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Authors: Wayne Harrison
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heart banging like a Super Ball in a jar.
“You know what I’m good at?” Eve said, settling back in her seat after Dennis had lit her Benson & Hedges. The question was put out to all of us. Nick sat back and watched her, and even Ray looked earnestly curious, as if he’d never given a wise-ass answer in his life. “I understand customer demand,” she said. “It sounds simple, and it is simple. Miami right now is the place to have your midlife crisis. All you see are hot rods.”
“Everybody wants that bad B-body they couldn’t afford in high school,” Nick said.
“Go fast and go American,” Eve said. “Three shops in South Dade specialize in Ferraris—thank you, Don Johnson. But when I wanted someone I could trust with my Chevy big block, look how far I had to come.”
Nick stared at her a few moments—Mary Ann, I thought, would’ve killed to have his attention like that. And as if it had just materialized there, I noticed the stucco wall mural behind the booth: a hulking Aztec warrior carrying a sleeping princess over the desert. “There must be a few decent shops down there,” Nick said.
“But I wanted a genius. You know, Joe Meretti doesn’t shut up about you.”
Any last doubts about her line of business dissolved with the mention of Meretti. Not even thirty, he owned a Hemi Challenger, a Hemi ’Cuda, and a six-pack 440 Charger. He wore a gray fedora when he came to the shop, and was always stepping out to make a call at the pay phone on the corner.
“A month ago, I bought six bays in Coral Gables,” Eve said. “I’d like to turn it into a specialty shop. It’s virgin soil for good muscle car mechanics.”
“You let me know when you start hiring,” Bobby said.
“I will,” she said, her eyes intent on him as she paused to smoke her cigarette. “Bobby, I’m hiring. I need a crew. I want all of you. I see the potential for a franchise, two or three shops in the next ten years. Dade County alone.”
“You mean you’re taking old men, too?” Ray said.
“No old men,” she said. “But I want you.”
And now Ray, remarkably, looked away and blushed. He scooped up his bottle by the neck and fell back in his chair. “She’s one of a kind, this one,” he said to Bobby.
But it was Nick, shaking his head, who awakened us from our reverie of white beaches and speedboats. “Wouldn’t last ten years.”
Eve set her cigarette in the ashtray. “Okay. Tell me more.”
“If I opened a shop that fixed record players only, how long you think I’d stay in business? And you can still buy a record player. The last muscle car came out of Detroit in 1973.”
“Fuck you, EPA,” Ray said.
“The war on smog,” Eve said. She looked at Nick again. “So, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“It’ll happen again,” he said. “With computers and fuel injectors. Maybe some kind of intercooler system. You’ll get low-emission horsepower.”
“Ah, bullshit,” Ray said. “I don’t care what kind of computer you mash on a nine-to-one smog motor.”
“You sound like you’d rather be in the design room at GM,” Eve said to Nick, and he laughed, picturing himself, I thought, leaning over a draft table with a pencil behind his ear. “Once the science is there,” he said, “somebody’s going to have to modify it. Your computerized Firebird comes out of the factory with three hundred horsepower. The guy who owns it wants four hundred. How’re you going to get there? You can’t bore and stroke, or so long emissions. It’s going to be technology. Computer chips, sensors. Guys that only know carburetors are going to be dinosaurs.”
“But when motors aren’t mechanical, you won’t need mechanics,” Bobby said.
“You’ll need technicians,” Nick said.
Eve slid a manicured nail under the cellophane of her cigarette pack. “Tell me what a lasting specialty shop looks like.”
“You take in muscle cars now. You school everybody on computers—they’re already getting
“You know what I’m good at?” Eve said, settling back in her seat after Dennis had lit her Benson & Hedges. The question was put out to all of us. Nick sat back and watched her, and even Ray looked earnestly curious, as if he’d never given a wise-ass answer in his life. “I understand customer demand,” she said. “It sounds simple, and it is simple. Miami right now is the place to have your midlife crisis. All you see are hot rods.”
“Everybody wants that bad B-body they couldn’t afford in high school,” Nick said.
“Go fast and go American,” Eve said. “Three shops in South Dade specialize in Ferraris—thank you, Don Johnson. But when I wanted someone I could trust with my Chevy big block, look how far I had to come.”
Nick stared at her a few moments—Mary Ann, I thought, would’ve killed to have his attention like that. And as if it had just materialized there, I noticed the stucco wall mural behind the booth: a hulking Aztec warrior carrying a sleeping princess over the desert. “There must be a few decent shops down there,” Nick said.
“But I wanted a genius. You know, Joe Meretti doesn’t shut up about you.”
Any last doubts about her line of business dissolved with the mention of Meretti. Not even thirty, he owned a Hemi Challenger, a Hemi ’Cuda, and a six-pack 440 Charger. He wore a gray fedora when he came to the shop, and was always stepping out to make a call at the pay phone on the corner.
“A month ago, I bought six bays in Coral Gables,” Eve said. “I’d like to turn it into a specialty shop. It’s virgin soil for good muscle car mechanics.”
“You let me know when you start hiring,” Bobby said.
“I will,” she said, her eyes intent on him as she paused to smoke her cigarette. “Bobby, I’m hiring. I need a crew. I want all of you. I see the potential for a franchise, two or three shops in the next ten years. Dade County alone.”
“You mean you’re taking old men, too?” Ray said.
“No old men,” she said. “But I want you.”
And now Ray, remarkably, looked away and blushed. He scooped up his bottle by the neck and fell back in his chair. “She’s one of a kind, this one,” he said to Bobby.
But it was Nick, shaking his head, who awakened us from our reverie of white beaches and speedboats. “Wouldn’t last ten years.”
Eve set her cigarette in the ashtray. “Okay. Tell me more.”
“If I opened a shop that fixed record players only, how long you think I’d stay in business? And you can still buy a record player. The last muscle car came out of Detroit in 1973.”
“Fuck you, EPA,” Ray said.
“The war on smog,” Eve said. She looked at Nick again. “So, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“It’ll happen again,” he said. “With computers and fuel injectors. Maybe some kind of intercooler system. You’ll get low-emission horsepower.”
“Ah, bullshit,” Ray said. “I don’t care what kind of computer you mash on a nine-to-one smog motor.”
“You sound like you’d rather be in the design room at GM,” Eve said to Nick, and he laughed, picturing himself, I thought, leaning over a draft table with a pencil behind his ear. “Once the science is there,” he said, “somebody’s going to have to modify it. Your computerized Firebird comes out of the factory with three hundred horsepower. The guy who owns it wants four hundred. How’re you going to get there? You can’t bore and stroke, or so long emissions. It’s going to be technology. Computer chips, sensors. Guys that only know carburetors are going to be dinosaurs.”
“But when motors aren’t mechanical, you won’t need mechanics,” Bobby said.
“You’ll need technicians,” Nick said.
Eve slid a manicured nail under the cellophane of her cigarette pack. “Tell me what a lasting specialty shop looks like.”
“You take in muscle cars now. You school everybody on computers—they’re already getting
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