Fancy cars don’t impress me. Neither do fancy lawyer offices, oriental rugs everywhere, and oil paintings of the founding partners (Mr. Fleecum, Mr. Cheatam and Mr. Steel).
When I was younger, I did some real estate deals with Mr. Jones. Clarke Jones was in his seventies and rich as all get out. A homespun, modest and courtly gentleman with a raspy Bear Bryant voice, he wore a houndstooth hat and drove a twenty-year-old, beat-up Country Squire station wagon.
My secretary loved him.
“While you were out, Mr. Jones came by to see you,” she would say, practically melting. “He’s so charming.”
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