Chapter 25

Bobby said, “What didya bring me?”

“Just like a kid,” I said. “Never happy that I made it home alive.”

The Spur broke out in laughter. And then somebody said, “Well ... what Did you bring him?”

“Would a band truck be enough?” I said.

Bobby set a plate of double biscuits and gravy in front of me. I commenced to empty it.

“I bought Tommy a bunch of five’s and two’s,” I said, referring to drumsticks. “No? you’re not happy with presents for your brother?

“I brought George some new strings,” I continued, “And a speaker.”

Bobby just shook his head.

“How about a B-3 Hammond?”

“Okay ... I bought you a K&F lap steel,” I lied. K&F is the first Fender guitar.

“You did?” Bobby was grin from ear to ear.

“No,” I laughed at the look on his face. “I found a Weissenborn and bought it.”

“Where are these marvelous instruments?” Doubting Bobby in full swing. Bobby has always been the anchor wherever he worked. Disappointment came early and often in his life. I think he was expecting me to find greener pastures.

My pastures were covered in ruts and mud.

“In the Band van ... I told you about the van.”

“For real?”

“Yup. I’ll go get it.”

When I pulled up in the 1930 Boyertown bodied walkthrough Dodge Van I thought Bobby would pee his pants.

“That must have cost a fortune,” said one customer wistfully.

“Three dollars,” I said. “I bought it by weight.”

“What idiot sold that for scrap?”

“The United States Army.” I said.

“Where?”

“Rocky Mountain Arsenal, they sold vehicles confiscated or seized by the Agencies at auction ... yesterday,” I grinned as I said it.

“How did you get it here?”

“I drove it up here yesterday,” I said.

“It’s five hundred miles,” the customer said, “They sold a running vehicle for scrap?”

“Nope,” I said. “They sold it for scrap because it didn’t run. I fixed it.”

“Something stupid I hope,” he said.

That drew a frown on my face, “According to the flyer I read, they’d had some of the vehicles more than a year. If it had have been something stupid I couldn’t have bought it for scrap. No ... I bought it as is. I had to have it off the property by five o’clock. I drove it out of the impound lot using the original keys.”

“Gasoline? Water in the tank?”

“Diesel, four cylinder Cummins. It was up for scrap because it wouldn’t start. I bought it and started looking for the keys. Wanna see where they were hidden?” I just assumed everybody would.

By now, nearly every man in the Spur was standing up looking out the front window. I sopped up the last of my gravy, pushed my plate away, put three fifty on the counter and stepped out the door.

I reached under the dash and released the hood. Then I lifted and turned the hood hold down hooks and lifted the hood, sliding the hold-open rod along the radiator brace as I did. I was sorta pushed out of the way as guys ... mechanics ... mostly ... looked at the big block four cylinder Cummins diesel sitting in the engine bay looking perfect. Somebody had spent a bundle on that motor.

The waitress and Bobby were cleaning tables and scrapping plates and the second shift diners were filling up empty seats and ordering breakfast.

“What’s going on?” asked the sheriff, as he muscled folks out of the way. “Wow ... nice restore. Karen Post? This is yours?”

I was sitting, arms wrapped over the steering wheel, grinning. I was watching guys ... most of them not born yet when this beauty left the Boyertown Pennsylvania shop floor ... poking and prodding and doing a lot of nodding and gossiping, when the sheriff got to where he could see me.

I nodded at his question.

He pushed his hat back from his forehead and ... nothing for it ... I had to explain it all again.

“So...” he said, “Where were the keys?”

“See that tiny weld spot on the tank air filter?”

Diesels today have the air filter tank mounted on the outside. They didn’t used to do that ... this filter was under the hood.

He looked and nodded. So did most of the mechanics.

“There wasn’t any reason for that weld. Everything else has a purpose.”

Everybody nodded again, and one of the mechanics started unclipping the filter cap. He set it aside, took out the can filter and exposed the little hook that had held the keys.

“Holy shit!” He gave everybody a chance to look and put it back together.

“There were half a dozen of these restored old vans in the mix of trucks at the auction. I assume they all had the same hiding spot. I didn’t know if I’d find the keys ... but I would only be out three dollars if I didn’t.”

“What about hot-wiring?”

“The wiring is armored. The ignition cable from the lock is hard wired to the glow coil. I’m not saying you couldn’t replace it. But I didn’t want to destroy the firewall to do it.”

<Great explanation.>

You guys keep out of this.

“Back off ... I need to get going.”

I turned the key, pushed the glow button, set the throttle and waited. The glow light went out. I stepped on the floorboard starter button ... errr ... putt putt. I set the hand brake got out, shut the hood by sliding the support rod along the radiator brace, latched the hood spring hooks, stepped back behind the wheel, latched the inside lever, let off the hand brake, advanced the throttle and putted away from the Spur.

The local phone company had a bank of sit in your car pay phones with free operator information. I dialed “O.”

“Information, please.”

“Yes, ma’am. Local glass repair, please.”

“Sheridan, Wyoming.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Connect me please.”

I deposited a quarter.

“Good Morning. Do you do commercial door glass repair?”

“I’ll hold.”

“Hello,”

“I hope so. My General Steel building was vandalized and I need the walk through side door window glass replaced.”

“I didn’t report it.”

“No, sir ... last spring.”

“I’ll pay cash.”

“Wow ... that’s pretty steep. A grand for a wired safety glass replacement?” “and the frame?”

“You might have to replace the door?”

“Seven thousand dollars?”

“Plus labor.”

“You need to look at it first?”

“Is it welded? I don’t know.”