A cabdriver welcomed us to “Baldimore” and drove us out Harford Road to a used car dealer. Ray liked a sky-blue Plymouth Scamp with a white vinyl top, but the salesman balked when Ray mentioned a test drive. “Maybe you’ve been drinking,” the salesman said. “I didn’t mean that I would drive the car,” Ray said. “My daughter will drive it.” “I can’t allow that,” the salesman said. “Why? She’s perfectly sober.” “What is she, twelve?” “Why don’t we let the salesman drive?” I suggested. “I’m busy,” the salesman said. Ray brought a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his wind-breaker pocket. The paper was so crisp and springy, it would hardly stay folded. This caused the salesman to change his tune. Ray got in front on the passenger side, and I got in back by myself. “I’m Armando Snacki,” the salesman said. “Show us what the car is capable of, Mr. Snacki,” Ray said. Armando Snacki accelerated evenly and took us through a few smooth turns.
