Read Online Crow's Landing by Brad Smith - Free Book Online Page B

streamingout of the barn and began to gather around the cars. Parson watched for Zoe and then he saw her, wandering along, admiring a small painting she’d obviously just bought.
    The Barracuda was the big-ticket item and so the auctioneer would offer it last. The other cars were nice but not particularly rare, and they went fairly reasonably, the GTO with the butchered console topping the bunch at $16,200. When the auctioneer began to sing the praises of the ’Cuda, Parson got up from his place in the shade and began to walk. He reached the periphery of the circle surrounding the auctioneer as the man was stating that the car was “numbers matching.”
    â€œIt’s not,” Parson said loudly.
    The auctioneer turned on him. “I beg your pardon.”
    â€œThat’s not the original engine,” Parson said. “That motor’s out of a ’68. It has nine to one compression heads, and a cast iron intake manifold. Tear it down and you’ll find the crankshaft has four-inch main bearings. The Hemi they made in ’70 was four and a half.”
    It was pure double talk but Parson was pretty sure it would fly. He stood looking at the auctioneer, not in a challenging manner, but rather as someone just wanting to set the record straight. This was the tricky part of the proceeding. Everything that Parson had said was bullshit and if there happened to be somebody present who could verify that the car actually was as advertised, Parson was out of luck. But that rarely proved to be the case. Even if somebody suspected that Parson was bluffing, people were usually reluctant to present themselves as experts when there was money at stake.
    The auctioneer was not happy. He shifted his glare from Parson to a man in a pink fleece pullover, standing just outside the door to the barn. The man was obviously either handling the estate for the family or, more likely, a relative of thedeceased. As Parson watched, the man looked skyward and shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. That was it for the auctioneer. He was pissed at the development, not just for the lost revenue it would cost him, but also because his company had advertised a vehicle that, apparently, was not what they claimed. He made a little speech, the standard spiel about buyer beware, clearing the house of all liability, and said that they would continue.
    When the bidding began, Parson offered a couple times for appearance’s sake, then dropped out at fifteen thousand. Zoe bought the convertible for twenty-two five. Parson knew it would have reached at least three times that if he hadn’t spoken up. The auctioneer knew it too.
    Parson walked to the Escalade and drove off, stopping again at the gas station at the corner, while he waited for Zoe to pay for the car and obtain the title and bill of sale. She showed up fifteen minutes later, getting out of a cab, still carrying the painting. She handed Parson the remainder of the cash in the envelope and he put it in the console as they drove off. He would send somebody over that afternoon to trailer the car to his shop.
    â€œYou pay yourself?” he asked.
    â€œYeah,” she said. “The dude in the pink sweater was bad-mouthing you.”
    â€œHe should’ve pulled the car,” Parson said, “the minute I opened my mouth.”
    â€œThat’s what the auction house told him,” Zoe said. “Too late though.”
    â€œFuck him.”
    â€œHow rare is it?”
    â€œRagtop, with the Hemi and the automatic, they made nine that year.”
    â€œSo what’s it worth?”
    Parson smiled. “It’s worth whatever I can get for it.”
    Zoe lit up again, to Parson’s dismay. “Tell me something,” she said. “What are you going to do when the day comes that you can’t get somebody like me to do your bidding? Pardon the pun.”
    â€œCome on, Zoe. Don’t you treasure these moments