Butter Pecan

The interesting thing, I think, was that the car show fell into our laps unbidden; it turned out there was a local show, smaller, but still big enough that was being given to benefit the local Peyton Manning Children's Hospital coming up in two weeks. Asshole had signed up to show off his car, which represented the perfect opportunity.

I was purposely kept mostly out of the loop. My vengeance would fail if, during Police questioning, I slipped and said something which indicated I knew too much. But it also increased my anxiety. I didn't know that the T's were getting dotted and the I's crossed, or vice versa. Hopefully vice versa. All of that was going on while I was still having to put up with Marie, and somehow keep up a semblance of normalcy around her. She could see through it, I know, but since she didn't know what I knew, and she couldn't admit to what she had done, she didn't know if it was just dark thoughts and suspicions, or concrete proof. I did decide one thing, separate from Bobbie, though. I was going to keep the recorders and cameras up until a couple weeks after the show. Oh, I didn't think they would catch anything now, but removing them too suddenly now that she knew I was looking would probably be a big tell as to the fact I already had her own damning voice talking about her affair. While they were up, she could think it was just suspicion.

The night before the car show, Evan just 'happened' to show up the same time Bobbie just 'happened' to show up at the DQ; I just 'happened' to show up a few minutes later. What a coincidence, eh? Bobbie and I hadn't talked about what was going on anywhere near our cell phones, nor any other place there could be bugs, so we'd only been talking about normal stuff lately, but I knew I needed to get briefed in.

"Hank, you have to be the one to set it off; you have to be the distraction. Evan and a friend of his who you will not be meeting are going to be the guys who trailer the car; I'm going to be Asshole in the video at the Public Storage unit. I'm going to need something from you, though. I need you to text me a picture of him at the car; I've got a disposable phone" and he handed it to me "with one number preset, to another one of mine. I'll match his clothes, as best I can, and add some dark glasses and a Colts ball cap. With the video quality, that'll probably be good enough. We need you to stay visible, and be noticed. The ONLY picture you take with this camera is of him at the car; you'll toss the phone at the gas station on the way home, okay? But I need you to take a lot of photos throughout the day, talk to people, get cards, even hand out your number a few times to some of the Vette guys. Make sure people see you and remember you. Take the photo with that camera as early as you can, though, as it might take time to match the clothes."

"Ok, got that, but what about the distraction? What do I do for that?"

"You're may to have to improvise a bit. There will be something that should be able to pull him away for 10 minutes or so. Maybe arrange to donate a prize to a top 1960s cars from each make; the Barracuda may not be a 1970, but it's likely the best 1960s Mopar; give a $100 donation for each Chevy, Ford, or Dodge best in show for the 1960s. $300 you can write off on your taxes, man. Arrange the award there and have the award ceremony take place at... say 5:30, but you have to be there to pick it up. How's that?"

"Improvise, hell, you've just given me the whole spiel to do it. It's a plan. I'll even make the Mopar last, to pull him to the main tent longer. If I do it right, and talk a minute about the great 1960s muscle cars, and then have each guy talk about why his car was king of the '60s, I might be able to stretch it to a half hour."

"See, now that's what I meant by improvise."

Evan piped in with a laugh "Williams will probably be a half hour all on his own, never mind the Corvette or Mustang guys. But if you don't include a GOAT, you're going to piss somebody off. You said Chevy, Ford, Dodge, you've got to include Pontiac for the GTOs and Firebirds."

"Ok, now it's what, $400. Why don't I actually make it $500, and we'll have a vote off among the spectators in the tent at the time to see who gets the extra hundred. Although it galls me that I'll be giving a $100 to Asshole for fucking my wife."

"Money well spent, when he's Bubba's cellmate. And you'll have an ironclad alibi." Bobbie was right, of course. If it set Williams up, it was worth it.

The following day was well and nicely started, with clear blue skies, moderate temperatures, a bright and cheery sun. I swear, I think I heard robins twittering, it was so bright and beautiful. Well, it seemed that way to me, because I knew that today was the day Jonathan the Asshole Williams was going to begin the rest of his life, minus his prize Barracuda. It was a simply glorious day. I fail to believe the forecast from the radio as I drove to the car show, "Overcast, with a 30% chance of precipitation, highs in the mid to upper 50 degree range." As someone once said, "I reject that reality and substitute my own."

After paying the fee, I made my way over close to where Williams was working on setting up the presentation area around his car. I took a quick picture of him and the car after I walked past him, and then sent the text to Bobbie. A moment later, I got the reply "Got it. LMK 4 show time", which I translate to "Let Me Know what time you're going to do the presentation so we can snatch the car then." From there, I walked over the the main admin tent.

"Hi folks! Name's Hank Preston, and I have a proposal; I'd like to give a small award later today to the top 1960s cars from Chevy, Ford, Pontiac and Chrysler/Plymouth. It'll bring in a bit of extra interest. I'm willing to donate $100 for each winner, and then have a vote for best among the four for an extra $100. All I'm asking is that it be considered charitable, since it's something to raise the excitement level. I've got the money right here, clean crisp new bills." I said as I held out the hundreds.

"I think we can do that. What time would you like to do it, and how do we judge?" one of the lead volunteers asked.

"Hand people tickets, let them drop it in a bucket or hat by their favorite; leading vote getters in each category win, then a voice vote for the final winner later? Should be simple enough." I answered.

"Tim run this ticket roll up to the front. Have them pass out a ticket to everyone who comes in, and tell them to explain what they're for. Maggie, why don't you go tell each of the possibles why they should hold onto those tickets. We'll hold the count and votes at, say, 5 this afternoon?"

"Sounds good. Just need a receipt for taxes." I smiled. All according to plan. After leaving the tent, I texted '5PM' to the preset; a moment later, I got 'ok, ditch phone at gas station on way home" back. Since it was early, I wandered through the cars, and spent a long time drooling over a 1963 Split Rear Window Stingray, in metallic blue, and a 1967 454 powered canary yellow Stingray convertible. I was having a hard time figuring out which might be more worthy. I took pictures, with my own cell phone, took cards, pondered the for sale sign on a 1965 silver fuelie Stingray, the last year fuel injection could be had on a corvette until 1982. It tempted me. It very much tempted me.

There weren't a whole lot of other Vettes there, just five in the category, but it was still seeing some of the ones I'd dreamed of since childhood. Of the rest of the Chevys, I was surprised at how good a 1962 Impala looked; it would definitely have won without the three Vettes I mentioned, and it would be right in contention regardless.

I found a car for Bobbie, too, a green 1969 Mustang Mach 1 fastback. It was even for sale, but when I saw the asking price, I decided not to tell Bobbie about that. He'd never have lived to drive it, since Sue would have killed him for paying that. Best, in this case, to let sleeping dogs lie, and pony cars for sale go to someone else. Hey, if I couldn't have the fuelie, he can't have the Mach 1, alright? There were also a decent number of mid 60s 'Stangs, even a single 1964 1/2 convertible that was definitely interesting, but the Mach I was the star. Perhaps if there had been a Shelby or an Elinor, but there wasn't. The other Fords only had a single Galaxie 500 that truly stood out.

I didn't just hang out the entire day; I made myself memorable, made a few new friends, and I talked up my favorites in the four categories to some of the other folks walking around. It was a hoot when I finally found both a blue 1967 Firebird and a red (of course) 1968 GTO in the Pontiac set that were really cherry; I whispered to the older guy with the Goat that he should probably play a bit of The Beach Boys on his cell as background music; if he set a small playlist, he could have their version of "Little GTO" playing in the background. He like that idea; when I walked by again later, I heard the end of a loop he'd made. I got a kick of it, and stayed long enough that it started up with "Little Old Lady from Pasadena". What made it especially fun is that an older couple were walking bye when it started. She started laughing, and asked if she could borrow the Goat while she took it "to church". I mentioned to her there was a Barracuda she should look at while she was talking, since it's a Mopar, closer to the 'superstocked Dodge' (which in retrospect, might not have been the best idea). It was obvious to me that either the Firebird or the Goat were going to win in the Pontiac group.

The Barracuda had a small bit of competition, though, which was a problem; I needed to keep Asshole in the tent as long as possible. There was a 1968 Dodge Super Bee, avocado green, and with the big 426 Hemi; it was the single rarest specimen of a car in the show, period, and it was the owners pride and joy. It had only one significant flaw, at least as a concourse style car; some owner along the way had pulled the original radio, and had added a newer one, along with a, now ancient, 8 track player that hadn't been in the car. It had damaged the dash a bit, and the owner hadn't gotten around yet to fixing the dash and carpeting. As well, it didn't have the original wheels, instead having five spoke wheels with spinner caps, which looked suspiciously (to me) like mid 1960s Stingray wheels. They looked... good, I suppose, but detracted from the car. I mentioned it to a few folks, and probably destroyed what could have been a friendship when the owner heard me. I really liked the Super Bee, but the Barracuda needed to win.

I started getting nervous around 4 PM. I knew that, as yet, no crime had been committed, but that in less than two hours, I would be an accessory both before and after the fact with Grand Theft Auto, even if I wasn't guilty of it myself. I remembered Bobbie, and the fact he would 'help me hide the bodies', and I remembered Evan, and how upset he had been over his wife's cheating, and how much anger and hurt Marie's betrayal had done to me. I also knew that at the moment, I could pretend nothing had happened with Marie, and just go forward lying to myself and others, but if we went through with it, I needed, wanted, Williams to suspect me, regardless of my alibi. I needed him to get to the point that he betrayed Marie to me and everyone else.

And then it was time. I was nervous, but relieved when I saw the Jonathan the Asshole walk into the tent. The die was cast, and whatever was going to happen, would happen. I sent one last quick text, 'Go', and that was it. Even as I should have gotten less calm, I felt a warm feeling of relaxation come over me. The Super Bee owner frowned when he saw me with the 'judges', I also saw the owners of the three top Vettes, the owners of the 64 1/2 'Stang and the Mach I, the owner of the Impala, the owners of the Firebird and the Goat, and I saw him. He saw me at that point, for the first time, perhaps, realizing that I had funded the little award. After a moment, he smirked, and at that moment I wished to hell that the Super Bee beat him out.

I gave a little speech, talking about how the 1960s were the greatest era in automotive history (I heard a guy who had been showing off his 1993 Porsche 911 laugh at that), and how Detroit steel had ruled the road. I then invited each of the owners who had an entry to bring their tickets to be counted, with a short line in front of each of the folks the people running the show had grabbed to count tickets. I milked that a bit by asking each person, when they brought their tickets up, to say a few words about their car.

A strange difference showed up in how they talked about their cars. A couple guys started quoting chapter and verse about the car, the drive train, who designed it, how many were made. A couple talked not about the car in general, but theirs specifically, as to how it was a special example of their car. And a few didn't talk so much about the car, as they did about memories around the car; many had been family or friends cars, not collected from strangers, but having a personal meaning to the owner. It impressed me that the guy with the 1962 Impala mentioned that his father proposed to his mom in the car, and that they used it for their wedding, honeymoon, and bringing the kids home from the hospital. His dad had last driven it to his mother's funeral, and had given it to him a week later. That brought some tears to eyes in the crowd.

Williams followed him a minute later. He could have talked about growing up seeing the car, sitting unused, his grandfather's dream car, while his grandfather pined away after the stroke. He could have talked about what made the car special in other ways, why it was unique, or rare, or desirable. He could have talked about the restoration. He didn't. He talked, and I quote, about how "women seem to love the car. There's something about seeing it, and hearing that song, 'Barracuda', by Fleetwood Mac, and they just melt. Nothing better for a bachelor to have beyond a hot car." It went over with a thud, and someone from the back shouted "It's Heart, asshole, not Fleetwood Mac, and it's got nothing to do with the car"; I think that got a bigger laugh than his talk got applause. Marie had cheated on me with this piece of shit? Really?

When the voting was done (and it stretched out to a full twenty minutes, as the judges made sure everyone had time to talk about their car), you could see that folks were starting to get enthused about some of the cars. And then they gave me the winners to name out; I hadn't expected that, but it was fun handing each winner a small certificate that the show had printed up, a little blue ribbon, and a crisp $100 bill. The first car called was the Mach I; they didn't give me the numbers, but it was clear the Mach I dominated the Fords. I was surprised when the Impala won over the top two 'Vettes, the '63 and the '67, but it was also clear that the owner had been telling that story throughout the day. I think he got a lot of votes from the ladies, and a few men, because the car looked so good, and it had a beautiful story attached. The GTO won the Pontiacs, but you could tell that it was close; people in the tent debated which would win. And then the Mopars came up. Someone from the back shouted out there should be one for Dodge and one for Plymouth, since I'd broken the Pontiacs out from the Chevys; he was obviously biased, as he was wearing a "It's a Hemi!" T-shirt. I demurred, and simply answered that I wasn't made of infinite cash, and had to draw a line somewhere. It was now approaching 5:30, so I knew that I didn't have to pull Williams into the tent, and away from the 'Cuda much longer.

And then it happened. The Super Bee won the Mopar group. We weren't done in the tent, but I had no way to stretch out how long Williams would stay. He was free to leave, or free to be a good sport and see who won the final prize, "Best of the '60s". It was just going to be another ribbon, and another certificate, plus the last $100 bill, but it would still have been fun.

And Williams walked out.

I was going to be there, having to milk the in-person loudness voting among the crowd, which was still at least 70 or so folks, the majority of the ones who'd been there from the start. I milked it, even as I suddenly started sweating out the situation. Five minutes to his car, five minutes to try to figure out what happened, then another couple. My world could become very different in the next fifteen minutes, but I'd been in front of everyone, in that tent, the whole time. My alibi was solid, but it wouldn't stand up to a conspiracy Grand Theft Auto charge. I knew I had to keep it together, to be shocked at the bold theft just like everyone else. So I played my part; I had each of the four winners come up and stand in front. I raised my hand over each one, the GTO first, which got a good applause. I switched to the Mach I, which got slightly better. I held it over the Super Bee, which got a nice response, but obviously third behind the other two. And then I did the Impala. Personally, I thought the Impala was nice, but not an actual 'muscle car'; my vote would have gone to the '63 Split Rear Window Coupe, which I'd have been hard pressed not to say was 'Best in Show'. But my vote didn't count in this. The crowd hooped and hollered over the Impala, loud and hard, and as soon as they did, the Mach I owner turned and shook the man's hand. It was obvious who had won. I was smiling ear to ear when I shook his hand and handed him his prizes. One of the other exhibitors also brought up a can of Liquid Glass car wax and handed it to him. You could see he was touched; he knew the car was good, but it was the history that made it best in show, and a crowd pleaser.

It was just as he walked over to the microphone to say how happy he was when Williams burst in yelling his car had been stolen. I felt bad about that; the Impala owner, Thomas Warner. He was enjoying the heck out of his moment up to that, but the commotion as people left was a sight. Just as he was leaving, though, he turned to me and said "Hank, he really is an asshole, isn't he? My wife's gonna get a kick out of the $200, though. Thanks!" He winked at me and walked off. While he had heard my name mentioned, we had barely spoken before that, so I was surprised that he called me Hank, or that he knew my impression and opinion of Williams.

I joined the crowd going over to where the 'Cuda had been; I made sure that I walked all over the area "looking" at things, and made sure a number of others did, too. I guess I'd seen too many crime shows, and wanted to make sure that the scene of the crime was as contaminated with extraneous people and things as I could. I even 'accidentally' knocked a 10 year olds arm, causing him to spill a box of popcorn near the area; while apologizing, I made sure to step into the only tire track that I could see from site, obliterating the evidence (some of the popcorn was there, too). I gave him enough to go buy a replacement box, since it had been my fault.

It wasn't until the police got there that Williams even looked in my direction; the crowd had thinned b about half before they got there. I heard what triggered it, it was one of the officers.

"Do you know anyone who would want to hurt you, or steal your car? Do you have an enemies?" That was the moment Asshole looked at me.

"Uh, I have one person I can think of. We'll need to talk about it privately." was all that he said, and then they walked away a bit and I couldn't hear him. He gestured once in my direction, and the cop glanced over at me. The old saw about a criminal always returning to the scene of the crime briefly flashed through my head as the cop looked me over. At one point, Asshole again looked towards me, and pointed. I smirked at him and then turned away. After a half hour or so, I left, stopping only long enough to use a shammy on the burner phone to wipe it down after I erased everything. I tossed it from the window onto a grassy area beside the road a few miles away, near where I knew some teenagers hung out. Although it was possible the police would get their hands on it, I doubted it, and the incriminating material had been removed, anyway. I tossed it there because it seemed less likely to be found than tossing it at a gas station, where they might pull up a surveillance tape of me doing it.