AHMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I've got a small foreclosure notice of my own I'd like to deliver, if I knew who to deliver it to.” I pointed to the tire sitting near my front door, and Dave followed my gesture. “A couple of days ago, a fellow came by in a real hurry, left me this tire to fix.” I described the man's visit to my shop and how I'd had a futile wait for him to come in and pick it up.

  "Nice-looking tire. Looks almost new,” Dave said.

  "So was his car. A big Packard, last year's model. The fellow looked pretty well off too. Wore a black homberg, and I'll bet the suit he wore cost a bundle."

  "Describe him."

  "Why? Are you going to try to track him down for me?” I chuckled at the prospect of Dave going after him.

  "Only feller in the county I ever saw wear a homburg is that banker they say has run off. Did he have a mustache?"

  "Yeah, kinda’ thin, like some of the movie stars are wearing. Sort of like Douglas Fairbanks, as a matter of fact."

  "I think it's likely that was Murdock you saw. What was he over here for?"

  "He said he had an errand that would only take a short while and told me to hurry with his tire."

  "He say who he was going to see?"

  "I didn't think it was any of my business, so I didn't ask. From what he said, I thought I'd barely have time to fix his tire."

  "Be interesting to know who it was he was visiting,” Dave said, more to himself than to me. “And what for."

  I shrugged as Dave went on, “If it was him, and he was going to abscond, seems to me it would have been after he came and picked up his tire."

  I chuckled. “That spare sure wasn't in great shape. Riding on it doesn't sound like what you'd do if you were planning a trip to anywhere very far away.” I said.

  "I wonder if the sheriff knows he mighta been over here? I ought to stop by city hall and use the telephone."

  He stood with a smile, touched me on the shoulder, and took a last look at the derelict that was supposed to be my future pickup. “Good luck,” he said and waved a good-bye.

  * * * *

  The junkyard I went to first was about four acres of cars and trucks, parked for the last time in various conditions ranging, as you might expect, between mayhem and decay. Mostly, you have to think of a place like this as a mine, a place to find—for a lot less than what a new part would cost—an occasional fender, axle, door, radiator, windshield, or some other part with some life left in it. On that basis, these establishments served their public well. The only problem was, they were never very well organized.

  "Best I can tell you is have a look through the lot,” the owner, or manager, or whatever he was, drawled as he scratched a week-old beard and tried to wake up. I had found him fast asleep, slumped over a battered old wooden desk. “You find your running board, show me and we'll talk price."

  It wasn't helpful, but I guessed it was the best he could do for me. For the next hour, I wandered up and down the narrow aisles, looking at every car. This has the possibility of becoming very dreary unless you keep in mind the “mine” concept.

  After searching the entire place, I returned to the manager's shack and reported my lack of success.

  "Come to think of it,” he said, scratching his beard again, “don't recall seein’ a Plymouth o’ that year ever come in."

  I wished he had done his thinking an hour ago. Then I thought he actually deserved my sympathy. He was a sad-faced old guy who obviously hadn't caught on to the “mine” concept.

  The second junkyard was a smaller one, and I didn't get much help with the cars I could expect to find there either. I ended up walking all the way through it without finding the running board I was looking for. But at one point I found myself staring at the twin of the old Dodge sedan back in my shop. Its rear end had been crushed in some accident, which was the reason it was here. But the front fenders and hood, about the only usable parts left, were in pristine condition. And, surprisingly, neither had much rust.

  These fenders would save hours and hours on my project, but the manager quoted a price I thought was a little high. It didn't matter because it would be a while before I had any extra money to lavish on fenders, no matter the price.

  I turned to leave, thinking I might have to try straightening that running board after all, or explain to Mr. Samuelson that we'd have to get a more expensive new one from the dealer. But as I was halfway out the door, the manager called out, “Might try Cluff's, over in Spring City."

  I recognized the name. It was on the tow truck I'd seen pulling the Cadillac a few days before.

  "You sure? The tow service?"

  "Oh, that's just kind of a sideline. They got a big lot over there. Might have what you need."

  Spring City was about twenty miles on the other side of Watsonville. Being fairly new to the area, I wasn't familiar with many of the surrounding towns. I'd never had any reason to travel over there because the county seat was much closer and much larger, and they had everything we couldn't get locally. But it was worth a try.

  On the outskirts of Spring City, a large sign—which simply said “Cluff's"—let me know I had found it. It was a large establishment, spreading over many acres. Several buildings were in front. On one side, butting up against the small office, was a long shop building with several large doors facing the street. In back of it I could see the top part of a big derrick or crane. On the other side of the office was a shed open to the street. Under it were a couple of cars, an older Franklin and a Chevrolet, parked head out with “For Sale” signs hanging on them. Next to them was the older truck I'd seen towing the Cadillac, and next to that, a Buick sedan without a sign on it. Although there was space for it, the big tow truck wasn't there. Probably out on a job, I guessed.

  Inside, the fellow behind the counter looked me over for a moment, and while he did, I had a half second's feeling I had seen him before. But the feeling disappeared as he spoke.

  "Something I can do for y'?"

  He was tall enough he could look down at me, and my impression of him was his morning would have been just as complete if I hadn't shown up. However, unlike the two at the other yards, this fellow looked awake and busy. He didn't introduce himself, but from his demeanor, I had no trouble assuming his name was the one on the sign outside. I stepped up and described the running board I was looking for.

  "We took in a Plymouth o’ that year,” he said. “Three rows down and then somewhere on your right.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the yard. “It was a coupe, I think. But fenders and all that ... they're the same as a four-door."

  Maybe he was trying to be helpful after all, but it was offered in a tone of voice that suggested he thought I was some sort of imbecile. I merely shrugged my thanks and went on.

  As in the other yards I had visited, there had originally been some attempt to leave orderly aisles for access between double rows of cars. But I guess they were running out of space because here and there cars had been dropped in the aisles, blocking the way. This meant sometimes going the long way around to get where you were going or climbing over the tightly packed wrecks. In some places these were stacked two cars high, especially near the front of the lot.

  After trudging around a few of these detours I finally found the Plymouth. Both front fenders were already missing, so the temptation to settle for an undamaged fender died right there.

  But the running board I needed was present. A simple measurement confirmed that it was indeed interchangeable.

  Heading back to the office, I had a moment's feeling I was walking in some sort of gigantic maze. It wasn't that I could become completely lost because over the cars I could see the roof of the office and the large home-built derrick structure I had noticed before.

  With those references, I worked my way back to the front of the lot, taking note of a car here and there, especially for one that might supply a few parts for my pickup project. Especially body parts I wouldn't have to pound dents out of. But this place had nothing that would help with my Dodg
e.

  Still, I found myself lingering in a few places, observing the kind of things others had found and taken away from the derelicts stacked around me. This yard was truly a mine.

  A few moments later, another dead end left me standing in a relatively open area next to the rear entrance of the shop building. An old Mack truck was parked there, and on it was the derrick I'd seen. Probably what they used for dragging the wrecks around and stacking them up, I thought.

  I was about to retrace my steps to find another way to the office when I noticed the rear door to the shop was ajar. Glancing through it, I could see another door at the far end that looked like it led to the office. I pushed on, glad I wouldn't have to take the long way around.

  Inside the shop, various car parts, large and small, were hanging from walls and rafters and stacked in the corners. A couple of cars, up on blocks, were in various stages of assembly or disassembly.

  I glanced at the cars as I passed. It was easy to see what was happening. The cars were being rebuilt. It was likely the cars for sale in front had come from this shop.

  When I was working up in the capital before coming here, I had known of a couple of shops that would take several identical wrecks and, by taking the undamaged parts, rebuild them into one serviceable car. There was certainly nothing wrong with that, and it did provide employment.

  Between the rebuilds was a late model car covered with a tarpaulin. Obviously one that had been finished, I thought. I stopped to admire what I could see of it.

  "What y’ think yer doin’ in here, bud?"

  I whirled at the challenge. A large grease-stained fellow slid out from under the next car. When he stood, he still had a wrench in his hand.

  "Sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to get back to the office and this looked like the shortest way from where I ended up."

  "This ain't no public boo-le-vard,” he said, parodying the last word. With his wrench he pointed to the door leading to the office and would have taken me by the arm to lead me if I hadn't started moving in that direction. He followed me.

  "Nice work on the car there.” I pointed over my shoulder in the direction of the car under the tarp.

  "Lotta hours on that'n,” he said. He followed me all the way into the office.

  As we stepped into the office, he said, “Fella here, seems he got lost findin’ his way back here, Mr. Cluff."

  Cluff didn't respond to that. To me, he said abruptly, “That runnin’ board do y'?"

  "Just fine."

  After a slight hesitation, he quoted a price that seemed reasonable.

  "Sounds okay.” I was not getting a warm feeling from the mechanic or Mr. Cluff, and I hoped our business could be concluded as soon as possible.

  "Rusty here'll go with y'. Make sure you don't get lost again.” He glanced at the mechanic and motioned with a tilt of his head toward the lot.

  I had brought my own bag of tools, as it was usually the practice that the buyer did the work of removal. Rusty actually pitched in to help, although he hardly said a word the whole time. I had the distinct feeling he did it mostly to make my visit to the establishment as brief as possible. Frankly, I was getting a little nervous myself the longer I was in that place.

  I paid for my purchase and quickly left. By the time I had the running board tied onto my car, the hairs were standing up on the back of my neck, and I felt like I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

  It was mostly because of that car under the tarp. It was big and it was black, and I didn't think that mechanic had spent any time at all fixing it up. The tarp had not been large enough to cover it completely. The trunk and part of the rear fenders were exposed. On the right rear fender was the same paint scratch I had seen a couple of days before when the banker had dropped off that flat tire for me to fix.

  * * * *

  Dave was riding his tractor when I found him. When he noticed me stumbling across his newly plowed field, he smiled and waved. A moment later he stopped and waited for me to approach.

  "I just saw that missing banker's car,” I said.

  The smile disappeared quickly. He raised his plows, shut down the engine, and jumped down. I told him where I had seen it and how I had come to discover it.

  "You're sure it was the same car?"

  "It was a Packard. I can't see there's any chance of a scratch like that showing up on another car. And there was the same worn tire under it. It's the same one all right."

  "If you saw it, you saw it,” he said. “I think the sheriff ought to hear about this."

  He motioned for me to follow and started walking back to his house. We were almost there when he turned to me.

  "When I told him about the banker not coming back to pick up his tire, the sheriff just said he must have been in a terrible hurry to leave.” He paused for a moment. “So far the examiners haven't found any evidence of money suddenly bein’ missin', but they're still lookin'."

  While he was using the telephone to call the sheriff, I waited in the yard, passing the time of day with his wife, who was hanging wash on the line to dry. When Dave returned from the telephone a few moments later, he said, “The sheriff'll be sendin’ a deputy over this afternoon. He'll want to hear from you about the car you saw. I told him it would prob'ly save time if his man stopped by to talk to you in your shop.” A moment later he added, “Interesting place for that banker's car to turn up."

  I thought so, too, but I didn't try to make any kind of speculation. My attention right then was on the fluttering still going on in my stomach.

  * * * *

  Lillie was just clearing the supper dishes that evening when Dave pulled up in front of our house. I had told her about my adventures of the day, as I usually do. We both waited with a little apprehension as Dave climbed out of his truck and came up the path to the house. I was waiting for him at the front door, and when he saw me he just perceptibly moved his head from side to side.

  "Deputy Harker came by my place a bit ago,” Dave said once we were inside. He was the deputy who had stopped by my shop to hear my account of the Packard. “He paid a visit to your junkyard. He said the only thing he saw in that shop building was a couple of wrecks they're tryin’ to rebuild and a Buick that was covered by a tarp. Cluff said it was his personal car, an’ was in there waitin’ for some new gears to come in for the rear end."

  "Did he ask them about the Packard?"

  "He said he didn't let on what he was lookin’ for. Told ‘em he just came to have a look around."

  "They moved it!” Lillie said.

  "The sheriff probably thinks I sent his man on a wild-goose chase,” I said.

  Dave didn't answer right away, and I could see I was right.

  "Harker said the Buick was a real dark blue, could'a looked black in the dim light. I reminded him you'd been helpful to the sheriff a couple times,” Dave said. “Told him you were a reliable man and wouldn't make a mistake about what you saw."

  "There was no mistake."

  "He said he looked around the lot some too. Cluff was a bit put out because there's nothing illegal about building automobiles out of parts of others."

  "So it's gone, then. Do the people over there know I was the one responsible for the officer having a look around?"

  "I asked Harker about that. Says he didn't mention you. But if you made as much of a splash over there as you said, that's probably why they moved it."

  "Harker think of that?"

  Dave hesitated. “He doesn't think a scratch and a worn tire are much to go on. Tires on that Buick weren't in great shape, he said."

  "I don't think it's a place you ought to be visiting again soon,” Lillie said.

  "I guess they might be a bit wary of you.” Dave glanced at Lillie and waited for her nod of agreement before he continued. “Anyway, the sheriff thinks he's got the answer to it all. Harker said they're looking at Willy Barnes real close."

  "Barnes? Why?"

  Barnes lived on the other side of town. I knew who he was, but
we weren't acquainted. In a town as small as Watsonville, it doesn't take long to know who most people are, even if you don't know them well.

  "I guess the sheriff's thinkin’ foul play. The examiners came across his name on some copies of a foreclosure notice."

  "Then he could have been the one the banker said he was going to see."

  "It was Barnes, all right. But Barnes himself isn't around. His wife said he went up to the capital looking into some work a relative told him about. The day she said he left was the same day the banker left that tire at your shop. But she insists Murdock was there in the late afternoon and her husband had gone out to the highway early in the morning to hitch a ride up to the capital."

  "He was gone before Murdock came over here, then."

  "Or so she says,” Dave said, shaking his head sadly.

  "They've got the police up there looking for him. What I heard, they haven't found him yet."

  "So how did the Packard end up at the junkyard?” Lillie said.

  Dave shrugged. I didn't have an answer either.

  * * * *

  Mrs. Samuelson was a little embarrassed when she delivered their car to me the next morning.

  "I don't think it was really my fault,” she said. “They were weaving all over the road. It was like they didn't care about anyone else. If I hadn't gone off the road they might have hit me head on. And they didn't even stop!"

  "Too bad you didn't get their license number,” I said.

  "Oh, I'll remember the car if I see it again. Big Packard sedan, no mistaking that radiator grille! There's not too many of them around."

  That sort of got my attention. Her husband had said her accident happened on what would have been the same afternoon the banker had disappeared.

  "You said ‘they'?"

  "There were two. In the front seat. Arguing. Not paying a bit of attention to the road. In fact, I thought they were coming to blows."

  "Well, I'm glad you're okay."

  I stood thinking about the Packard as she turned to go. Almost certainly it was the banker's Packard she had seen. But Murdock had been alone when he had stopped to leave his flat tire with me. Was Barnes the extra person in his car?