Slipstream - November 2020

My Kingdom for a Horse
by Hammer
Your mind’s been racing.
Catch up.
Decades of dreaming, fulfilled instantaneously. The iconic 911 Carrera. Legendary
handling, immediate power, and decades of motorsport heritage. It is the full
measure of a sports car. Found only in a Porsche. Porsche. There is no substitute.
The 911 Carrera.
©2018 Porsche Cars North America, Inc. Porsche recommends seat belt usage and observance of traffic laws at all times.
Porsche Plano
5924 W Plano Pkwy.
Plano, TX 75093
(214) 579-1911
porscheplano.com
There was a marked urgency in the raspy voice at the
other end of the phone line.
“Better get down here pronto, Hammer. You’ll want to
see this. City Garage.” A resounding click echoed through
the phone receiver.
It was Sgt. McNulty, an old pal waitin’ out his pension.
His speech was more clipped than his usual “tough cop”
cadence. It was one that I learned to ignore, even jokingly
mock, on occasion. But this time the tone was different. My
nose started to twitch; whatever he wanted me to see must be
serious, real serious. I slid the phone back onto its cradle. It
was almost midnight and I was just downing my umpteenth
bourbon and water, most of them light on the water.
Slipping on my jacket and fedora, I summoned an Uber to
pick me up and take me over to City Garage. I really didn’t
know what an “Uber” was, but some semi-famous techie
client owed me big time and gave me a “smartphone” loaded
with an “app” that did it all for me. He said the “Uber” would
take me anywhere I needed to go. So who am I to argue?
Turns out the Uber driver was just some down-on-hisluck
Joe in a late model Volvo, but he got me to the garage
in an efficient, Nordic manner. I slipped him a deuce as a tip;
he looked at it like it was funny money or some sort of bogus
lottery ticket.
I limped over to the ominous gray sliding warehouse
doors of the building. They loomed large ahead of me, like
the lid of a casket with a body that no one wanted to claim.
To the uninformed, City Garage is the unofficial morgue of
the twisted wrecks of highway metal that litter the roadways
each and every day. Their transient residents are the rusted,
shot up, mangled, and burnt out hulks of roadway misfortune
one sees during the early morning hours of any weekend.
Once inside the garage, the rancid smell of roadway death
filled my nostrils. It was unmistakable: the kind of dank, oily
smell you never forget, especially if you’ve eaten at any of the
supposed “Italian” restaurants in Dallas.
Then I saw something even a tough mug like me would
never forget. There were a dozen official “suits with badges”
crowded around a spent carcass laid bare across the center of
the garage, its putrid green entrails strewn across the polished
concrete floor. The rubber skin was torn open, apparently
very violently. It was obvious where the “green” came from.
Staring down on the exposed bowels, I wondered what
kind of twisted, sick individual could allow something like
this to happen. The idea hung over me forebodingly, like
one of those thought balloons that appear over a Dick Tracy
character’s head.
Sickened, I threw McNulty an icy stare.
“You got an ID on what we’re looking at here?”
“Sure thing, Hammer. It’s a Michelin Pilot Sport 4S, size
305/30-ZR20. The date code on the sidewall indicates a
November 2018 manufacture date. Judging by the wear
pattern, it most likely came from a rear engine car. The lab
figures it’s from a late model Porsche, either a 911 Turbo
or a GT3.”
“So what does all this have to do with me?”
“You rub shoulders with all the Porsche freaks in the area.
Any idea who could have done this?”
It’s true that I had an inside line on some of the city’s more
prominent Porsche owners, but I’m no stool pigeon - no
matter how high and expensive the stool is. And after seeing
what I saw, I figured I’d handle it my own way, Hammer style.
“Come on Hammer, don’t play cute with me; you’ve been
around the horn a few times. You know damn well that some
government ABC agency mandated a policy that forced auto
manufacturers to eliminate spare tires in order to save weight
and meet certain fuel economy requirements.”
McNulty sounded more like a politician at this point, but
he was right . . . dead right.
“You know what they do, don’t you, Hammer? They
purposely don’t include a spare tire in the trunk of the car.
They just throw in a dinky air compressor, and an overglorified
can of fix-a-flat that’s supposed to cure all your
tire ills. And frankly, Hammer, that just doesn’t cut the
mustard these days.”
“Are you done McNulty? Am I free to go? If I hear
anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Sure, Hammer. Get outta here. Blow.”
I walked outside into the cold early morning air, just
wanting to clear my lungs. It didn’t have to be this way.
There were plenty of alternative solutions besides a fancy
can of fix-a-flat. Donuts, space saver spares; anything was
better than the green goop.
I pulled at my Lucky Strike with a hearty drag, sucking all
the smoke into my waiting lungs. I exhaled slowly, savoring
the feel of the escaping smoke.
Morning was just dawning when I walked out of the
garage. Slivers of sunlight started to peek out from across
the horizon. Before I could summon another Uber driver, I
spotted a cherry red ’65 Mustang fastback across the street.
Its left rear tire was flatter than an armadillo on a Saturday
morning FM road. The owner was a cute little brunette with
legs that went in all the right directions. Ever the gentleman, I
scurried over to offer some assistance.
In the Mustang’s trunk, there was a full size spare tire with
a fresh, authentic Firestone Wide Oval G70 redline bias ply
tire - and a bumper jack to boot. How old school can you get?
Turns out she was an old school girl, and I’m an old school
guy. I changed her tire, and she kindly offered me breakfast . . .
at her place. We ate around noon. Right then, life was good.
– Shout outs to all you Slipstream fans of the noir genre. Thanks!
12 November
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