"Brooks." Craig Pruett leaned out of the sales manager's office, a glass box at the back of the showroom that everybody called the Fishbowl. Craig was fifty, thick-necked and sunburned, with a gold watch he looked at constantly and a voice that carried across the showroom floor like a car alarm. "Where are we on Kessling?"
"Six-thirty," Tyler said. "He confirmed this morning."
"He's coming here? Not a home delivery?"
"He wants to drive the Platinum. He said he likes to feel a car before he buys it."
"He said that?"
"His assistant said it."
Craig made a face that meant he did not think much