One of the things guys talk about when we swap stories is the great deals we wrangled on our car purchases. Extra admiration is awarded if the deal involved getting the best of a car salesman.

My dad was an easy-going, low-key Boeing engineer. But when shopping for a car, he was a changed man.

My brother Stephen enlisted Dad's expertise when looking for his first car. When they got to the lot, Stephen spotted a good candidate and headed for it.

"No, no," Dad whispered to him. "Don't go to the car you want first. Just wander around for a while, look at other cars until you end up where you want to be. Don't let the salesman know you're interested."

One incident really cemented Dad's reputation in my young eyes.

A car salesman rang our doorbell while we were eating dinner. Earlier, at the dealership the guy told Dad he couldn't accept his offered price and Dad walked out. The salesman's boss made him drive up to our house to apologize and beg Dad to accept the refused offer. I don't remember if Dad accepted but I'm sure he made the salesman wait until he finished dinner.

The rare times my parents bought a car, it was, at least, a six-month process. Dad would go by dealerships after work. Sundays after church, we might drop by a car lot or two. I think our parents used us kids running amok as decoys to distract the salesman.

The six months also allowed my parents to finish up saving enough to pay cash. Paying interest just adds to the car's cost, they figured.

Besides that all-cash thing, the other way car buying for me has been different from my dad is the absence of high-powered dickering.

Successful salesmen have figured out if they demanded, "What would it take for you to drive home in a new car today?" I would immediately flee the lot.

About the only war story I can come up with is from about 20 years ago. I badly craved a racy red coupe but Marge said, "Wouldn't a nice Mazda four-door be more practical? That's what you really want now, isn't it?

She spotted an ad for a weekend special at a great price from Russ Dunmire in Tacoma (OK, everybody over 50 sing along with me, "Russ DunMIRE, Russ DunMIRE")

We couldn't make it over on the weekend so I went during the week.

They didn't play fair. There was the sedan inside the showroom, resting regally on carpeting, bathed in spotlights and winking her periwinkle complexion at me.

Even I could see it was a lot more car for a lot less price than the pocket rocket I had been eyeing.

##@@, Marge, I wanted red and racy,' I muttered under my breath.

I told the salesman, I was interested in the sedan. He eagerly chauffeured me into his cubicle. I showed him the ad torn from the paper.

"Oh, no, that's the weekend price, he said.

I summoned all the false outrage I could muster and declared, "Do you mean to say I come here and offer to pay your price --not even dicker-- and you don't want to sell a car?

He made a great show of leaving to talk to his sales manager.

He came back and pleaded, "Can't you just give me $100 more?"

He hadn't realized he was dealing with Ted Mathison's son.

"No," I declared and whipped out a Honda brochure and started studying it intently.

He said something about having to pull the owner away from a vehicle auction to approve this highway robbery. (The boss was probably in the next room and would have sold the car for less than the advertised special.)

Anyway, we signed for the weekend price. Some 200,000 miles later, I got my red coupe, even though Marge keeps taunting me that I am the slowest driver in a red car she has ever seen.

"The Cherry Bomb" had racked up 12 years and 223,000 miles on it, so a couple of weekends ago Marge suggested we do some test driving at the dealership at the bottom of the hill.

Great, I thought, this is July, if we start visiting car lots now, I might end up with a nice Valentine's Day gift for myself.

You probably guessed what happened. The salesman did what it took to get me into a car today. It's got LEATHER seats that are HEATED! It's not red but it is shiny blue and it looks sporty to me.

One thing hasn't changed from my dad's day. You still have to go through at least two people to buy a car.

First is the salesman. He convinces you how well made and reliable the car is.

"Why I saw this same model in our service department getting an oil change the other day. It had 455,000 miles on it and looked brand new."

After he's got you to buy the car, he hands you off to his buddy in finance.

The finance guy's job is to convince you that his company's car is a piece of crap.

"It's all miniature computers, nowadays. Any one of them could go out just like that," he confides as he snaps his fingers. You need an extended warranty for just couple of bucks (actually $11 a month for four years) more a month."

"Well, sir, I have had several of these models over the years and they have all been very well made. I think it's better than you think," I said meekly.

"OK, if you want to foolishly gamble you can leave yourself unprotected. But, you know this model is notorious for getting stolen. You'll want the theft protection program."

Although, I didn't get the extra program, I had to admit he had a point there. A few months ago, the sports editor's car--the same make as mine-- was stolen in broad daylight with my car sitting just a few yards away.

I remember jealously mumbling, "Why did they steal his car instead of mine? My car's newer and better looking."