Two things happened to break up the monotony of the next week. First Cam left a message on my phone to check the front page of the Toronto Star—I did, and discovered an article on Noreen Laverty entitled, Local Woman Finds Tom Thompson Painting.
According to the article, the oil sketch I told her might be valuable was appraised at over a hundred thousand dollars. I could picture Cam’s exasperated expression—but still felt I did the right thing.
Who knew rummaging through 1930’s memorabilia could be so profitable?
Then, On Thursday night, Abe called and told me we were driving out to Mosport and he’d pick me up at ten on Saturday morning. I wasn’t into racing and had never been to the speedway, but Abe, as usual, was holding true to his word and I knew Harry would be thrilled.
I had no more encounters with my Dream Girl, as I came to call her, and was honestly disappointed. I never realized how much I came to rely on Sam to occupy my time and now she was gone, there was just bugger all.
I succumbed to my default setting—drinking too much Shiraz and hating my life.
Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny with the temperature already around fifty and heading toward sixty. Abe was in an expansive mood.
“They’re forecasting record-breaking temperatures all month, “ he chirped, standing in the doorway, “Thank God for global warming.”
“So you’re happy because it won’t affect you much in your time—but what about your kids?”
It was like sticking a needle in a balloon. “Didn’t think about that,” he said somberly.
Abe reminded me of a Jewish Colombo—just minus the rumpled raincoat. Maybe his crinkly eyes made up for that—the thought of it made me smile.
“You’re in a happy mood today, eh Pal?”
I slapped him on the shoulder as I flicked off the lights and locked the door. “You always cheer me up, Abe.”
“Het, that’s funny—that’s what Mitzy always says.”
I could see why she married him. You had to love the guy. I knew Harry did.
The pursuit car was a real beaut—a marked Chevy Camaro from the 1990’s.
“You like this baby?” Abe yelped, “A modified Camaro RS—still has all the bells and whistles from back then—and a working two-way radio.”
I shook my head in awe. “Are you going to get in trouble for taking this out?”
He shrugged and gave me his charming smile.
“Me get in trouble?” he yelped. “The sarge loves me—looks the other way. I want him to sell this to me. Who knows—maybe someday…”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I told him.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said wistfully—then, turned to me and brightened, “but until then, we’ve got your Trans am Bandit to impress the chicks. Right?”
I could have corrected him on the make and model of the car—and I should have corrected him on the remark about ‘chicks’—but he made me so damn happy at that moment, I just grinned at him and said, “Right!”
© 2017 – 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.