The Find
Content
12/26/04
Paul H. Revis (Fiction)
The Find
As an aficionado of antique automobiles, I have made it part of my vacations to explore out of the way places in search of the elusive “Find” that one hears about. Those legendary brass era Buicks, Peerless, Packards, or perhaps the ultimate in American motordom, the Duesenberg. Any old rundown garage, or better, a wrecking yard that hasn’t seen a human face rummaging around in it for half a century or more, instantly redirects my interest from the “Worlds Biggest Ball of String”, or some dank cave. Not even a trip to see my aging parents is immune. If I see a chrome grill peeking out from the slats of an abandoned barn, or catch the sight of a rusted fender behind the house, why, I just feel the need to tempt the laws of inertia in my haste to stop. So far, the best I could come up with were a couple of Edsels, four door Ranger models, or a Studebaker from the fifties Mild interest at best, although the Stude did have potential as a street racer with a couple of months of hard work and several thousand dollars in parts, so onto the trailer it went. The sale of the Studebaker to the local rod shop the previous year netted me enough to range further afield on my next trip, so that this year I found myself deep in the wilds of Montana, seemingly as far from civilized man as one could get and still be in the continental United States. Just as I was about to turn around and make for a more populated area, I crested a small hill and a quarter mile away sat a ramshackle cabin of hand hewn logs with a large, frame, one car garage in back. Strange, I think, staring at the scene through my binoculars. The garage looked sturdier than the house, the roof newer and more substantial, but I don’t see a door. Must be in back for some reason. Poor planning maybe. Then again, maybe it’s only a well built shed for farming implements. Of course, that must be it. Sometimes my desire to find that illusive jewel clouds my logic. There’s not even tire tracks leading to the cabin, only a single path, grown up with waisthigh weeds. The broken down fence that seems to encircle the property looks as though it hasn’t corralled a cow in seventy-five years. Oddly, despite the deserted look of the place, there is a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney. I stopped the car at the point where the path from the house met the roadway. Hoof prints could be seen only faintly in the path way, and judging from the rest of the ground which didn’t appear to have seen rain for several months, there didn’t look to have been any traffic on that path for a good long time. I have to admit to being the curious sort, sometimes to my detriment, like the proverbial cat, so throwing caution to the cool Montana breeze, I began to walk toward the cabin. Just in case there were something in that shed/garage I might want to bargain for. I remember thinking that maybe the person living in the house lived this far from civilization for a reason and preferred to remain as far from it as possible. He might take a violently dim view of anyone disturbing his solitude. 1
Fifty yards from the house I flung my arms out to the sides, and began calling. “Hallo, the house!” I called, loudly. “Is there anyone at home? Just want to ask a question!” Not quite sure that I shouldn’t add; Not a government person! I figure sneaking up on the cabin and banging on the door could get me a load of “00” Buckshot through the better part of my skinny torso if the owner became frightened. I guess I shouldn’t have worried quite so much since the response to my Hallo was the appearance of the most grizzled, weather-beaten, face I had ever seen, followed by a broad smile. He was dressed oddly though, it seemed. Reminded me of the styles they wore in the 1920’s. No spats, or anything like that, he wasn’t dressed like he was going out to a club or a night on the town. Maybe it was just my imagination. “Come in, come in, come in, do ye like cactus juice? Alls I kin offer ye be some dried rabbit. Do ye like dried rabbit, not ever’ body do? Name’s Sam Capaccio, it is. Aint had no visitors in quite some time ye see. But I guess a smart feller like yerself could see that plain enough.” he rambled out, the words in a continuous stream as though he hadn’t talked to a living soul in several years and was anxious to try out his newly rediscovered voice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance Mister Capaccio,” I replied, squeaking a word in edgewise, “I appreciate the kind offers, but frankly the reason I stopped was to inquire about your shed, or to be more specific, the contents of your shed.” I then began to explain the details of my quest, stopping when the old man’s expression changed.. The old man suddenly became silent, the smile disappearing from his weatherbeaten face as he considered my request. “Not sure Al would like that. Nope, Al wouldn’t like that one durn bit, somebody messin’ with his car. Nope. Nope. Nope,” he mumbled in a barely audible voice that I’m sure I wasn’t meant to hear. His head shook as he spoke. “Ah! So there’s a car in the garage? I’d love to see it if that wouldn’t be an imposition. You see, I love old cars. When I find a nice one I buy it, then I restore it.” The old man hadn’t given me any indication that the car in the garage was anything but a ten year old beater, but the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I got that weird feeling that we all seem to get once in a while that something really spectacular was about to happen. No explanation for it, but that’s what makes it interesting. “Do you think Al would mind if I just looked at the car? I promise not to mess with it in any way, I’d just like to see it. Of course, that’s if Al wouldn’t mind. Maybe you could give him a call to see if it would be okay.” I suggested. “Car’s old. Nobody wants a car that old. Got no phone,” he returned, “Al’s got no phone where he is either. Wouldn’t like it if it got sold, that’s for sure.” His head still bowed, shaking “no”. “Shouldn’t have said anything, should have just kept quiet. Al always said I couldn’t keep my mouth shut for nothin’,” he mumbled. “Does Al live nearby? Maybe we could go and ask him about it, if it’s important to him.” “He, he, he,” the old guy chortled, “Big Al’s in Chicago. Been dead since 1947. No phone where he is, like I said.” 2
Capone! The name rushed into my head like a baseball bat blow to the skull. The only “Big Al” ever in Chicago. Capone’s car, here, in the middle of nowhere with this old guy looking after it like the Capo was still alive. “Did you work for Big Al?” I asked carefully, not wanting to spook this guy anymore than I already had. After all, this could be the find of a lifetime. “Just a kid back then, I was. Ran errands fer him and the gang. Always gave me more than the errand was worth. Ten or twenty bucks sometimes, just to run out in the snow and get him a nickel newspaper! Yah, I worked for Mister Capone alright. He trusted me, he did. He always said he could count on me. Said I had honor. I might have become part of the organization if he hadn’t gone to “The Rock” on tax evasion charges. I didn’t want to be around after that. Funny thing though, even in Alcatraz he remembered me. He sent word to me through one of his gang that I should pick up this car for him and take care of it until they come for it. Of course that was almost sixty years ago and they haven’t come for it yet. They might though. Mr. Capone trusted me to take care of that car and that’s just what I’ll do. He paid me to care for it.” “Surely, Mr. Capaccio, Mr. Capone’s operation and his organization are all gone. I mean they weren’t young men in the thirties. Certainly they’re all dead by now.” I felt my hopes fading quickly. Either through fear or some sense of loyalty to the long dead gangsters, this old man would continue to protect whatever was in the shed, come what may. “Do you think Mr. Capone would mind if I were to just see the car?” I asked again, my curiosity at its peak by now. “Like I said, mister, Al Capone don’t give two craps about anything anymore. He’s dead. I get the feeling you think I’m a bit daft. I’m not. Well, maybe a little, I guess, living way out in the middle of nowhere, caring fer some old car for nigh on to sixty years. You see, like I said, Capone paid me to care for this machine. Paid me well to care for it. Since he went to prison, I haven’t done a day’s work. Nope, not a day, unless you count building that shed out there. I got a bank account that never goes dry, all fed by Capone’s organization. Don’t know how that works, but I go to town every now and again, spend money for supplies, and get a statement from the bank at the end of the month showing that what money I spent has been replaced. Somebody is replacing that money somewhere. Let’s go look at the car, if you’re determined to see the thing..” “I’d love to!” I said enthusiastically. The old man took a key from inside a drawer and with an impish smile, headed for the door, me hard on his heels. The sun blazed overhead, casting a shadow on the side of the block building. I noticed that from a distance away, the garage looked like a sided, frame structure, when in fact it was built of concrete block. Fresh paint, expertly applied, made the place look like frame-work. It was a good job of camouflage, and I told him so. “He, He! For the most part, it keeps folk like yourself on the highway. Every so often though someone will come here. Not often though. Ain’t ever shown the car to nobody though. Not till now anyways.” “Mr. Capaccio, if this isn’t what you want to do, I fully understand. I wouldn’t want you to betray a trust, if you think that’s what you would be doing by showing the car.” 3
“I trust you. You’re from Chicago, ‘less I miss my guess” he said simply as he turned the key in the lock. “Besides, you can’t get to the car anyway, even if you wanted to.” The door swung open noiselessly on the well oiled hinges and we stepped inside the cool, building. Old harness’ hung from the walls, a broken down wagon of some undetermined age sat in the center of the thick wooden floor, one axle propped up with a couple of railroad ties, the wheel lay against the tongue, missing spokes. Shovels, picks, and other farm implements hung from the walls with the harness’. “It certainly is an old car.” I joked, suddenly sorry I had wasted his time and mine to look at a mode of transportation that I had absolutely no interest in. The old man didn’t bother to reply, but went to the far corner of the building and carefully removed one of the floor planks. Then another, repeating the process until six planks had been removed. Beneath the planking I could see what looked like a portion of a steel door with another large lock securing it. “What you want is down here. That thing is fer the rubes who are too stupid to understand honor.” He twisted another key in the big Yale lock, twisted a handle and lifted the spring-loaded door. Lights immediately came on, revealing a staircase leading to the underground vault. “I think you’ll like this,” he said, starting down the stairs, chuckling to himself as he went. I was sure I heard him whisper, “Sorry Al.” The room was big. Bigger than the shed by several yards, the floor built with old paving brick like an old city street, neatly laid, tight. The walls were painted to look like downtown Chicago in the early thirties, a good likeness of Big Al, complete with the requisite Thompson Machinegun peered from the wall in front of the car. Words failed me. Looking for all the world as though it had just come from the assembly line in Indianapolis, sat a perfect 1932 Model SJ Duesenberg Towncar with a Rollston body. It sat on eight screw jacks that held the chassis off of the pavement by two inches. The huge Fisk tires looked new, shiny. Peering at the odometer, I saw that it had seven hundred and fifty six miles registered. I turned to look at the old man, unable to speak a word. “Yup,” he said with a proud grin, “Original miles. I run her every week or so, put her through the gears, keep the engine from freezing up. Change the battery and oil every so often too, but the original battery is in that case over there in the corner. Had to dump the acid though, to preserve the battery. I take good care of her, just like Mr. Capone asked me to.” “Mr. Capaccio, do you have any idea at all how much this car would be worth on the open market? Do you have any idea what it is you have here?” “For Capone’s Duesy? Upwards of six million I figure, what with all the original parts and only seven hundred miles. Might even hit seven. More yet if you figure in the fenders.” “What’s so special about the fenders?” “They’re gold.” He waited for some response from me. Waited quite a while until I finally blurted out; “That’s been done by smugglers, I read about that once, long ago.” “He might not have been the first to do it, but do it he did. The front fenders are solid gold. Car weighs over six thousand pounds because of it. I found out by accident a 4
few years ago when I scratched the inside of the left fender. In fact, Duesenberg was ordered to install extra heavy duty springs in the front of the car, according to the build sheet. Yup, got that too, along with the protest of Fred Duesenberg himself. Al knew what he was going to do to the car, but he wasn’t about to tell Fred Duesenberg.” “So, those fenders in the corner are the correct Rollston fenders?” He merely nodded his assent “Amazing,” I said, quietly. “Totally amazing.” “So, you see my problem then? If I stop caring for the car, my bank account goes away. I can’t sell the car because someone knows I have it. If they didn’t know, the account wouldn’t get replenished would it?” “Have you ever investigated the bank account?” “No. I didn’t dare, I figured.” “I think you’ll find it’s been an automatic thing, set up years ago by someone who knew what was going to happen, or at least had a good idea what the future would hold for Mr. Capone and convinced him to set this up for you. He must have known what he was doing. It must not have gone exactly right for those involved, but it seems to have gone right for you. I’d bet someone was scheduled to pick the car up, replace the fenders somewhere to finance Capone’s defense, or some such thing. It just didn’t happen, for whatever reason. Maybe the guy died or got into trouble with the law, who knows?” “So you think I could sell the car and get away with it then?” ”Without a doubt. I just wish I could afford to buy it from you. What it’s worth is way beyond me.” “There may be a way for that to happen,” he said softly. “Feel like moving to Montana?” “I hadn’t really considered it, why?” “I just turned 89 years old this May. I’m getting too old to even care for it anymore. Decided to give the car to the first person who asked to see it who looked trustworthy. You’re a Chicago boy. Maybe you could just take the car back to Chicago. It’s right for the car to go back home, let me die in peace. I figure the bank account is full enough to keep me alive for another year or two at most. Should be enough.” “I can’t let you do that, Sir. You have taken care of this car for most of your life, devoted yourself to it. You can’t just give it away, and sit around here waiting to die. You should live out the rest of your days living in the lap of luxury at the very least.” “My car. I can do whatever I want with it, right? So, the car’s yours. Want to pay for it? Give me what you got in your pocket, take the Duesy.” “You keep the fenders, we replace the original set. I’d still feel bad about taking the car. No, I just can’t do it. It’s not fair to you. You’re devoted to it.” “Devoted to it? Is that what you think? I live in fear of it! For the last twenty years I’ve wanted out of my commitment to it. I’ve lived my life fearing that someone from the gang would come for it, or someone else would discover this thing and kill me for it. Devoted? No. Take it, fenders and all, take it and let me live out my life in peace.” He sounded like he was pleading with me and it made me uncomfortable. Who pleads for someone to take six million dollars off their hands? No one that I ever heard of.. My mind was a jumble of questions and moral dilemmas. 5
“If what you say is true, I think maybe the bank account will replenish itself whether I sell the car or not. What do you think?” “It very well may. What do you have to show the bank in order to cash checks?” “Nothing.” “Live in peace then.” “That’s what I figure. Happy and alone. It’s good. Take the car,” he urged. “I still don’t feel right.” I watched him smile broadly. He looked like a very heavy load was being lifted from his shoulders as I reached for my wallet. “I have a thousand seven hundred dollars in here. You’re sure you want to do this?” “Like I said, I’m almost 89. I ain’t been feeling all that good lately, so yep, we do this.” He began to sound almost giddy as he spoke, the great weight of fear beginning to fade from his smiling, weathered face. He went to a glass case behind the machine, opened it and withdrew the original title signed by “Alphonso Capone”, the only registered owner of the car. Mr. Capaccio signed the title “Samuel Capaccio, for Alphonso Capone, deceased.” over to me. I reached for my wallet and extracted all of the money inside, handing it over to the old man. He didn’t even bother to count the wad of bills, merely shoving the roll into his pocket with a nod and a smile. “You understand honor, I trust you,” he said. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ENDING 1 Something wasn’t right, but what that something was I couldn’t put my finger on. I still felt I was cheating the old man, but he seemed happy with the deal the way it stood. Maybe that was it. Just a little guilt. But I have every intention of seeing that the old man is taken care of, no matter what. Even if I were to keep the car and charge three bucks to see it, I figure I could send him half and still retire on the rest. The car is a virtual goldmine even if I never sell it. Still that feeling of something not right persists. Just can’t shake it. Then it dawns on me. It occurred to me that there must be some ingenious way to get the car out of this concrete hole, although I couldn’t exactly see how. There was no obvious ramp, or door leading to a ramp, but the old man got the car in here, there must be a way to get it back out again. At least you would think so anyway. “Ahhh, Sir?” I asked, “If I may ask, how does one get this machine out of this hole?” Mr. Capaccio was headed up the stairs, his hands jammed deep in his pockets as he struggled to hurry. He didn’t answer until he was up on the ground floor. He stuck his head down through the doorway. “Wondered that myself!” he said with a laugh, “Been working on that problem for twenty-five years!” I heard the door slam, and the latch turn. The lights went out at the same time. Here’s some surprising news; I was trapped! It took only an instant to figure out that I was in serious trouble here, or at least could be if old Sam decided not to come back, and frankly I really didn’t expect him to. I decided the old man will wait a week or two until I starve to death, drag my lifeless body out of the hole, bury it somewhere in the prairie and go on with his life, spending the money I paid him. What I couldn’t decide on was why he was doing this to me. I didn’t
6 think I had insulted him, although, who knows with some people. It’s not like I had tried to cheat him out of the car. He tried to just give it to me, for crying out loud. Was it the honor he kept going on about? Had I betrayed his honor, or that of Big Al in some way that I didn’t understand? “Sam!” I yelled, knowing he couldn’t hear me. “Why are you doing this? What have I done?” The panic was beginning to well up inside of me. I’m not a young man, but frankly I don’t feel like dieing quite yet, especially not by suffocation or starvation. It was about that time that the floor began to move under me. I could feel the distinct movement like an old elevator, jerky and very slow, but moving. Suddenly the room was flooded with light as the wall in front of the car began to fall away. It seemed like an hour before the room stopped at ground level. Sam appeared at the opening, a huge grin on his grizzled face. “Took me twenty five years o’ work to make that elevator work right. Wasn’t even sure it would. Now wouldn’t that have been a hoot? Put that great big monster into the ground and not be able to get her out again? You look a little peaked boy, ‘fraid I wasn’t going to let you out of there?” “Frankly Sam, the thought crossed my mind when you locked the inside door and the lights went out.” “Guess I should have told you there was a way out, eh?” he said, dismissing my fears. “Tough to find without knowing how to turn on the lights though. Sorry to put the fear in you. Didn’t mean to do that. Lets get her off the jacks and fire her up, get her on that trailer of yours. I think she’s itchin’ to get back to Chicago.” “Sam, there’s still time to back out of this deal. I won’t blame you if you do.” “You just don’t give up do you boy?” said the old man, shaking his head in frustration. He patted my cheek with a leathery hand. “Take the car. Take it and be good to it like I know you will. Al would have understood. I done like he asked for more years than he lived, and now it’s time to let someone else care for her.” Sam hooked up the battery, checked the oil and water and just sat behind the huge steering wheel while I ran to get the truck and trailer. When I got back to the shed I noticed the smile on the old man’s face and also the tear in his eye. “Come back to Chicago with me Sam?” “No. I got money to spend, and other places to see,” he said, turning the key and stepping on the starter. The starter whirred, spinning the crank, and twin overhead cams, setting the thirty-two valves in motion. The supercharger whined, sucking in the crisp Montana air, forcing the clear exhaust through the porcelain lined pipes. The unmistakable roar of the mighty Duesenberg engine broke the silence of the Montana plain. “It’s beautiful Sam, just beautiful,” I gushed. “Yup,” was his only reply as he put the machine into gear and drove it up the ramps and onto the trailer. We loaded the carefully packed fenders, battery, and the rest of the parts into the truck, and I climbed into the cab and handed Sam my business card. “If you ever get back to Chicago…”
“”Get off my land!” he said with a huge grin. Sam patted the ancient Fisk tire, and I noticed him wiping away a tear. We shook hands and I drove away keeping an eye on his ever smaller form until I hit the pavement. 7 This morning I got a package in the mail. It was a copy of Sam’s will, leaving his entire estate to me, because as he put it in the will, “I got nobody else, and you understand honor.”, a newspaper clipping of his death, from a small town in Washington State, and a check for one thousand seven hundred dollars. The car is in a glass case in a museum that takes good care of it along with the things from Sam’s place, plus pictures and a long description of how the old man took care of the car for all of those years. Sam has become somewhat immortal that way, unlike the way he lived his life. He has a place of honor and that’s something he would have understood. You wonder about the bank account, don’t you? Well, so did I, so I did some investigating. It seems that Al himself set up that account, dumped a half a million dollars into it to keep his friend Sam set up for life and to keep him quiet. Sam knew a lot more than he should have about Al’s operations but the gangster liked the kid too much to have him killed. Al’s trust wasn’t misplaced. Sam really did understand honor.
8
ALTERNATE ENDING
With the wad of bills stuffed into his pocket he shuffled back to the staircase beckoning me to follow. “Getting her out of the hole is the same as getting her in,” he said, answering a question I had been afraid to ask. “I’ll need your help moving the wagon though.” An attached lean-to on the side of the garage housed a generator, it’s wiring attached to a rather large electric motor attached to a clutch assembly, which spun a reduction gear, which ran a pump…well, you get the idea. No? Then visit an auto repair shop sometime and marvel at how a five thousand pound vehicle is raised in the air so the mechanic can work on the underside of the machine. “Don’t tell me you built this yourself!” I said. “They thought I was insane when I placed the order for this machinery, but I knew the right people to talk to,” he said, touching his nose to indicate the people he talked to. “All made men, a couple from Detroit, three from Chicago, and two more from Vegas. Less questions that way. They put it together in the fifties. Let’s see if they did their jobs right.” “You mean you haven’t tried this thing since the nineteen fifties? Does the generator even start?” Sam looked at me like I was the worst sort of fool as he inserted the key into the ignition switch and twisted it. The engine roared to life in less than two turns of the starter motor, settling to a gentle idle while Sam let the fluids do their lubricating and cooling jobs. “Used to have to do this by hand pump until I figured I was too old to pump the durn thing. Had to call the boys back to put in the motor.” “So, you and I aren’t the only living souls that know what is in that hole then?” “Sure we are. The family knows that I’m the last of Capone’s crew and will do most anything I ask for, within reason, ‘cause they think I’m just an old crazy fossil. Kind of a curiosity from the old days, and harmless to ‘em. They never asked what I wanted it for, and I never bothered to tell ‘em. They have their honor too you see. Some of ‘em still respect the old ways.” Satisfied that the generator was sufficiently warmed up and running correctly, Sam engaged the clutch, and I shook my head in disbelief as the engine revved, the motor spun, and the floor of the garage began to raise to ground level, brick street and all. Four hydraulic rams working in tandem forced the beautiful Duesenberg into the light of day for the first time in almost a half century. The safety catches locked into place, and we
lowered the great machine gently to it’s tires after assuring ourselves they would hold the air we pumped into them. “I doubt that those inner tubes will hold out very long,” said Sam. “Better get ‘em changed soon if yer going to move her far.” 9 “I’ll be sure to do that as soon as I get back to Chicago,” I promised as I backed the trailer to the front of the big machine and lowered the ramps. “You know her better than I do Sam, you should load her onto the trailer, that is, if you’d like to.” He smiled broadly and slid behind the huge steering wheel, running his hands reverently over the gauges and switches before turning the key and stepping on the starter button. The crankshaft spun, the overhead cams activated the thirty two valves, and the supercharger forced air into the straight eight marvel of engineering. The mighty Duesenberg came alive with the unmistakable sound of raw power. The legendary power that would propel a five thousand pound car to almost ninety miles per hour in the second of it’s three gears, without a shudder or hesitation. Sam revved the engine a couple of times, a huge grin spreading across his face, and then eased the car up the ramps. He looked elegant behind the wheel and I told him so. “Anybody would,” he replied after shutting the engine off. “This is the kind of car that makes even the ugliest of men look like a movie star. Even me.” I could hardly argue with that logic. We loaded the spare parts onto the trailer, padding the original fenders with blankets and my clothes. I figured the fenders were worth more than even a Seville Row suit each, so it was a no-brainer. I had no choice, at least in my own mind, I had to give Sam one last chance to back out of this deal. “Sam, there’s still time to back out of this deal. I’d have no problem…” I began. “Get the hell off my land before I call the sheriff on you and have you arrested,” he said. “You’re just not getting the picture, are you?” “I just want…” “Don’t give a crap what you want, I’m going for the ‘phone,” he said and turned toward the house while I looked and wondered. He suddenly stopped and turned again to face me. “Take good care of her. She’s a proud woman, and deserves the best.” Turning again toward the house, he shuffled up the steps and went in without looking back. It was the last I ever saw of Sam. The trip back to Chicago was uneventful, only a couple of curious questions from folk wanting to know what was under the tightly wrapped car cover, and I found myself lying through my teeth as an answer to their inquiries. It got worse once I got home and tried to find a museum willing to take care of the Duesy. A couple of them said they would send representatives bye to look at it and discuss the matter, but they never did. After a month I was about to give up and put the car on the market when I was startled one morning by the presence of two rather large gentlemen at my front door. “We’ve come to give your money back,” the larger one said, “we want the car. Where is it?” “And you are?” “The ones who will make very sure you don’t see another day if we don’t get the car back. Now.”
“What do you even know about the car?” I asked, stalling for time while I tried to think of some logical way out of this mess. These guys had no sense of humor at all. “Poor old Sam asked the same question, just before he passed on,” said the 10 smaller of the two, a mean sneer crawling across his face. “So you killed him? Why didn’t you just buy him out earlier if you knew about the car?” I instantly felt sorry for the old man, imagining what these two had put him through before murdering him. “It doesn’t matter does it? Just sign over the title, and give up the keys. Now.” “How about if I talk to your boss about this, I’m sure…” The punch to my chin was short, very fast, and very painful. Surprising too. The two men pushed me back into my house and closed the door behind them, and I suddenly had a gun in my face. This was not going to be a pleasant visit. “What’s going to happen is this;” began the larger guy as he pulled a pair of tin snips from his pocket, “you are going to start loosing various parts of your body every five minutes until we find out where the car is. This could take as long as two hours, or if you are as smart as you should be, as little as four minutes.” “I assume you just want the front fenders,” I said, hoping for the best. Also hoping they had no idea what the car was. “The rest is just an old car, it’s the fenders that are the important part, am I right?” “He’s bargaining, isn’t that nice?” the one holding the gun said to his partner. “That’s right. You have two minutes.” “The fenders are yours,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t give away too much of the relief I felt. I had already replaced the original fenders, so they wouldn’t ever see the car if I could manage it. “The fenders are in a storage locker. I have the key right here.” The big guy put the tin snips back in his pocket, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Then I suggest we go to see them. You drive. If you’re as smart as we think, you’ll figure out what will happen if you decide to try anything stupid. Don’t. It gets messy, and we enjoy it too much.” I had already decided to be as friendly as possible. Not into pain that much, you see. The short ride to the local public storage lockers was made in total silence. Once there, I keyed in my access code to the gate and waved happily to the young attendant who couldn’t have cared less. We drove to the correct locker and I inserted the key into the lock, sprung the hasp, and opened the door. Laying in the corner were the fenders, still in shiny black paint. “All yours, gentlemen,” hoping my voice sounded disappointed enough to avoid the “messy” bit. “No kidding,” said the smaller guy, smiling. “Let’s take a look.” He took a knife out of his pocket and turned the nearest fender over, scratching several inches of paint, exposing the gold underneath. Then he did the same with the other, before attempting to lift it off of the floor. “Sombitch is heavy!” he exclaimed, as his partner coughed a chuckle. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and made a quick call, giving directions to the locker. Several minutes later a van appeared at the gate. Again I waved to the attendant to let the van in. “So, we’re good then?” I ventured to the big guy.
“Not quite,” he replied. Just as the sense of panic began to well up in my brain, the lights went out. I was out cold for at least two hours, waking up on the hard floor of the storage locker, head 11 pounding from the blow to my cranium. At least I was still alive. That was something anyway. Light shone in from the space under the roll-up door, and I crawled toward it, hoping they hadn’t locked me inside. Mercifully, they hadn’t, and I opened it slowly, reeling from the sudden blast of sunlight. Turning away, I saw my car keys on the floor and under them a pair of hundred dollar bills with a note that said; “Pay the locker bill.” It’s been a year, and I haven’t heard anything more from the Mob. I guess they got what they wanted, and since I didn’t go to the authorities they let me slide. The car is safely hidden away, and somewhat like Sam before me, I’m afraid to show it, despite it’s historic significance, for fear they will discover the car was worth far more than the fenders ever were. I can’t fight them, and while it’s unjust, I like life too much. So, like old Sam, I care for the Duesenberg like a mother hen her chicks. Honor be damned. END
To all: When I started this story it seemed like a fun idea to pursue, however, it turned out to be less than I had hoped. Is it worth re-writing, or should I just relegate it to the dustbin of good ideas that went south? P.H.R.
Paul H. Revis (Fiction)
The Find
As an aficionado of antique automobiles, I have made it part of my vacations to explore out of the way places in search of the elusive “Find” that one hears about. Those legendary brass era Buicks, Peerless, Packards, or perhaps the ultimate in American motordom, the Duesenberg. Any old rundown garage, or better, a wrecking yard that hasn’t seen a human face rummaging around in it for half a century or more, instantly redirects my interest from the “Worlds Biggest Ball of String”, or some dank cave. Not even a trip to see my aging parents is immune. If I see a chrome grill peeking out from the slats of an abandoned barn, or catch the sight of a rusted fender behind the house, why, I just feel the need to tempt the laws of inertia in my haste to stop. So far, the best I could come up with were a couple of Edsels, four door Ranger models, or a Studebaker from the fifties Mild interest at best, although the Stude did have potential as a street racer with a couple of months of hard work and several thousand dollars in parts, so onto the trailer it went. The sale of the Studebaker to the local rod shop the previous year netted me enough to range further afield on my next trip, so that this year I found myself deep in the wilds of Montana, seemingly as far from civilized man as one could get and still be in the continental United States. Just as I was about to turn around and make for a more populated area, I crested a small hill and a quarter mile away sat a ramshackle cabin of hand hewn logs with a large, frame, one car garage in back. Strange, I think, staring at the scene through my binoculars. The garage looked sturdier than the house, the roof newer and more substantial, but I don’t see a door. Must be in back for some reason. Poor planning maybe. Then again, maybe it’s only a well built shed for farming implements. Of course, that must be it. Sometimes my desire to find that illusive jewel clouds my logic. There’s not even tire tracks leading to the cabin, only a single path, grown up with waisthigh weeds. The broken down fence that seems to encircle the property looks as though it hasn’t corralled a cow in seventy-five years. Oddly, despite the deserted look of the place, there is a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney. I stopped the car at the point where the path from the house met the roadway. Hoof prints could be seen only faintly in the path way, and judging from the rest of the ground which didn’t appear to have seen rain for several months, there didn’t look to have been any traffic on that path for a good long time. I have to admit to being the curious sort, sometimes to my detriment, like the proverbial cat, so throwing caution to the cool Montana breeze, I began to walk toward the cabin. Just in case there were something in that shed/garage I might want to bargain for. I remember thinking that maybe the person living in the house lived this far from civilization for a reason and preferred to remain as far from it as possible. He might take a violently dim view of anyone disturbing his solitude. 1
Fifty yards from the house I flung my arms out to the sides, and began calling. “Hallo, the house!” I called, loudly. “Is there anyone at home? Just want to ask a question!” Not quite sure that I shouldn’t add; Not a government person! I figure sneaking up on the cabin and banging on the door could get me a load of “00” Buckshot through the better part of my skinny torso if the owner became frightened. I guess I shouldn’t have worried quite so much since the response to my Hallo was the appearance of the most grizzled, weather-beaten, face I had ever seen, followed by a broad smile. He was dressed oddly though, it seemed. Reminded me of the styles they wore in the 1920’s. No spats, or anything like that, he wasn’t dressed like he was going out to a club or a night on the town. Maybe it was just my imagination. “Come in, come in, come in, do ye like cactus juice? Alls I kin offer ye be some dried rabbit. Do ye like dried rabbit, not ever’ body do? Name’s Sam Capaccio, it is. Aint had no visitors in quite some time ye see. But I guess a smart feller like yerself could see that plain enough.” he rambled out, the words in a continuous stream as though he hadn’t talked to a living soul in several years and was anxious to try out his newly rediscovered voice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance Mister Capaccio,” I replied, squeaking a word in edgewise, “I appreciate the kind offers, but frankly the reason I stopped was to inquire about your shed, or to be more specific, the contents of your shed.” I then began to explain the details of my quest, stopping when the old man’s expression changed.. The old man suddenly became silent, the smile disappearing from his weatherbeaten face as he considered my request. “Not sure Al would like that. Nope, Al wouldn’t like that one durn bit, somebody messin’ with his car. Nope. Nope. Nope,” he mumbled in a barely audible voice that I’m sure I wasn’t meant to hear. His head shook as he spoke. “Ah! So there’s a car in the garage? I’d love to see it if that wouldn’t be an imposition. You see, I love old cars. When I find a nice one I buy it, then I restore it.” The old man hadn’t given me any indication that the car in the garage was anything but a ten year old beater, but the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I got that weird feeling that we all seem to get once in a while that something really spectacular was about to happen. No explanation for it, but that’s what makes it interesting. “Do you think Al would mind if I just looked at the car? I promise not to mess with it in any way, I’d just like to see it. Of course, that’s if Al wouldn’t mind. Maybe you could give him a call to see if it would be okay.” I suggested. “Car’s old. Nobody wants a car that old. Got no phone,” he returned, “Al’s got no phone where he is either. Wouldn’t like it if it got sold, that’s for sure.” His head still bowed, shaking “no”. “Shouldn’t have said anything, should have just kept quiet. Al always said I couldn’t keep my mouth shut for nothin’,” he mumbled. “Does Al live nearby? Maybe we could go and ask him about it, if it’s important to him.” “He, he, he,” the old guy chortled, “Big Al’s in Chicago. Been dead since 1947. No phone where he is, like I said.” 2
Capone! The name rushed into my head like a baseball bat blow to the skull. The only “Big Al” ever in Chicago. Capone’s car, here, in the middle of nowhere with this old guy looking after it like the Capo was still alive. “Did you work for Big Al?” I asked carefully, not wanting to spook this guy anymore than I already had. After all, this could be the find of a lifetime. “Just a kid back then, I was. Ran errands fer him and the gang. Always gave me more than the errand was worth. Ten or twenty bucks sometimes, just to run out in the snow and get him a nickel newspaper! Yah, I worked for Mister Capone alright. He trusted me, he did. He always said he could count on me. Said I had honor. I might have become part of the organization if he hadn’t gone to “The Rock” on tax evasion charges. I didn’t want to be around after that. Funny thing though, even in Alcatraz he remembered me. He sent word to me through one of his gang that I should pick up this car for him and take care of it until they come for it. Of course that was almost sixty years ago and they haven’t come for it yet. They might though. Mr. Capone trusted me to take care of that car and that’s just what I’ll do. He paid me to care for it.” “Surely, Mr. Capaccio, Mr. Capone’s operation and his organization are all gone. I mean they weren’t young men in the thirties. Certainly they’re all dead by now.” I felt my hopes fading quickly. Either through fear or some sense of loyalty to the long dead gangsters, this old man would continue to protect whatever was in the shed, come what may. “Do you think Mr. Capone would mind if I were to just see the car?” I asked again, my curiosity at its peak by now. “Like I said, mister, Al Capone don’t give two craps about anything anymore. He’s dead. I get the feeling you think I’m a bit daft. I’m not. Well, maybe a little, I guess, living way out in the middle of nowhere, caring fer some old car for nigh on to sixty years. You see, like I said, Capone paid me to care for this machine. Paid me well to care for it. Since he went to prison, I haven’t done a day’s work. Nope, not a day, unless you count building that shed out there. I got a bank account that never goes dry, all fed by Capone’s organization. Don’t know how that works, but I go to town every now and again, spend money for supplies, and get a statement from the bank at the end of the month showing that what money I spent has been replaced. Somebody is replacing that money somewhere. Let’s go look at the car, if you’re determined to see the thing..” “I’d love to!” I said enthusiastically. The old man took a key from inside a drawer and with an impish smile, headed for the door, me hard on his heels. The sun blazed overhead, casting a shadow on the side of the block building. I noticed that from a distance away, the garage looked like a sided, frame structure, when in fact it was built of concrete block. Fresh paint, expertly applied, made the place look like frame-work. It was a good job of camouflage, and I told him so. “He, He! For the most part, it keeps folk like yourself on the highway. Every so often though someone will come here. Not often though. Ain’t ever shown the car to nobody though. Not till now anyways.” “Mr. Capaccio, if this isn’t what you want to do, I fully understand. I wouldn’t want you to betray a trust, if you think that’s what you would be doing by showing the car.” 3
“I trust you. You’re from Chicago, ‘less I miss my guess” he said simply as he turned the key in the lock. “Besides, you can’t get to the car anyway, even if you wanted to.” The door swung open noiselessly on the well oiled hinges and we stepped inside the cool, building. Old harness’ hung from the walls, a broken down wagon of some undetermined age sat in the center of the thick wooden floor, one axle propped up with a couple of railroad ties, the wheel lay against the tongue, missing spokes. Shovels, picks, and other farm implements hung from the walls with the harness’. “It certainly is an old car.” I joked, suddenly sorry I had wasted his time and mine to look at a mode of transportation that I had absolutely no interest in. The old man didn’t bother to reply, but went to the far corner of the building and carefully removed one of the floor planks. Then another, repeating the process until six planks had been removed. Beneath the planking I could see what looked like a portion of a steel door with another large lock securing it. “What you want is down here. That thing is fer the rubes who are too stupid to understand honor.” He twisted another key in the big Yale lock, twisted a handle and lifted the spring-loaded door. Lights immediately came on, revealing a staircase leading to the underground vault. “I think you’ll like this,” he said, starting down the stairs, chuckling to himself as he went. I was sure I heard him whisper, “Sorry Al.” The room was big. Bigger than the shed by several yards, the floor built with old paving brick like an old city street, neatly laid, tight. The walls were painted to look like downtown Chicago in the early thirties, a good likeness of Big Al, complete with the requisite Thompson Machinegun peered from the wall in front of the car. Words failed me. Looking for all the world as though it had just come from the assembly line in Indianapolis, sat a perfect 1932 Model SJ Duesenberg Towncar with a Rollston body. It sat on eight screw jacks that held the chassis off of the pavement by two inches. The huge Fisk tires looked new, shiny. Peering at the odometer, I saw that it had seven hundred and fifty six miles registered. I turned to look at the old man, unable to speak a word. “Yup,” he said with a proud grin, “Original miles. I run her every week or so, put her through the gears, keep the engine from freezing up. Change the battery and oil every so often too, but the original battery is in that case over there in the corner. Had to dump the acid though, to preserve the battery. I take good care of her, just like Mr. Capone asked me to.” “Mr. Capaccio, do you have any idea at all how much this car would be worth on the open market? Do you have any idea what it is you have here?” “For Capone’s Duesy? Upwards of six million I figure, what with all the original parts and only seven hundred miles. Might even hit seven. More yet if you figure in the fenders.” “What’s so special about the fenders?” “They’re gold.” He waited for some response from me. Waited quite a while until I finally blurted out; “That’s been done by smugglers, I read about that once, long ago.” “He might not have been the first to do it, but do it he did. The front fenders are solid gold. Car weighs over six thousand pounds because of it. I found out by accident a 4
few years ago when I scratched the inside of the left fender. In fact, Duesenberg was ordered to install extra heavy duty springs in the front of the car, according to the build sheet. Yup, got that too, along with the protest of Fred Duesenberg himself. Al knew what he was going to do to the car, but he wasn’t about to tell Fred Duesenberg.” “So, those fenders in the corner are the correct Rollston fenders?” He merely nodded his assent “Amazing,” I said, quietly. “Totally amazing.” “So, you see my problem then? If I stop caring for the car, my bank account goes away. I can’t sell the car because someone knows I have it. If they didn’t know, the account wouldn’t get replenished would it?” “Have you ever investigated the bank account?” “No. I didn’t dare, I figured.” “I think you’ll find it’s been an automatic thing, set up years ago by someone who knew what was going to happen, or at least had a good idea what the future would hold for Mr. Capone and convinced him to set this up for you. He must have known what he was doing. It must not have gone exactly right for those involved, but it seems to have gone right for you. I’d bet someone was scheduled to pick the car up, replace the fenders somewhere to finance Capone’s defense, or some such thing. It just didn’t happen, for whatever reason. Maybe the guy died or got into trouble with the law, who knows?” “So you think I could sell the car and get away with it then?” ”Without a doubt. I just wish I could afford to buy it from you. What it’s worth is way beyond me.” “There may be a way for that to happen,” he said softly. “Feel like moving to Montana?” “I hadn’t really considered it, why?” “I just turned 89 years old this May. I’m getting too old to even care for it anymore. Decided to give the car to the first person who asked to see it who looked trustworthy. You’re a Chicago boy. Maybe you could just take the car back to Chicago. It’s right for the car to go back home, let me die in peace. I figure the bank account is full enough to keep me alive for another year or two at most. Should be enough.” “I can’t let you do that, Sir. You have taken care of this car for most of your life, devoted yourself to it. You can’t just give it away, and sit around here waiting to die. You should live out the rest of your days living in the lap of luxury at the very least.” “My car. I can do whatever I want with it, right? So, the car’s yours. Want to pay for it? Give me what you got in your pocket, take the Duesy.” “You keep the fenders, we replace the original set. I’d still feel bad about taking the car. No, I just can’t do it. It’s not fair to you. You’re devoted to it.” “Devoted to it? Is that what you think? I live in fear of it! For the last twenty years I’ve wanted out of my commitment to it. I’ve lived my life fearing that someone from the gang would come for it, or someone else would discover this thing and kill me for it. Devoted? No. Take it, fenders and all, take it and let me live out my life in peace.” He sounded like he was pleading with me and it made me uncomfortable. Who pleads for someone to take six million dollars off their hands? No one that I ever heard of.. My mind was a jumble of questions and moral dilemmas. 5
“If what you say is true, I think maybe the bank account will replenish itself whether I sell the car or not. What do you think?” “It very well may. What do you have to show the bank in order to cash checks?” “Nothing.” “Live in peace then.” “That’s what I figure. Happy and alone. It’s good. Take the car,” he urged. “I still don’t feel right.” I watched him smile broadly. He looked like a very heavy load was being lifted from his shoulders as I reached for my wallet. “I have a thousand seven hundred dollars in here. You’re sure you want to do this?” “Like I said, I’m almost 89. I ain’t been feeling all that good lately, so yep, we do this.” He began to sound almost giddy as he spoke, the great weight of fear beginning to fade from his smiling, weathered face. He went to a glass case behind the machine, opened it and withdrew the original title signed by “Alphonso Capone”, the only registered owner of the car. Mr. Capaccio signed the title “Samuel Capaccio, for Alphonso Capone, deceased.” over to me. I reached for my wallet and extracted all of the money inside, handing it over to the old man. He didn’t even bother to count the wad of bills, merely shoving the roll into his pocket with a nod and a smile. “You understand honor, I trust you,” he said. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ENDING 1 Something wasn’t right, but what that something was I couldn’t put my finger on. I still felt I was cheating the old man, but he seemed happy with the deal the way it stood. Maybe that was it. Just a little guilt. But I have every intention of seeing that the old man is taken care of, no matter what. Even if I were to keep the car and charge three bucks to see it, I figure I could send him half and still retire on the rest. The car is a virtual goldmine even if I never sell it. Still that feeling of something not right persists. Just can’t shake it. Then it dawns on me. It occurred to me that there must be some ingenious way to get the car out of this concrete hole, although I couldn’t exactly see how. There was no obvious ramp, or door leading to a ramp, but the old man got the car in here, there must be a way to get it back out again. At least you would think so anyway. “Ahhh, Sir?” I asked, “If I may ask, how does one get this machine out of this hole?” Mr. Capaccio was headed up the stairs, his hands jammed deep in his pockets as he struggled to hurry. He didn’t answer until he was up on the ground floor. He stuck his head down through the doorway. “Wondered that myself!” he said with a laugh, “Been working on that problem for twenty-five years!” I heard the door slam, and the latch turn. The lights went out at the same time. Here’s some surprising news; I was trapped! It took only an instant to figure out that I was in serious trouble here, or at least could be if old Sam decided not to come back, and frankly I really didn’t expect him to. I decided the old man will wait a week or two until I starve to death, drag my lifeless body out of the hole, bury it somewhere in the prairie and go on with his life, spending the money I paid him. What I couldn’t decide on was why he was doing this to me. I didn’t
6 think I had insulted him, although, who knows with some people. It’s not like I had tried to cheat him out of the car. He tried to just give it to me, for crying out loud. Was it the honor he kept going on about? Had I betrayed his honor, or that of Big Al in some way that I didn’t understand? “Sam!” I yelled, knowing he couldn’t hear me. “Why are you doing this? What have I done?” The panic was beginning to well up inside of me. I’m not a young man, but frankly I don’t feel like dieing quite yet, especially not by suffocation or starvation. It was about that time that the floor began to move under me. I could feel the distinct movement like an old elevator, jerky and very slow, but moving. Suddenly the room was flooded with light as the wall in front of the car began to fall away. It seemed like an hour before the room stopped at ground level. Sam appeared at the opening, a huge grin on his grizzled face. “Took me twenty five years o’ work to make that elevator work right. Wasn’t even sure it would. Now wouldn’t that have been a hoot? Put that great big monster into the ground and not be able to get her out again? You look a little peaked boy, ‘fraid I wasn’t going to let you out of there?” “Frankly Sam, the thought crossed my mind when you locked the inside door and the lights went out.” “Guess I should have told you there was a way out, eh?” he said, dismissing my fears. “Tough to find without knowing how to turn on the lights though. Sorry to put the fear in you. Didn’t mean to do that. Lets get her off the jacks and fire her up, get her on that trailer of yours. I think she’s itchin’ to get back to Chicago.” “Sam, there’s still time to back out of this deal. I won’t blame you if you do.” “You just don’t give up do you boy?” said the old man, shaking his head in frustration. He patted my cheek with a leathery hand. “Take the car. Take it and be good to it like I know you will. Al would have understood. I done like he asked for more years than he lived, and now it’s time to let someone else care for her.” Sam hooked up the battery, checked the oil and water and just sat behind the huge steering wheel while I ran to get the truck and trailer. When I got back to the shed I noticed the smile on the old man’s face and also the tear in his eye. “Come back to Chicago with me Sam?” “No. I got money to spend, and other places to see,” he said, turning the key and stepping on the starter. The starter whirred, spinning the crank, and twin overhead cams, setting the thirty-two valves in motion. The supercharger whined, sucking in the crisp Montana air, forcing the clear exhaust through the porcelain lined pipes. The unmistakable roar of the mighty Duesenberg engine broke the silence of the Montana plain. “It’s beautiful Sam, just beautiful,” I gushed. “Yup,” was his only reply as he put the machine into gear and drove it up the ramps and onto the trailer. We loaded the carefully packed fenders, battery, and the rest of the parts into the truck, and I climbed into the cab and handed Sam my business card. “If you ever get back to Chicago…”
“”Get off my land!” he said with a huge grin. Sam patted the ancient Fisk tire, and I noticed him wiping away a tear. We shook hands and I drove away keeping an eye on his ever smaller form until I hit the pavement. 7 This morning I got a package in the mail. It was a copy of Sam’s will, leaving his entire estate to me, because as he put it in the will, “I got nobody else, and you understand honor.”, a newspaper clipping of his death, from a small town in Washington State, and a check for one thousand seven hundred dollars. The car is in a glass case in a museum that takes good care of it along with the things from Sam’s place, plus pictures and a long description of how the old man took care of the car for all of those years. Sam has become somewhat immortal that way, unlike the way he lived his life. He has a place of honor and that’s something he would have understood. You wonder about the bank account, don’t you? Well, so did I, so I did some investigating. It seems that Al himself set up that account, dumped a half a million dollars into it to keep his friend Sam set up for life and to keep him quiet. Sam knew a lot more than he should have about Al’s operations but the gangster liked the kid too much to have him killed. Al’s trust wasn’t misplaced. Sam really did understand honor.
8
ALTERNATE ENDING
With the wad of bills stuffed into his pocket he shuffled back to the staircase beckoning me to follow. “Getting her out of the hole is the same as getting her in,” he said, answering a question I had been afraid to ask. “I’ll need your help moving the wagon though.” An attached lean-to on the side of the garage housed a generator, it’s wiring attached to a rather large electric motor attached to a clutch assembly, which spun a reduction gear, which ran a pump…well, you get the idea. No? Then visit an auto repair shop sometime and marvel at how a five thousand pound vehicle is raised in the air so the mechanic can work on the underside of the machine. “Don’t tell me you built this yourself!” I said. “They thought I was insane when I placed the order for this machinery, but I knew the right people to talk to,” he said, touching his nose to indicate the people he talked to. “All made men, a couple from Detroit, three from Chicago, and two more from Vegas. Less questions that way. They put it together in the fifties. Let’s see if they did their jobs right.” “You mean you haven’t tried this thing since the nineteen fifties? Does the generator even start?” Sam looked at me like I was the worst sort of fool as he inserted the key into the ignition switch and twisted it. The engine roared to life in less than two turns of the starter motor, settling to a gentle idle while Sam let the fluids do their lubricating and cooling jobs. “Used to have to do this by hand pump until I figured I was too old to pump the durn thing. Had to call the boys back to put in the motor.” “So, you and I aren’t the only living souls that know what is in that hole then?” “Sure we are. The family knows that I’m the last of Capone’s crew and will do most anything I ask for, within reason, ‘cause they think I’m just an old crazy fossil. Kind of a curiosity from the old days, and harmless to ‘em. They never asked what I wanted it for, and I never bothered to tell ‘em. They have their honor too you see. Some of ‘em still respect the old ways.” Satisfied that the generator was sufficiently warmed up and running correctly, Sam engaged the clutch, and I shook my head in disbelief as the engine revved, the motor spun, and the floor of the garage began to raise to ground level, brick street and all. Four hydraulic rams working in tandem forced the beautiful Duesenberg into the light of day for the first time in almost a half century. The safety catches locked into place, and we
lowered the great machine gently to it’s tires after assuring ourselves they would hold the air we pumped into them. “I doubt that those inner tubes will hold out very long,” said Sam. “Better get ‘em changed soon if yer going to move her far.” 9 “I’ll be sure to do that as soon as I get back to Chicago,” I promised as I backed the trailer to the front of the big machine and lowered the ramps. “You know her better than I do Sam, you should load her onto the trailer, that is, if you’d like to.” He smiled broadly and slid behind the huge steering wheel, running his hands reverently over the gauges and switches before turning the key and stepping on the starter button. The crankshaft spun, the overhead cams activated the thirty two valves, and the supercharger forced air into the straight eight marvel of engineering. The mighty Duesenberg came alive with the unmistakable sound of raw power. The legendary power that would propel a five thousand pound car to almost ninety miles per hour in the second of it’s three gears, without a shudder or hesitation. Sam revved the engine a couple of times, a huge grin spreading across his face, and then eased the car up the ramps. He looked elegant behind the wheel and I told him so. “Anybody would,” he replied after shutting the engine off. “This is the kind of car that makes even the ugliest of men look like a movie star. Even me.” I could hardly argue with that logic. We loaded the spare parts onto the trailer, padding the original fenders with blankets and my clothes. I figured the fenders were worth more than even a Seville Row suit each, so it was a no-brainer. I had no choice, at least in my own mind, I had to give Sam one last chance to back out of this deal. “Sam, there’s still time to back out of this deal. I’d have no problem…” I began. “Get the hell off my land before I call the sheriff on you and have you arrested,” he said. “You’re just not getting the picture, are you?” “I just want…” “Don’t give a crap what you want, I’m going for the ‘phone,” he said and turned toward the house while I looked and wondered. He suddenly stopped and turned again to face me. “Take good care of her. She’s a proud woman, and deserves the best.” Turning again toward the house, he shuffled up the steps and went in without looking back. It was the last I ever saw of Sam. The trip back to Chicago was uneventful, only a couple of curious questions from folk wanting to know what was under the tightly wrapped car cover, and I found myself lying through my teeth as an answer to their inquiries. It got worse once I got home and tried to find a museum willing to take care of the Duesy. A couple of them said they would send representatives bye to look at it and discuss the matter, but they never did. After a month I was about to give up and put the car on the market when I was startled one morning by the presence of two rather large gentlemen at my front door. “We’ve come to give your money back,” the larger one said, “we want the car. Where is it?” “And you are?” “The ones who will make very sure you don’t see another day if we don’t get the car back. Now.”
“What do you even know about the car?” I asked, stalling for time while I tried to think of some logical way out of this mess. These guys had no sense of humor at all. “Poor old Sam asked the same question, just before he passed on,” said the 10 smaller of the two, a mean sneer crawling across his face. “So you killed him? Why didn’t you just buy him out earlier if you knew about the car?” I instantly felt sorry for the old man, imagining what these two had put him through before murdering him. “It doesn’t matter does it? Just sign over the title, and give up the keys. Now.” “How about if I talk to your boss about this, I’m sure…” The punch to my chin was short, very fast, and very painful. Surprising too. The two men pushed me back into my house and closed the door behind them, and I suddenly had a gun in my face. This was not going to be a pleasant visit. “What’s going to happen is this;” began the larger guy as he pulled a pair of tin snips from his pocket, “you are going to start loosing various parts of your body every five minutes until we find out where the car is. This could take as long as two hours, or if you are as smart as you should be, as little as four minutes.” “I assume you just want the front fenders,” I said, hoping for the best. Also hoping they had no idea what the car was. “The rest is just an old car, it’s the fenders that are the important part, am I right?” “He’s bargaining, isn’t that nice?” the one holding the gun said to his partner. “That’s right. You have two minutes.” “The fenders are yours,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t give away too much of the relief I felt. I had already replaced the original fenders, so they wouldn’t ever see the car if I could manage it. “The fenders are in a storage locker. I have the key right here.” The big guy put the tin snips back in his pocket, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Then I suggest we go to see them. You drive. If you’re as smart as we think, you’ll figure out what will happen if you decide to try anything stupid. Don’t. It gets messy, and we enjoy it too much.” I had already decided to be as friendly as possible. Not into pain that much, you see. The short ride to the local public storage lockers was made in total silence. Once there, I keyed in my access code to the gate and waved happily to the young attendant who couldn’t have cared less. We drove to the correct locker and I inserted the key into the lock, sprung the hasp, and opened the door. Laying in the corner were the fenders, still in shiny black paint. “All yours, gentlemen,” hoping my voice sounded disappointed enough to avoid the “messy” bit. “No kidding,” said the smaller guy, smiling. “Let’s take a look.” He took a knife out of his pocket and turned the nearest fender over, scratching several inches of paint, exposing the gold underneath. Then he did the same with the other, before attempting to lift it off of the floor. “Sombitch is heavy!” he exclaimed, as his partner coughed a chuckle. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and made a quick call, giving directions to the locker. Several minutes later a van appeared at the gate. Again I waved to the attendant to let the van in. “So, we’re good then?” I ventured to the big guy.
“Not quite,” he replied. Just as the sense of panic began to well up in my brain, the lights went out. I was out cold for at least two hours, waking up on the hard floor of the storage locker, head 11 pounding from the blow to my cranium. At least I was still alive. That was something anyway. Light shone in from the space under the roll-up door, and I crawled toward it, hoping they hadn’t locked me inside. Mercifully, they hadn’t, and I opened it slowly, reeling from the sudden blast of sunlight. Turning away, I saw my car keys on the floor and under them a pair of hundred dollar bills with a note that said; “Pay the locker bill.” It’s been a year, and I haven’t heard anything more from the Mob. I guess they got what they wanted, and since I didn’t go to the authorities they let me slide. The car is safely hidden away, and somewhat like Sam before me, I’m afraid to show it, despite it’s historic significance, for fear they will discover the car was worth far more than the fenders ever were. I can’t fight them, and while it’s unjust, I like life too much. So, like old Sam, I care for the Duesenberg like a mother hen her chicks. Honor be damned. END
To all: When I started this story it seemed like a fun idea to pursue, however, it turned out to be less than I had hoped. Is it worth re-writing, or should I just relegate it to the dustbin of good ideas that went south? P.H.R.
