day laborer, and may have worked with concrete in the last week.
 
   Chuck decided to make his move. “So, are you here to pick up a bargain, or to make a little cash?”

   “What's it to you?” the Mexican asked.

   “No offense friend,” Chuck eased off the fishing reel a bit, for the hook to go in deeper. “God's honest truth, I was only wondering, because if you're here to sell, you don't have a prayer of making any money here. I just wanted to say I know where you can get a better deal, without having to wear out your rosary beads in vain, repetitious prayer.”

   “Really?” the Mexican was difficult to read, Chuck realized, for the Mexican's expression did not change one bit. Chuck assumed the Mexican to be of limited intellectual ability.

   “Oh, yes, indeed.” Chuck's inner preacher came out once more. “And I can tell you, God's honest truth, you can make double what you can ever make here. What do you say about that? Do you want to find out how?”

   “How?” asked the Mexican.

   “Well, I'm glad I met you here.” Chuck said. “Because I'm your man. I buy and sell, and I can make you at least three, maybe even four hundred dollars right this very minute. I betcha you're thinking that's impossible, am I right?”

   The Mexican said nothing, nor did expression change one iota.

   “I see your car there.” Chuck said. “I'm a car guy myself. I fix 'em when they break, and I know when a car's about to go south, if you know what I mean?”

   Still nothing from the Mexican. Chuck pressed on.

   “You see, I don't like to see a good man, such as yourself, get stuck in a dead car. When the car goes kaput,” Chuck pointed to the Mexican's medal, “no prayer in the world's gonna help bring it back to life.”

   Chuck let out a single, sharp laugh. “So I'm ready and willing and able to help you out. That's my duty as a good citizen, a dues-paying lodge member, and a Christian man. I'll buy this here wreck off your hands for three hundred and fifty dollars, cash money. What do you say?”

   “No.” said the Mexican. His sharp answer took Chuck back a step, from which he quickly recovered.

   “You know, you're right.” Chuck said. “But I'd be willing to give you a little more, to make sure you can get yourself a better, safer ride than what you got now. So I'll give you $400 dollars. On my honor as a third-degree Mason, that's not only more than fair, it's like a gift from the holy Santos. What do you say?”

   The Mexican stared at Chuck for a second, then said, “You Masons think you're pretty smart, don't you?”

   Chuck shook his head, “What?” he asked.

   “Yeah,” the Mexican said, “You think you know everything; that I'm a dumb wetback looking for money, and that I don't know jack about how much this car is worth.”

   Chuck could see that the Mexican was not such an easy target. “Well, that's not what I meant at all.” he said, looking for an easy out.

   “And what did you mean by saying the Holy Santos can't help?” the Mexican said. “You think your master Satan has all the answers? Why don't you go back to your Freemason friends, and your master Satan, and let them know this Mexican won't sell out so easily to their nєω ωσrℓ∂ σr∂єr.”

   Chuck nodded, and for some unknown reason, said to the Mexican, “Okay.” He wheeled about and ran in the other direction. He was so distraught that he forgot his car, which he had parked out of sight of the pawn shop. He kept running past the Lodge and to the dealership. It took him nearly an hour to get back. By the time he did, Chuck noticed that his uncle was exiting the office.

   “Uncle, I just met the craziest wetback...” Chuck stopped mid-sentence when he saw who walked out of the office after his uncle. It was the Mexican.

   Uncle Richard smiled, “Tell me later. Right now, I want to introduce you to the new owner of this dealership.”

   “Hola, muchacho.” said the Mexican to Lucky Chuck. “Apparently, you can call me the wetback. We'll talk about what to call you, when I get back from lunch.”

   As the Mexican and his uncle walked off for lunch, Lucky Chuck knew his luck had run out.