by Kate Gilead
If you count Kazuko.
To me, it feels for all the world like she saved us both. I mean, don’t get me wrong. My logical brain says, “Nah! That’s ridiculous!”
But my heart…? My heart says…maybe.
Touching the inked herons on my arms, I can’t help but smile. I’m so happy that I have those mythical birds there, where I can keep them for myself, always…where I can always see them, flying forever in her memory.
I think…yes. Maybe I’ll keep that secret to myself forever, too.
Kazuko would probably approve.
Besides, I’m happy as a pig-in-a-pen to be keeping the secrets I’m keeping with my man…the two of us, thick as thieves and head-over-heels in love.
I can’t for the life of me think of anything better than that.
As the week progresses, it’s tough to stay calm and cool with all the simmering excitement bubbling underneath everything, but we manage somehow.
Mark goes to work as usual and I putter around the apartment, recovering. I keep busy with tidying and cleaning, cooking and reading and catching up on sleep. I have lunch with my mom, walk the dogs with Brenda and have In-And-Out burgers with Jenny and Amanda, watching the race footage with them and answering their questions and just…getting back to normal.
To my relief, no one asks any questions about what happened. And I don’t offer any explanations.
I just let it fade away, like a flock of herons fading into the distance.
Gone but not forgotten.
Of course, the whole time, I’m dying to tell them that I’m engaged.
But I don’t. It’s only fair to tell my family first. And that’s gotta wait until we sort out what we’re already calling the DeSouza Collection.
The much-anticipated day rolls around. Mr. DeSouza sends us the warehouse address and Mark and I drive out there.
The address turns out to be a long-disused airfield, one that the town appropriated back in the seventies to turn into a housing development, but due to changing economic times, never did anything with.
The old runways are no longer visible, but a newer-looking barbed-wire fence stretches away on either side of a gated entrance. The fence is hung with No Trespassing and Private Property signs, belying the abandoned air of the place, and a kiosk, staffed with a security officer, guards the gated entrance.
The gate sits at the head of a tidy dirt road, which leads away towards a disreputable-looking hangar, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight like a rusty mirage.
We pull up to the kiosk. The unsmiling guard asks for our names and ID, and then the gate swings silently open.
Mark steers the truck through it and down the silent dirt road.
“Geez,” I say. “Welcome to Dr. DeSouza’s World Domination Headquarters!”
We both chortle. “Yeah, this could totally be some evil villain’s lair, couldn’t it? The place looks deserted but check it out…it’s wired to the max,” Mark notes, pointing to the cell tower standing off to the side in one field, and then to a series of tall poles, standing along the side of the road at intervals, each carrying a light fixture.
And, every so often, a pole is fitted with the familiar dark sphere that encloses a CCTV camera.
“Wow. Someone’s serious about security,” I say, impressed.
“Sure seems like it,” Mark replies. “This is a far cry from Mr. DeSouza’s seventies-style house in the ‘burbs.”
Approaching the rusted hangar, a sign directs traffic through an open gate next to another manned kiosk. The guard waves us through.
We follow the signs to a parking lot at the back of the structure, while, behind us, the gate wheels closed.
Rounding the corner of the building, we see a small dirt lot, empty except for two vehicles.
One is a nondescript Ford sedan.
The other is a decked-out, navy-blue crew-cab Ford F10, with familiar heavy-duty brush-guard grille, fog lights, fancy step-bars and dual rear wheels.
The Sinclair Auto Supply logo is stenciled on the driver’s door.
I don’t need to see the other side to know that the same logo appears on the door on that side, too.
Mark and I look at each other in amazement.
My father’s here.
Inside the hangar, there’s a vestibule, with a few chairs and a closed door leading into the hangar.
A sliding glass window separates the entry from a small, modern office, where an unsmiling but polite security officer mans a desk bristling with display monitors.
Sliding the glass window open, the man hands us two clipboards. “Hello. Mr. DeSouza requires your signatures before you can proceed.”
We take the clipboards to the seating area and read the attached papers. It’s a non-disclosure agreement. We read, sign, and hand them back to the guard.
After a moment, the closed door opens and a smiling Mr. DeSouza appears, inviting us inside.
We exchange greetings and pleasantries. “I’m kind of excited to be here,” I say, in reply to DeSouza’s welcome.
“It’s an exciting day for me, too. Thank you for your co-operation and interest. It will be nice to get this ball rolling properly, after all these years.”
After a short walk down a corridor, we go through another closed door and emerge into a large, open warehouse. A drywall partition with a closed door partitions off the back of the space, indicating that this area of the facility is only part of the mystery.
High overhead, banks of overhead lights illuminate row after row of dusty cars, parked closely together in ranks of about ten, separated on either side by a narrow corridor of space. The configuration reminds me of a vegetable garden, where you often have rows of plants separated by access walkways for watering and tending.
And the “crop” here is a bumper one, alright! Dozens of dusty, sometimes rusty, venerable old automobiles…classic cars.
Or at least, in some cases, what’s left of one.
Row after row of cars, painted in every color, jewel-tones, two-tones, pastels and garish custom jobs. The gleam of all that chrome is often muted by dust, rust or grime, but the potential for restoration still plainly evident.
It’s a smorgasbord of classic automobiles. I can smell the tang of metal, oil, gas and rust hanging in the air.
“Wow!” Mark exclaims, then whistles softly as our heads crane around, trying to identify all the vehicles.
Mr. DeSouza laughs softly. “Yes, there are one hundred and sixty-five vehicles in this section. About half that in another section.”
Mark and I shoot a glance at each other.
One hundred sixty-five? Another eighty-five somewhere else?
Holy crap!!
“Some, I acquired as a labor of love, you might say,” DeSouza continues, “and they aren’t worth as much as others. Except, perhaps, to an aficionado like me. But some…heh. Some are very rare, and worth a substantial amount of money.”
“My God,” Mark says, head still swiveling as he tries to take in the sights. “What…how…holy shit! Wait…those are…”
He strides over to a row of low, three-wheeled vehicles, with me close on his heels. All the vehicles in this row sport offset headlamps, tall windows capped with a a narrow canvas roof and a rounded, snub-nosed front engine compartment. “Messerschmitts! Cabin scooters!”
“Bubble cars? Cool!” I shout, unable to contain myself.
Made in Germany after World War II by the famous aircraft manufacturer of the same name, these mini, tandem-seater vehicles are sought-after collectors items, with restored values rivaling that of some of the finest racing cars.
Behind the bubble cars is a row of Studebakers from the fifties and sixties, hot rods and sedans both, in various states of repair.
Behind those, is a row of Cadillacs from the same era, some in decent condition and some, not so much.
And behind those, is a row of Ferraris.
And behind those, sits th
e Mercedes.
And behind those….the Lamborghinis we saw in the photos.
And behind those, there’s the Citroens. Not just one, but six.
There’s even a couple Grimmettis back there.
“Look at ‘em, ’Ree,” Mark says, his voice hushed and reverent. “Just…look at ‘em all!”
My eyes must be bugging right out of my head, there are so many makes and models represented here.
Classic American cars by Chevrolet, Buick and Ford are as lovingly gathered as Maseratis and Bugattis and Austins and Jags.
Caddies, Beamers and Hudsons, oh my!
As is, the collection is worth a fortune. Fully restored, it’s anybody’s guess how much monetary value is sitting in this location right now.
All told, there must be a couple million dollars worth of cars sitting under this roof here today.
Maybe more.
My mind can’t take it all in.
Mr. DeSouza is calm and unruffled. “Of late, your father has been here, helping me catalogue them, Marie. Today, he brought your brother Thomas as well.”
“Oh…you mean, my father and brother are the colleagues you spoke of?”
DeSouza nods, smiling.
Mark and I look at each other and laugh.
As if on cue, the door in the partition at the rear opens and my father and Tommy walk through it, chatting.
Tommy’s carrying his iPad and my dad has a clipboard.
“Here they come now,” Mr. DeSouza says.
My brother and my father spot us and their faces light up.
“Hey, guys,” my dad calls out, and his voice is as light and chipper as I’ve ever heard it.
“Welcome to Heaven,” Tommy laughs. They join us where we stand gaping at the all the cars. “My idea of it, anyway,” he adds.
“Mine too,” Mark says, beaming at my dad.
“Isn’t it exciting? We couldn’t wait for you to get here! Harry has given me his inventory listing,” Dad says, holding up the clipboard. “Thomas has taken photographs of this collection with his gadget there,” he continues, indicating Tommy’s iPad, “and we are ready to start cataloguing the parts as well.”
Tommy waves towards the door they just came through. “You gotta check that out before you leave, Mark. What a treasure trove!”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Dad says.
Mr. DeSouza leads us all to a well-appointed lunch room. There’s fresh coffee, sodas and bottled water.
At DeSouza’s direction, we help ourselves to a beverage and take a seat at the lunch table.
“Okay, guys,” Dad says, after taking a long swallow of water. “You’ve seen the goods. Let’s talk details now.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Marie
“You all signed the non-disclosure agreement and have seen how serious Harry is about operating in secrecy. So now you know why I was so concerned about a possible leak in our organization. It would have meant the end of this opportunity for all of us.”
Dad looks from me to Tommy, contrite but steadfast, his meaning clear. We both nod in understanding.
“I’m sorry to have kept you all in the dark in terms of who was vetting whom,” DeSouza says, handing us each a duo tang folder, “but that’s the way I work. Now, if you will please take a look at these.”
The folders contain a detailed history of each vehicle to be quoted, complete with photographs and notes going back to the day it rolled off the line. Included are inventories of the parts on hand in the stock room of this building, and the parts that are needed.
“You see that Harry is as persnickety as he is circumspect,” Dad remarks.
Mark, flicking through the pages, lets out a low whistle “This is very impressive.”
A boisterous discussion ensues, with questions flying at Mark about his new equipment, how fast he can hire more staff and his opinion about the best way to go about tackling the work.
Mr. DeSouza discusses each as lovingly as if it were his child.
That done, chat turns to personal things. “So I take it you’re never planning to come out of the shadows with this collection, then, Mr. DeSouza?” Mark asks.
“No. I abhor publicity and attention.”
Hah! I know exactly how he feels.
“The vehicles will be sold or auctioned anonymously.”My problem is time, or lack of it. I need help to get it all moving faster,” DeSouza continues, “and Carson needs help to decide on a direction for his company. So, we decided to help each other.”
Tommy frowns. “Decide on a direction for the company? What’s that mean?”
With a sigh, my father looks down at his clipboard, then back up again.
When he does, the fluorescent lights in this room seem to highlight the shadows under his eyes.
My strong, stubborn, invincible father suddenly looks his age.
A wave of sympathy for him washes through me.
“Long story short? I’m tired. Owning a successful business, raising kids…it’s hugely stressful. Most people never have any idea. Of course, you two might find out some day.” He lifts his chin towards me and Mark. “I’ll probably never retire, but I want to slow down. Way down. I want to spend more time with your mother, either traveling or just hanging out, or…whatever.”
“You’ve earned a rest, Dad,” Tommy says.
“For sure! Mom too,” I echo.
Dad nods, searching for words. “Yes. I just want to be with her. Without any business stress or stress over the kids or cars or racing or whatever. She wants me to let go of a lot of it. So…I’ll need to either sell the business, pare it down, or leave more of the day-to-day to you,” he nods to me and Tommy both, “and your brothers.”
“Racing? You’re not going to enter any more races? What about being on the Motorsports board?”
“I’m giving up my involvement. Either Callum and Hamish can deal with it, or hire a promotional company for that. But I’m washing my hands of it.”
Tommy and I are both quiet, letting this sink in.
Tapping his pen against the clipboard, Dad continues. “In addition, certain aspects of the business are getting more complicated, more regulated and more difficult to administer every day. Bottom line, it’s just too much damned work and worry. You know that the parts business is largely wholesale, which pays well and nearly runs itself. The repair end is a different story.” He shakes his head. “We needed to do that audit in order to find out, with certainty, whether or not it makes fiscal sense to continue to offer that service. Whether Sinclair’s can effectively afford to continue.”
“Do we have the answer to that yet?” Tommy asks quietly.
“Thanks to your work, the analysis is complete and the numbers are in. And the answer to that question is a qualified “no”. Not unless we can ensure a steady flow of custom repair business.”
“And that’s where Mr. DeSouza’s collection comes in then. More work to keep that unit going.” Tommy’s eyes flick in my direction.
He doesn’t want to keep that unit going.
Neither do I. And we both feel guilty about it.
Guilty, yet obligated; loyal, yet trapped.
We both want to go our own way.
Oh, shit.
I think I know where this whole thing is going now. Dad’s going to try to convince us to stay at Sinclair’s for the foreseeable future.
“Yes…and no,” Dad says. “For the last few weeks, I’ve been spending a lot of time here with my old friend. I’ve been helping him sort things out, make decisions and so on. In return, he’s giving me––us––a fair crack at his business.”
“Aha,” I say softly. “So this is where you’ve been hiding out, huh?”
Dad glances at Mr. DeSouza. Their eyes meet and something seems to pass between them. “Yes. I’ve been helping Harry here do a little auditing of his own. Together with his accounting staff, we’ve determined that, even if we scrap some of
the vehicles that aren’t worth restoring, he does indeed have many years of business here. So, there’s that. But…I’m torn. I have to decide if…if…I have to decide about the future, for you kids. And I don’t know if…I think I’d rather…just…stop.”
He sits forward and rubs his bald pate, searching for words.
Then he leans back, opens his mouth, and closes it again. His discomfort is palpable. For my father, admitting this is obviously difficult.
DeSouza comes to the rescue. “The years slip by so much faster than we realize. I intended to have all this work done long ago, to retire and live on a cruise ship with my wife. She loved the ocean. But we never had the chance.” He clears his throat. “She died two years ago, and I still have all these cars.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. DeSouza,” I say. Mark and Tommy make sympathetic sounds.
“I don’t want the same fate for me and your mom,” Dad says, simply. “We’ve both worked hard and now, we want to play. It’s that simple.”
“And so you should,” DeSouza agrees. “As for me, I wish to get my cars restored as soon as possible, sell off as many as I can and put the proceeds to good use somewhere.”
“Hence, this meeting,” Dad says. “I didn’t know until he told me last week, but Harry’s been waiting for you, Mark.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that,” Mark says.
“It’s important that I honor the good people in my life,” DeSouza says. “Your father was one, you’re another. So is Carson and all his many children, haha!”
“Speaking of,” Dad says, “Your brother Bryce is setting up a custom shop in Malibu.”
“Yes. I’m preparing a shipment for him as we speak,” DeSouza says. “Due to Bryce’s connections in the music business, he had no trouble lining up buyers for a large selection of my vehicles. Many are pre-sold, with interest in many more.”
“Oh, really? I thought Bryce couldn’t wait to get out of the automotive industry,” I say.
“Once upon a time, that was the case,” Dad says. “But people grow up, Marie. They realize which side of their bread is buttered. Bryce is both a uniquely talented automotive technician and a musical prodigy. He can use one talent to fund the other. It’s an enviable position to be in, quite frankly.”
