Free The Quick Adios (Times Six) by Tom Corcoran Page A

cars, chrome fender badges and vintage brochures were arranged in glass-topped display cases. Three cars were pushed up against one wall. A ‘66 Mustang fastback that someone had turned into an imitation Candyapple Red Shelby GT-350H with gold stripes. The Nightmist Blue ‘67 fastback Mustang that Beeson and I had discussed on New Year’s Eve. And a green ‘54 Ford Customline V-8 coupe with whitewalls, vinyl seat covers and small hub caps. Three fine cars and four antique gas pumps, all pushed aside like old ashtrays. The checkered-flag motif flooring was covered with the kind of file storage boxes you buy from Office Depot. The proud display had gone to seed.
    My phone buzzed again in my pocket. I couldn’t answer, but stole a look. Dubbie Tanner trying to get through.
    From thirty feet away I heard Beeson bark, “Fuck him. We’ll buy our manifolds from someone else.”
    I turned to look. He was walking toward me.
    “That was my grandmother’s car.” He pointed at the ‘54 Ford. “Original Highland Green. It survived her driving right up to the day she died, bless her soul, even while the DMV was trying to revoke her license. They claimed she didn’t sit high enough to see over the dashboard. These, however…” He stepped behind another partition and I followed. “This is Amanda’s stable. My ex-wife likes attention.”
    Along the opposite wall sat a red Mini Cooper convertible, a white Mercedes-Benz SLK300 roadster, and a silver BMW 335 convertible. A trio of showroom fresh Draw-Attention specials.
    Beeson called out to Luke Tharpe. “How are we so blessed? All three are here?”
    Luke walked over and explained that he had come in the day before and found the Benz outside, as if it had been dropped off. He had moved it inside to its regular spot. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but somewhere in his explanation he used the word, “ostensibly.” His vocabulary didn’t match his clothing.
    Beeson and I?left the way we had entered. The Cubicle Wasteland turned me off even more the second time through. On the upside, some buyer might see the huge open-plan room as an inviting challenge. My view was that no photo of mine, no matter how artistic, could beautify the workplace.
    As we passed back through the security “man trap” to the parking lot, I had to wonder why Beeson, with his expensive classic and modern cars needing shelter and maintenance, was so anxious to sell their oversized garage? If the building sold, what would he do with them all?
    I saw the place as promise of a tough and boring day ahead of me.
    I would be correct. I would also be wrong.

6.
    B eeson drove south on I-75, west into Sarasota and south on Orange Avenue. During that time two thoughts played inside my mind. One was the quick attitude shift the man had displayed inside his failed museum. He had vehemently cussed a supplier and ten seconds later, in a respectful, wistful tone, expressed fondness for his late grandmother and her ‘54 Ford. That ability to transform himself so abruptly would shade my opinion of the man from that point on.
    We entered a pleasant area of tall trees and lovely homes tragically devalued by its concrete speed bumps, obnoxious traffic calming mounds announced by reflective pavement paint that read, “Hump.” It was a part of town similar to many in America where anyone on foot and not wearing jogging clothes is under suspicion. A mile farther, under mature, leafy trees, Beeson turned right into Cormorant Lane.
    “You can’t tell because of the privacy walls,” he said, “but we’re only 200 feet from salt water.”
    I asked if he kept a boat at the house.
    “My pristine 2011 Sea Ray 350 Sundancer with the custom-built teak interior is owned by my ex-wife these days,” he said. “With fuel prices through the roof, it’s everything I could wish for her. Of course, indirectly, I pay that gas bill too.”
    Beeson’s home looked new, Mediterranean, with arches and high ceilings, lighted