When I got home shortly before six PM, Kelly wasn’t there yet, apparently having been held up at work again. Her case load had increased lately and her firm was also doing some investigating of its own in the entire Reynolds case. Since there had been a challenge by one of the insurance companies regarding the validity of one of the signatures on a document, a few more eyebrows had been raised so a lot of extra work was coming down for her and her firm.
As I walked by the answering machine, I noticed the light was blinking and the number “4” was illuminated on the LCD. I pressed “Play Messages”.
The metallic voice came on and I listened as I opened the fridge door to see what might be available –
“Message ONE – received Monday, one fourteen PM – ‘Steve? This is Brandon – hey, give me a call, man. We need to talk… call my cell cause I’m going to be out and about…’
Searching through the leftovers, nothing grabbed my eye…
“Message TWO – received Monday, two twenty-one PM – ‘Mr. Morton, this is Dan Sleagle from the Fayette County, Pennsylvania Sheriff’s department – would you give me a call as soon as possible at area code seven two four, five five nine, three three three three? I need to speak with you about an urgent matter. Thank you…’
Suddenly, a snack didn’t seem as important… I continued to listen, mentally recording the phone number (724-559-3333).
“Message THREE – received Monday, four ten PM – ‘Steve? I’m going to be a little late again. I’ll pick up a pizza for dinner and I should be home around six so grab a snack and I’ll see you then. Love ya!”
Ah-ha… no snack needed. If Kel’s timing was right, a hot pizza should be walking through the door any minute… I closed the door and listened to the last message as I reached up on the counter to grab the cordless phone…
“Message FOUR – received Monday, five twenty-seven PM – ‘Mr. Morton, this is Deputy Sleagle once more. I hope you get this message because I do need to talk with you as soon as possible. It’s regarding a letter I received from an insurance company that I believe your wife’s law firm is representing. I have some interesting information for you that I really think you need to know. Call me as soon as you can, no matter the hour… thank you.”
Just as I started dialing Brandon’s number, the doorbell rang. I hit “End” on the phone and walked to the front door.
It was B.
I opened the door and before he was even inside, he was talking very excitedly about something that I couldn’t quite grasp…
“Whoa there, Brandon! Slow down, dude – I can’t understand a word you’re saying, you’re talking so fast! Start over, ok?”
Brandon stopped for just a second, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and then began again.
“Steve, you are NOT going to believe what I just heard down at Anderson’s. Actually, it is what I saw…”
I could tell by Brandon’s wide-eyed look that he wasn’t fooling around.
“Ok… what did you see?”
“I saw Bill Reynolds, two big burly looking guys and – get this – Ned Reynolds.” B was nodding his head affirmatively when he said Ned’s name as if to convey accuracy.
“Brandon, are you sure it wasn’t Nate? Ned’s brother? Remember? We saw him at Tri-County and he even told me he was Ned’s brother – you’ve got to be mistaken.”
Brandon grabbed a Coke from the fridge as he was shaking his head. Twisting off the cap, he turned to face me as he swilled down about a third of the icy soda.
“No, I’m not mistaken at all. It was definitely Ned…”
I couldn’t tell him what Jim had told me just a couple of hours earlier but I had strong feeling that B was right. But still, I had to test him a bit more.
“I don’t know, B… how can you be so darn sure?”
“Because I heard one of the burly dudes call him by name when this guy’s cell phone rang – he said, ‘It’s for you, Ned’ and he called him by name exactly.”
“So? Maybe he just got the name mixed up – Nate looks just like Ned and is his brother, possibly a twin. It still doesn’t mean anything and we all know Ned is dead – remember? The funeral and all?”
Brandon took another drink, pulled out one of the chairs and sat down at the kitchen table. He smiled that, “I KNOW I’m right and YOU know I’m right but I’m going to make you ask me to prove it” look…
“Just because some goon called Nate ‘Ned’, doesn’t mean he IS Ned…”
“But Steve – why would ‘Nate’ tell this guy to NOT call him that in public; that he and everyone else was supposed to call him ‘Nate’ so no one would find out what happened… on top of that, as soon as this guy said ‘Ned’, your dear friend Bill slugged him hard in the shoulder and gave him a look that could have withered a fig tree… so… what do you think now? Think I’m mistaken?”
I didn’t answer him at first but instead, walked around to the other side of the table, pulled out my own chair and sat down across from him. Reaching into my shirt pocket, I pulled out the pictures Jim had given me copies of earlier.
“Nah, B – I believe you. Here’s why…”
I slid the pics across the heavy oak table. He picked them up and began thumbing through them, stopping to pause at the one of the two guys sitting in the car outside the restaurant. He pointed at one of the men.
“Steve – THIS is the guy who identified Ned today at Andersons. THIS is the guy who Bill slugged and who Ned reminded in no uncertain terms that he was NOT to call him Ned ever again, at least if he didn’t want to wake up wearing cement shoes at the bottom of Lake Erie or something like that… I mean, after all – even I got THAT message… and – that is DEFINITELY Ned in that ambulance… Hey! Why is he in the driver’s seat?”
“I don’t know that answer yet but I’m sure we will soon. Same with the pic of the boat, the warehouse, why Bill was talking to Sasha from the DMV…”(which caused another chill to roll down my spine – there definitely is a creepy connection there) “So – how is it that YOU happened to hear all this and they didn’t realize that you were nearby?”
“Oh, they knew I was there. They just didn’t recognize me. Ned never gave me a glance; he was only busy with Bobby at the counter, spoke a few sentences to Bill under his voice when Bobby was away from the counter, and the little time he talked to the goon. But THAT is definitely the guy…”
“Ok… so, what were they doing there? Did you get any info on that?”
“Well, not at first. But after they left, I asked Bobby what was what and he gave me the skinny… seems that Ned had ordered some parts for a Shelby Mustang and they weren’t in yet… care to guess what he’s waiting on?”
“I really do not have a clue, B… I don’t know that much about those bad boys. What is it he wants?”
“Oh, nothing major… just a new motor is all...”
My head jerked backwards…
“What? A NEW MOTOR? For his Shelby? For Mira’s? For what car? Did you find out?”
“Well, Steve – here’s the best part of all. It isn’t even a replacement 5.4 he’s trying to land. It’s an experimental Hurricane motor that the skunk works boys in Detroit are working on for their new Blue Devil Killer package. It’s a blown 6.2 liter motor that they have running around in a few test mules that has a Whipple 3.3 on it and other secret goodies. Seems that Bill has got connections with someone up there and Bobby told me he put fifteen large down to get his hands on one via his ‘connection’…”
Brandon wasn’t smiling.
“And here’s yet another piece – this motor, IF it comes in time, is going into a Black Shelby GT500. One with white stripes. And I’m betting it’s the car Mira drives. Why? Because Bobby told me that it definitely was for a black GT500… but getting it soon is a problem and the Reynolds boys are pushing Bobby hard to get it in…”
I leaned back in the chair. My god… if they drop in a blown 6.2 in the Shelby – assuming it was even doable – and IF this was Mira’s car - I was going to have a serious, serious problem. With just a few weeks until the race, anything was possible. But since I had already wrangled the Stage motor into the WE4, I didn’t have many tricks up my sleeve with the GN – and I wasn’t about to swap motors yet again.
“What else did Jim tell you, Steve?”
Just as he asked that question, I heard the garage door going up. Kelly was home.
“I’ll tell you in a minute but first, Kelly’s here and she’s got some pizza. I’ll just tell you both at the same time… but I have a question for you…”
“What’s that?” We heard the garage door going back closed and the sound of the solid GTO’s door shutting immediately followed by the sound of Kelly opening the walk-through door into the utility room…
“Steve? I’m home! Hungry? Oh, hi Brandon!”
“Ever seen a TTA?”
“A what?” That was Kelly, giving me a quick smooch on the cheek as she walked by.
“A TTA? It’s a white, ’89 Trans Am with essentially the GN drive train in it – it’s a bad boy.” She nodded her head. Being a resident Poncho fan, Kelly keeps up on what GM’s red-headed stepchild of a motor division does and has done over the years….
She began pulling some plates and napkins from the pantry as I opened the big 18” pizza box, the aroma of fresh baked pizza loaded with pepperoni, sausage, green olives, onions, mushrooms, and double cheese filled the room… close your eyes and you would swear you were in Rome…
“So, Steve – what’s up with this TTA thing?”
“Yeah, Steve… what’s the deal?”
I just smiled… “You’re both not going to believe what I’m about to tell you but let’s eat – I’ll fill you in as WE fill up! Dig in!”
I didn’t have to tell B twice…
“Oh, Kel. I’ve got a couple of strange messages on the phone…”
“From a Dan Sleagle?” She asked over top of the piece of pizza she had just lifted up to her cute little mouth…
I lowered MY pizza from MY gaping mouth…
“How do you know this guy?”
She smiled…
“Because, my love – I am the one who called HIM… you aren’t the ONLY one with some interesting news, you know!”
She smiled and winked… yep, it was going to be an interesting dinner time…
“Ok, here’s the deal on the TTA – then, YOU tell me about this Sleagle call and while I’m calling HIM, Brandon can fill YOU in on what HE learned today…”
Both of them nodded agreement….
“Well, for me, it started when Jim called me at work.”
“Jim? From our Sheriff’s department?”
“Yep, that would be him… here’s what is up…”
******************_________________************************
The next morning, Kelly and I headed across town so she could drop me off at the Sheriff’s department. We went over the phone conversation I had had last night with Sleagle and compared notes during the drive over, still surprised about some of the info he had shared with me/us… In no time, we were pulling into the duty lot and I was out of the car, waving her good bye. There, I walked inside and met Jim at the desk, went back into his office and filled out the necessary forms. In less than a half hour, we both walked out into the garage again, this time with me holding the keys to the TTA as well as a certificate of title. For all intents and purposes, the car was mine.
“Jim – are you SURE this is a good idea? After all, street racing is illegal and Kelly is NOT too keen on this idea… are you sure this is how this needs to go down?”
Jim paused and placed his hand on my shoulder as we stood there in front of the gleaming white F-body. It even SMELLED new…
“Steve, this will work but it needs to be believable. That’s where YOU come in. I assure you – there will be no interference from law enforcement as long as you don’t request it. You know what I need you to do and I know you can do it. You just need THIS car to help you get it done – your car won’t make the trip. Trust me – if this goes as smoothly as it should, by Sunday morning it will be all over, the car will be yours to keep, and you will have helped us immensely… you just HAVE to keep this real and keep it low-key… remember the scenario… just follow our plan and it will work. Ok?”
I stood there looking at the flowing lines of the TTA. This WAS going to be a nice distraction from the whole Reynolds debacle – as long as no one got hurt. But I had to also admit that in street racing, getting hurt WAS a possibility. After all, I had seen Ned wipe out his Shelby right beside me so I KNEW it was a possibility…
Yet, there was that strangely intoxicating feeling of doing something that was on the very, very edge of sanity and reality. If what I was going to do on Saturday was to work, I had to believe in it as much as Jim did.
I opened the door of the TTA after hitting the keyless entry button. Swinging the wide door open, I sat down/fell into the tan (“Saddle”) leather-like vinyl seat and swung my legs in. Leaning back into the bolstering, I felt like I was swept back in time once again… the numerous button controls on the steering wheel center hub looked like a computer panel… the big, meaty transmission shifter in its gray ‘leather’ cover fit nicely in my hand… the wide dash full of instruments that had been converted to white-face gauges, the big 140 mph speedo just left of the steering column almost daring me to turn the LC2 loose just to prove that getting to 140 would be a blast…
“Jim… I think this just might work after all. I gotta admit something here buddy – I am liking THIS car more every minute… I’ll call you Saturday night and let you know how it’s going… ok?”
He smiled, stood up straight, and crossed his arms as I closed the door.
“I’ll wait to hear from you. And Steve…”
“Yeah?”
“Just be careful, ok? Don’t do anything stupid. Nothing is worth getting hurt over, especially this deal…”
I reached down, slid the rectangular key into the ignition, rotated it forward to the ‘Start’ position and the V6 sprang to life…
“I’ll call you Saturday…” The Turbo motor idled fairly smoothly, not giving away any clue that just beneath my right foot was more actual HP and Torque than a Corvette of the same year could only dream about.
He nodded that he understood…
I nodded ok…
And with that silent exchange, I pulled out of the garage via the big open bay door at the south end… into the sunlight and the warmth of another spring day….
I just hoped that I would feel this confident come Saturday… because I still felt like I was about to go swimming with sharks… ones with very, very big teeth.
To be continued…
As I walked by the answering machine, I noticed the light was blinking and the number “4” was illuminated on the LCD. I pressed “Play Messages”.
The metallic voice came on and I listened as I opened the fridge door to see what might be available –
“Message ONE – received Monday, one fourteen PM – ‘Steve? This is Brandon – hey, give me a call, man. We need to talk… call my cell cause I’m going to be out and about…’
Searching through the leftovers, nothing grabbed my eye…
“Message TWO – received Monday, two twenty-one PM – ‘Mr. Morton, this is Dan Sleagle from the Fayette County, Pennsylvania Sheriff’s department – would you give me a call as soon as possible at area code seven two four, five five nine, three three three three? I need to speak with you about an urgent matter. Thank you…’
Suddenly, a snack didn’t seem as important… I continued to listen, mentally recording the phone number (724-559-3333).
“Message THREE – received Monday, four ten PM – ‘Steve? I’m going to be a little late again. I’ll pick up a pizza for dinner and I should be home around six so grab a snack and I’ll see you then. Love ya!”
Ah-ha… no snack needed. If Kel’s timing was right, a hot pizza should be walking through the door any minute… I closed the door and listened to the last message as I reached up on the counter to grab the cordless phone…
“Message FOUR – received Monday, five twenty-seven PM – ‘Mr. Morton, this is Deputy Sleagle once more. I hope you get this message because I do need to talk with you as soon as possible. It’s regarding a letter I received from an insurance company that I believe your wife’s law firm is representing. I have some interesting information for you that I really think you need to know. Call me as soon as you can, no matter the hour… thank you.”
Just as I started dialing Brandon’s number, the doorbell rang. I hit “End” on the phone and walked to the front door.
It was B.
I opened the door and before he was even inside, he was talking very excitedly about something that I couldn’t quite grasp…
“Whoa there, Brandon! Slow down, dude – I can’t understand a word you’re saying, you’re talking so fast! Start over, ok?”
Brandon stopped for just a second, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and then began again.
“Steve, you are NOT going to believe what I just heard down at Anderson’s. Actually, it is what I saw…”
I could tell by Brandon’s wide-eyed look that he wasn’t fooling around.
“Ok… what did you see?”
“I saw Bill Reynolds, two big burly looking guys and – get this – Ned Reynolds.” B was nodding his head affirmatively when he said Ned’s name as if to convey accuracy.
“Brandon, are you sure it wasn’t Nate? Ned’s brother? Remember? We saw him at Tri-County and he even told me he was Ned’s brother – you’ve got to be mistaken.”
Brandon grabbed a Coke from the fridge as he was shaking his head. Twisting off the cap, he turned to face me as he swilled down about a third of the icy soda.
“No, I’m not mistaken at all. It was definitely Ned…”
I couldn’t tell him what Jim had told me just a couple of hours earlier but I had strong feeling that B was right. But still, I had to test him a bit more.
“I don’t know, B… how can you be so darn sure?”
“Because I heard one of the burly dudes call him by name when this guy’s cell phone rang – he said, ‘It’s for you, Ned’ and he called him by name exactly.”
“So? Maybe he just got the name mixed up – Nate looks just like Ned and is his brother, possibly a twin. It still doesn’t mean anything and we all know Ned is dead – remember? The funeral and all?”
Brandon took another drink, pulled out one of the chairs and sat down at the kitchen table. He smiled that, “I KNOW I’m right and YOU know I’m right but I’m going to make you ask me to prove it” look…
“Just because some goon called Nate ‘Ned’, doesn’t mean he IS Ned…”
“But Steve – why would ‘Nate’ tell this guy to NOT call him that in public; that he and everyone else was supposed to call him ‘Nate’ so no one would find out what happened… on top of that, as soon as this guy said ‘Ned’, your dear friend Bill slugged him hard in the shoulder and gave him a look that could have withered a fig tree… so… what do you think now? Think I’m mistaken?”
I didn’t answer him at first but instead, walked around to the other side of the table, pulled out my own chair and sat down across from him. Reaching into my shirt pocket, I pulled out the pictures Jim had given me copies of earlier.
“Nah, B – I believe you. Here’s why…”
I slid the pics across the heavy oak table. He picked them up and began thumbing through them, stopping to pause at the one of the two guys sitting in the car outside the restaurant. He pointed at one of the men.
“Steve – THIS is the guy who identified Ned today at Andersons. THIS is the guy who Bill slugged and who Ned reminded in no uncertain terms that he was NOT to call him Ned ever again, at least if he didn’t want to wake up wearing cement shoes at the bottom of Lake Erie or something like that… I mean, after all – even I got THAT message… and – that is DEFINITELY Ned in that ambulance… Hey! Why is he in the driver’s seat?”
“I don’t know that answer yet but I’m sure we will soon. Same with the pic of the boat, the warehouse, why Bill was talking to Sasha from the DMV…”(which caused another chill to roll down my spine – there definitely is a creepy connection there) “So – how is it that YOU happened to hear all this and they didn’t realize that you were nearby?”
“Oh, they knew I was there. They just didn’t recognize me. Ned never gave me a glance; he was only busy with Bobby at the counter, spoke a few sentences to Bill under his voice when Bobby was away from the counter, and the little time he talked to the goon. But THAT is definitely the guy…”
“Ok… so, what were they doing there? Did you get any info on that?”
“Well, not at first. But after they left, I asked Bobby what was what and he gave me the skinny… seems that Ned had ordered some parts for a Shelby Mustang and they weren’t in yet… care to guess what he’s waiting on?”
“I really do not have a clue, B… I don’t know that much about those bad boys. What is it he wants?”
“Oh, nothing major… just a new motor is all...”
My head jerked backwards…
“What? A NEW MOTOR? For his Shelby? For Mira’s? For what car? Did you find out?”
“Well, Steve – here’s the best part of all. It isn’t even a replacement 5.4 he’s trying to land. It’s an experimental Hurricane motor that the skunk works boys in Detroit are working on for their new Blue Devil Killer package. It’s a blown 6.2 liter motor that they have running around in a few test mules that has a Whipple 3.3 on it and other secret goodies. Seems that Bill has got connections with someone up there and Bobby told me he put fifteen large down to get his hands on one via his ‘connection’…”
Brandon wasn’t smiling.
“And here’s yet another piece – this motor, IF it comes in time, is going into a Black Shelby GT500. One with white stripes. And I’m betting it’s the car Mira drives. Why? Because Bobby told me that it definitely was for a black GT500… but getting it soon is a problem and the Reynolds boys are pushing Bobby hard to get it in…”
I leaned back in the chair. My god… if they drop in a blown 6.2 in the Shelby – assuming it was even doable – and IF this was Mira’s car - I was going to have a serious, serious problem. With just a few weeks until the race, anything was possible. But since I had already wrangled the Stage motor into the WE4, I didn’t have many tricks up my sleeve with the GN – and I wasn’t about to swap motors yet again.
“What else did Jim tell you, Steve?”
Just as he asked that question, I heard the garage door going up. Kelly was home.
“I’ll tell you in a minute but first, Kelly’s here and she’s got some pizza. I’ll just tell you both at the same time… but I have a question for you…”
“What’s that?” We heard the garage door going back closed and the sound of the solid GTO’s door shutting immediately followed by the sound of Kelly opening the walk-through door into the utility room…
“Steve? I’m home! Hungry? Oh, hi Brandon!”
“Ever seen a TTA?”
“A what?” That was Kelly, giving me a quick smooch on the cheek as she walked by.
“A TTA? It’s a white, ’89 Trans Am with essentially the GN drive train in it – it’s a bad boy.” She nodded her head. Being a resident Poncho fan, Kelly keeps up on what GM’s red-headed stepchild of a motor division does and has done over the years….
She began pulling some plates and napkins from the pantry as I opened the big 18” pizza box, the aroma of fresh baked pizza loaded with pepperoni, sausage, green olives, onions, mushrooms, and double cheese filled the room… close your eyes and you would swear you were in Rome…
“So, Steve – what’s up with this TTA thing?”
“Yeah, Steve… what’s the deal?”
I just smiled… “You’re both not going to believe what I’m about to tell you but let’s eat – I’ll fill you in as WE fill up! Dig in!”
I didn’t have to tell B twice…
“Oh, Kel. I’ve got a couple of strange messages on the phone…”
“From a Dan Sleagle?” She asked over top of the piece of pizza she had just lifted up to her cute little mouth…
I lowered MY pizza from MY gaping mouth…
“How do you know this guy?”
She smiled…
“Because, my love – I am the one who called HIM… you aren’t the ONLY one with some interesting news, you know!”
She smiled and winked… yep, it was going to be an interesting dinner time…
“Ok, here’s the deal on the TTA – then, YOU tell me about this Sleagle call and while I’m calling HIM, Brandon can fill YOU in on what HE learned today…”
Both of them nodded agreement….
“Well, for me, it started when Jim called me at work.”
“Jim? From our Sheriff’s department?”
“Yep, that would be him… here’s what is up…”
******************_________________************************
The next morning, Kelly and I headed across town so she could drop me off at the Sheriff’s department. We went over the phone conversation I had had last night with Sleagle and compared notes during the drive over, still surprised about some of the info he had shared with me/us… In no time, we were pulling into the duty lot and I was out of the car, waving her good bye. There, I walked inside and met Jim at the desk, went back into his office and filled out the necessary forms. In less than a half hour, we both walked out into the garage again, this time with me holding the keys to the TTA as well as a certificate of title. For all intents and purposes, the car was mine.
“Jim – are you SURE this is a good idea? After all, street racing is illegal and Kelly is NOT too keen on this idea… are you sure this is how this needs to go down?”
Jim paused and placed his hand on my shoulder as we stood there in front of the gleaming white F-body. It even SMELLED new…
“Steve, this will work but it needs to be believable. That’s where YOU come in. I assure you – there will be no interference from law enforcement as long as you don’t request it. You know what I need you to do and I know you can do it. You just need THIS car to help you get it done – your car won’t make the trip. Trust me – if this goes as smoothly as it should, by Sunday morning it will be all over, the car will be yours to keep, and you will have helped us immensely… you just HAVE to keep this real and keep it low-key… remember the scenario… just follow our plan and it will work. Ok?”
I stood there looking at the flowing lines of the TTA. This WAS going to be a nice distraction from the whole Reynolds debacle – as long as no one got hurt. But I had to also admit that in street racing, getting hurt WAS a possibility. After all, I had seen Ned wipe out his Shelby right beside me so I KNEW it was a possibility…
Yet, there was that strangely intoxicating feeling of doing something that was on the very, very edge of sanity and reality. If what I was going to do on Saturday was to work, I had to believe in it as much as Jim did.
I opened the door of the TTA after hitting the keyless entry button. Swinging the wide door open, I sat down/fell into the tan (“Saddle”) leather-like vinyl seat and swung my legs in. Leaning back into the bolstering, I felt like I was swept back in time once again… the numerous button controls on the steering wheel center hub looked like a computer panel… the big, meaty transmission shifter in its gray ‘leather’ cover fit nicely in my hand… the wide dash full of instruments that had been converted to white-face gauges, the big 140 mph speedo just left of the steering column almost daring me to turn the LC2 loose just to prove that getting to 140 would be a blast…
“Jim… I think this just might work after all. I gotta admit something here buddy – I am liking THIS car more every minute… I’ll call you Saturday night and let you know how it’s going… ok?”
He smiled, stood up straight, and crossed his arms as I closed the door.
“I’ll wait to hear from you. And Steve…”
“Yeah?”
“Just be careful, ok? Don’t do anything stupid. Nothing is worth getting hurt over, especially this deal…”
I reached down, slid the rectangular key into the ignition, rotated it forward to the ‘Start’ position and the V6 sprang to life…
“I’ll call you Saturday…” The Turbo motor idled fairly smoothly, not giving away any clue that just beneath my right foot was more actual HP and Torque than a Corvette of the same year could only dream about.
He nodded that he understood…
I nodded ok…
And with that silent exchange, I pulled out of the garage via the big open bay door at the south end… into the sunlight and the warmth of another spring day….
I just hoped that I would feel this confident come Saturday… because I still felt like I was about to go swimming with sharks… ones with very, very big teeth.
To be continued…
