Arup left the freezing air of the Wells Fargo lobby and stepped back onto the sun-baked concrete of University Avenue. He walked south to El Camino Real and entered a RadioShack.
He bought a black Motorola Bravo pager and a numeric service plan, paying in cash. He clipped the small plastic box to his belt and left the store.
Two blocks later, he pushed open the door to a local real estate brokerage on Ramona Street.
The office was heavily carpeted. A young agent named Todd stood up from his desk, quickly assessing Arup’s faded jeans and canvas messenger bag.
"Can I help you find a rental?" Todd asked, reaching for a stack of printed listings.
Arup sat down in the chair opposite the desk.
"I'm looking to buy," Arup said. "Detached homes, Midtown Palo Alto. Budget is up to four hundred thousand."
Todd slowly lowered the papers. He sat back down and pulled a fresh legal pad to the center of his desk. "Okay. That budget puts you in a very solid category for Midtown. Do you have any specific requirements? Bedrooms? Updated kitchens?"
"I need a house with an oversized, attached two-car garage," Arup said. "I’ll know the right property when I see it."
"Alright," Todd said, writing the requirement down. "Let me pull some listings and make a few calls. Do you have a number where I can reach you?"
Arup pulled a small blank card from his wallet, wrote down his new pager number, and slid it across the desk. "Page me when you have a short list."
Arup walked out of the office. By targeting Midtown, he secured a location deep inside the local telecommunications grid. The neighborhood sat well within the wire-foot radius of the Pacific Bell Central Office on Hamilton Avenue. When he eventually ordered a commercial T1 line, the phone company would pull the copper straight to his garage without installing custom digital repeaters.
His next stop was the Palo Alto City Library. He walked directly to the reference desk and pulled the printed catalog for the Kelley Blue Book, August 1991 edition.
He ran his finger down the columns of tiny print. A brand-new 1991 Mercedes-Benz 300E sedan cost forty-nine thousand dollars. A four-year-old 1987 model sat squarely at the bottom of its depreciation curve. The underlying German engineering remained flawless while the paper value had plummeted to sixteen thousand, five hundred dollars wholesale.
He cross-referenced the numbers with a copy of the San Jose Mercury News. He scanned the Sunday classifieds until he found the target under the private seller heading.
1987 Mercedes W124 300E. Charcoal gray. Garaged. Dealer maintenance records. Los Altos.
Arup walked to the bank of payphones in the library lobby. He dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed the number for the Redwood City driving school.
"Henderson," a gravelly voice answered.
"Bill. It's Arup."
There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "If you crashed the Taurus on your way home, I'm going to drive out there and strangle you."
"You ran a motor pool," Arup said. "I need a mechanic to look at an '87 Mercedes. Sixty bucks for an hour. Cash."
Bill grunted. "Give me the address. I’ll meet you there in forty minutes."
The Los Altos estate sat at the end of a long driveway lined with mature oak trees. The owner was a retired aerospace executive named Arthur. He wore crisp khaki slacks and watched with mild amusement as Bill Henderson crawled under the front bumper of his luxury sedan.
The Mercedes W124 sat idling on the concrete. Bill treated the vehicle inspection like a military pre-flight check. He unclipped his multimeter, testing the alternator output directly at the battery terminals. He pulled the transmission dipstick, wiping the bright red fluid on a white rag. He shined his heavy Maglite deep into the engine bay to inspect the hydraulic lines.
Bill finally slammed the heavy steel hood shut. He wiped his hands on his rag and walked over to Arup, keeping his voice low.
"Clean block. No leaks. The guy treated it like a museum piece."
Arup pulled three twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to Bill. "Appreciate the read."
Bill pocketed the cash, tipped his stained baseball cap, and walked back to his driving school Taurus.
Arup turned to Arthur. The older man leaned against the frame of his open garage.
"Your mechanic is thorough," Arthur noted. "I’m asking nineteen thousand."
"The current Kelley Blue Book wholesale floor for this exact trim is sixteen thousand, five hundred," Arup said. "The vehicle is mechanically sound. I will give you seventeen thousand, two hundred dollars."
Arthur paused. "Seventeen-two," he repeated. "Are you financing through a local credit union?"
"Cash transaction," Arup replied. "I will give you five hundred dollars in cash right now as a non-refundable deposit to hold the vehicle. I will wire the remaining sixteen thousand, seven hundred directly into your account at nine o'clock on Monday."
"I prefer dealing with businessmen," Arthur said, extending his hand. "We have a deal. Come inside, I'll draft the bill of sale for the deposit."
Ten minutes later, Arup walked back out to the driveway alone. The heavy wooden garage door rolled shut behind him, cutting off the view of the Mercedes.
He slipped the folded bill of sale into his jacket pocket.
He walked down the long, oak-lined driveway to the street, found a concrete bench at the nearest transit stop on Foothill Expressway, and waited for the bus back to Palo Alto.
~~~