How one form of "art" can provide a spark for another.
The photo of Kristin Martin's lovely 1955 Studebaker I posted a couple of weeks ago was posted by Kristin on her own blog here. In her comments she asked people to "write their own story" about the photo. Jeff Borrowman, the GearHead Skeptic all the way from Calgary Alberta, jumped at the opportunity and came up with a great story. I couldn't resist posting it here, with his permission, along with the photo.
Visit Jeff's ponderings about life and the oily bits on his really cool blog at www.TheGearHeadSkeptic.com.
They underestimated her from the start. Just like she’d planned.
She was just some girl that arrived in some old pink jalopy. Sure, she was a little out of place in this part of town, what with her painted finger nails and high heels, but she was nothing to worry about. if they’d taken a second look, they would have seen the grease at the edges of those painted nails and known that everything was not as it appeared, but they were too focused on the deal at the far side of the bar room to pay attention to some girl sitting alone at the bar. This was business hours.
“You bring it?” he growled to Sam, barely sounding human.
“You know I did.” Sam replied. “But the price has gone up. Doubled, in fact. Inflation’s a bitch.”
“Don’t play with me, son.” The growl came back from under the wide brimmed hat. “You’re out numbered and too far into my side of town to play games. Now hand it over.”
Sam heard the click of a .45 somewhere in the room. Somewhere close. The girl snapped her pocket book shut and kept her eyes on her drink, but her ear on Sam. Still unnoticed, she slid one leg down off her bar stool, and planted a heeled foot squarely on the floor.
“Son,” the growl was cold and flat. “You don’t understand. I make the deals here, not you. And I’m here to collect.”
Chairs scraped across wooden floor boards, steel flashed under a dim light and large men stepped out of dark shadows towards Sam. “Hey now,” Sam laughed nervously, raising his open hands up to his shoulders, “you can’t blame a guy for trying to renegotiate.”
In a flash, Sam’s right fist slammed into the nose under the wide brimmed hat. The shadow men rushed at Sam and the girl at the bar spun around on that heeled foot, driving an elbow into the teeth of the goon covering the door behind her. He folded like he was made of newspaper, and hit the floor hard. Painted, grease stained fingers wrapped around a pool cue as a gun shot rang out like a cannon inside the small bar room. Things were finally getting interesting.
* * * * * * * * * *
They underestimated her pink car too.
The straight, unmuffled pipes echoed off the concrete warehouse walls like machine gun fire as she sped away from them, her heeled foot flat to the floor boards. She gripped the wheel tightly and told herself to remember to breath and stick to the plan. Her knuckles were white with adrenaline, and smeared read with blood. On the Studebaker’s passenger seat sat the diamond that had been in Sam’s pocket minutes earlier, and a suitcase stuffed with 20 large she had liberated from an unconscious thug. The headlights in her rear view mirror started to drop farther and farther behind her as the Stude rocketed through the empty streets.
Through a connecting alley way, she caught a glimpse of two round tail lights speeding down a side street. Falcon tail lights. Sam.
She stuck to the plan and let the remaining thugs follow her around the warehouse district in their slow-ass sedan for a few minutes before ditching them, killing the headlights and heading out to the abandoned air strip to meet Sam.
By then, he would have gotten the hiding spots ready for the Falcon and the Studebaker and pushed the old plane out of the hanger. The last job of the night was that somebody would have to get that old plane’s engine to fire up.
And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Sam.
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