Gil stops talking; he’s screeched to a halt in the middle of explaining how the Mercury Comet was the sedan version of the Ford Maverick. They’ve been at the car show at Battery Park for a half-hour, and Gil hasn’t stopped lecturing for a minute. But now, he’s got a big, goofy grin on his face, as he stares at a Mercury coupe like it’s a long-lost relative.
Ever since the untimely demolition of the GTO, Gil’s been saying he should get a tank next time--and this definitely qualifies. From the rounded lines and the gigantic chrome bumpers, almost blinding in the June sunlight, Malcolm knows this beast is from the Fifties--pre-tailfins.
“Will you look at that roofline?” Gil crouches, eyeing the profile of the old car. “That’s classic hot rod culture…chop the top and lower it so it looks stream-lined.”
The way Gil’s hands are balled into fists, it’s all he can do not to caress it--’Look, Don’t Touch’ is the first rule of car shows--but his eyes are soft and clearly, he doesn’t expect an answer.
“My grandpa had one of those when I was a kid. Not modified, but it was that same blue-grey color. It had a blue and white interior.” Gil smiles wistfully. “We used to drive to Tastee-Freeze for ice cream on Sunday afternoons…the building was shaped like an ice cream cone.”
The interior isn’t blinged out--the upholstery isn’t tuck and roll or diamond-tufted, it has basic grey bench seats trimmed with red welting…it’s subtle. “Nice,” Malcolm comments.
“Nice? Ah, kid, that’s damning with faint praise!” Gil protests. “Look at that grille--like a snarling mouthful of teeth! Look at the way the windshield is raked back to give it a sleek look, look at those skirted fenders and wide side-wall tires…if they’re not three hundred bucks apiece, I’ll drive a Yugo!”
“You’e right!” says a guy who’s camped on a folding chair nearby. “Last I checked, they retail for three fifty a pop. But I got lucky. I know a guy, he got me the set for a grand and change.”
Gil turns eagerly to discuss the vehicle with its owner, who’s only too willing to chat at length about his pride and joy. Malcolm takes a deep breath and studies the car undistracted.
It’s much larger than the old Pontiac. The engine compartment probably held a straight-eight engine originally, regardless of what’s in it now--V-8’s weren’t commonplace until a few years later. The body of the car, although it’s only a two-door, has ample room for four people without crowding. The trunk alone could hold multiple bodies.
Seriously, the truck is bigger than some modern cars he’s seen. Hell, you could probably park a Smart Car back there in lieu of a spare tire. He smiles at the notion.
The car’s owner has the hood up now, and Malcolm wanders forward to hear him giving Gil an earful on the motor. “--rebuilt 455 out of a ‘71 Buick. With a four barrel carb, so it can really move!”
“What kind of gas mileage does it get?” Malcolm asks. It’s so big and heavy he’d be amazed if it got ten miles to the gallon.
Both men stare at him like he’d announced he just flew in from Planet Dumbass. Gil winces.
“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it,” the Merc’s owner answers smugly.
Actually, he could afford it. It would mean dropping a word in Jessica’s ear--she’d been sympathetic about the destruction of the GTO--but it’s well within his power to acquire it. He’ll track this guy down after the show is over and really surprise the heck out of Gil. There’s enough room for the whole team…he imagines them rolling up to crime scenes in their Statement Car.
Malcolm has profiled Gil with regards to cars. Horsepower equals virility, all that jazz. The classic Pontiac rolled off the assembly line the year Gil was born, and he’d owned it for thirty years. He’d referred to it more than once as his dream car growing up. The GTO was all about testosterone, but Gil’s not a kid any more. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. The Mercury is less overt than the GTO, but it has Big Dick Energy of its own. It definitely has personality.
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Fill -- The Lead Sled
Date: 2020-04-14 08:58 pm (UTC)Ever since the untimely demolition of the GTO, Gil’s been saying he should get a tank next time--and this definitely qualifies. From the rounded lines and the gigantic chrome bumpers, almost blinding in the June sunlight, Malcolm knows this beast is from the Fifties--pre-tailfins.
“Will you look at that roofline?” Gil crouches, eyeing the profile of the old car. “That’s classic hot rod culture…chop the top and lower it so it looks stream-lined.”
The way Gil’s hands are balled into fists, it’s all he can do not to caress it--’Look, Don’t Touch’ is the first rule of car shows--but his eyes are soft and clearly, he doesn’t expect an answer.
“My grandpa had one of those when I was a kid. Not modified, but it was that same blue-grey color. It had a blue and white interior.” Gil smiles wistfully. “We used to drive to Tastee-Freeze for ice cream on Sunday afternoons…the building was shaped like an ice cream cone.”
The interior isn’t blinged out--the upholstery isn’t tuck and roll or diamond-tufted, it has basic grey bench seats trimmed with red welting…it’s subtle. “Nice,” Malcolm comments.
“Nice? Ah, kid, that’s damning with faint praise!” Gil protests. “Look at that grille--like a snarling mouthful of teeth! Look at the way the windshield is raked back to give it a sleek look, look at those skirted fenders and wide side-wall tires…if they’re not three hundred bucks apiece, I’ll drive a Yugo!”
“You’e right!” says a guy who’s camped on a folding chair nearby. “Last I checked, they retail for three fifty a pop. But I got lucky. I know a guy, he got me the set for a grand and change.”
Gil turns eagerly to discuss the vehicle with its owner, who’s only too willing to chat at length about his pride and joy. Malcolm takes a deep breath and studies the car undistracted.
It’s much larger than the old Pontiac. The engine compartment probably held a straight-eight engine originally, regardless of what’s in it now--V-8’s weren’t commonplace until a few years later. The body of the car, although it’s only a two-door, has ample room for four people without crowding. The trunk alone could hold multiple bodies.
Seriously, the truck is bigger than some modern cars he’s seen. Hell, you could probably park a Smart Car back there in lieu of a spare tire. He smiles at the notion.
The car’s owner has the hood up now, and Malcolm wanders forward to hear him giving Gil an earful on the motor. “--rebuilt 455 out of a ‘71 Buick. With a four barrel carb, so it can really move!”
“What kind of gas mileage does it get?” Malcolm asks. It’s so big and heavy he’d be amazed if it got ten miles to the gallon.
Both men stare at him like he’d announced he just flew in from Planet Dumbass. Gil winces.
“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it,” the Merc’s owner answers smugly.
Actually, he could afford it. It would mean dropping a word in Jessica’s ear--she’d been sympathetic about the destruction of the GTO--but it’s well within his power to acquire it. He’ll track this guy down after the show is over and really surprise the heck out of Gil. There’s enough room for the whole team…he imagines them rolling up to crime scenes in their Statement Car.
Malcolm has profiled Gil with regards to cars. Horsepower equals virility, all that jazz. The classic Pontiac rolled off the assembly line the year Gil was born, and he’d owned it for thirty years. He’d referred to it more than once as his dream car growing up. The GTO was all about testosterone, but Gil’s not a kid any more. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. The Mercury is less overt than the GTO, but it has Big Dick Energy of its own. It definitely has personality.
…