The Guy in the Corvette

The car had crawled out of the intersection, the barely attached front bumper scraping the tarmac as it labored onto the upcoming street. The machine banged, popped, and sputtered to a grinding halt in the middle of the road. One of the wheels, jutting out in a position opposite the rest, had finally spun lose its tire. There was a pained whirring as a result of excessive force on the gas pedal causing dense clouds of white smoke to rise up from the tailpipe. By some mad determination of the man in the driver’s seat, the car started moving again, a wobbling tire beneath it and a trail of fluid streaking the ground behind. He steered the groaning vehicle toward the curb alongside a Chevy dealership where he killed the engine of the black Corvette for the last time.

Blue-vested employees had gathered in the lobby to watch what they had heard coming for a quarter-mile. The owner of the totaled car emerged from the driver's door, bits of glass sprinkling onto the pavement from the busted window. He wore a crisp black suit under the mid-morning sun, circling the wreckage of his hood and windshield to get to the passenger door where he pulled out a guitar case. The man continued across the lot with a sure-footed stride, instrument slung over his shoulder and parted the building’s glass doors. He rested the case on the shining vinyl tile of the dealership lobby glancing about at his surroundings, the rotating display cars, and the high ceilings. He leaned against the guitar case casually, rocking it, spinning it, crossing his arms over the top of it, and cradling his chin between them— an awkward stance for his six-foot frame. When he finally stood upright, he looked more like the grown man he was and less like a child waiting on the curtains to draw on his music recital. The man in the suit removed the Ray -ans resting on the bridge of his nose—it had a few blunt edges like it had been broken once or twice and set incorrectly. He tucked the shades into his white shirt where three buttons had been left undone, the coils of copper-red chest hairs scantily visible.

“So...” he said, shrugging. The man spoke loudly and to no one in particular, “Are we gonna just stand around with our dicks in our hands? Or are we gonna offer a guy some service, hm?”

Collectively, scattered employees who hadn’t known just what to do with their bodies or had forgotten their assignments prior to watching the strange man’s entrance perked to attention. After a sequence of exchanged looks, it was a small dark-haired woman who approached him.

“Good afternoon… Evelyn,” he grinned, decoding the chicken scratch on her name tag.

“Hi,” she said, stiffly. She eyed the man in front of her, peeked behind him through the glass at the shriveled car he’d rode there in, and fixed her gaze on him again. “What can I help you with?”

“As you can see, Ev, I’ve gotten myself into a little bit of a situation. I’m in the market for a new set of wheels.”

Evelyn didn’t respond, not even after the strange man had taken the liberty of shortening her name. There was a dark stain on his shirt. He followed her eyes.

“Oh, this?” He tugged at his collar. “Yeah, bugs the hell outta me too,” he shook his head in disbelief. “But I know a guy.”

“Is there a specific model you’re interested in?”

“Yeah.” He extended a long pale finger toward the window, “That one.”

Evelyn scrunched up her brow, “Huh? Uh, I mean…”

“I need your 2020 Corvette, 1LT coup in black, please, if you don’t mind.”

Evelyn shifted her weight, “You want the same exact car, sir?”

The man frowned, stroked the short hairs of his chin in thought, “If I’m being honest, I always did like the convertible version, but Malaika would hate what all that wind would do to her hair.” He waved his hand about his auburn head like an imagined tornado. “And I hear you might have it in a cherry red, is that true?”

“Yes, our newest year does come in red.”

He shook his head, “You know what, nevermind. It would defeat the purpose. I want my car. Same model, same year, same color, same trim. Can you help me, Evelyn?”

The young woman pursed her lips, “The last one rolled off the lot yesterday.”

The man’s brow’s furled. “What are you talking about?”

“We sold it.”

Evelyn glanced at the wrecked car again and pretended not to know what the tiny holes in the side of it were like everyone else had. Like the man in front of her, apparently.

“C’mon. You’re messing with me,” he said, punching her shoulder playfully. “What’s that behind you, then?”

There was a black Corvette shimmering under blue LED lights behind her.

“It’s for display only,” she informed.

“So, what, it doesn’t drive?”

Evelyn sighed, “It drives. It’s just not for sale.”

The man shrugged his square shoulders, “How much do you want for it?”

Evelyn rubbed her temple and with strained politeness, repeated, “It’s not for sale.”

“Relax, doll,” he grinned, “I’m not hard of hearing. I wanna know how much you, Miss Evelyn, twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, probably to your neck in student loans or damn near about to be— how much do you want for that display car over there.”

Evelyn frowned as she pieced together what she thought the strange man was suggesting. Her concerned expression was perhaps the reason security had approached them. A man with a balding head who had been watching the man in the suit from the moment he’d walked in.

“Is there an issue here?” The guard’s question was of course directed toward the girl whom he believed was being harassed. She summed up the strange man again. The fancy suit and the Cartier on his wrist. The ruins of his luxury car.

The man in the suit smirked, his fingers tapping a rhythm against his guitar case.

“Well, is there?” the man tempted.

Evelyn executed an almost too perfect grin. “This customer just had a few questions for me,” she said, although the guard’s look of suspicion did not wane, “I actually think you’ll enjoy the Sonic; credited for being family-friendly.”

She ushered her customer toward a silver hatchback in a less populated corner of the garage, the onlooking guard finally relenting and returning to his post near the door.

“You’re my kinda girl, Ev.” The man in the suit praised. He hadn’t taken much notice to the girl’s anxious surveying of the room. “Now, back to business. For the keys to that there display car I’ll swing you eh...ten grand.”

The associate cut a glare at him, “ The car is fifty,” she whispered, “ You think I’m gonna risk my ass for less than that?.”

He narrowed his eyes on the young woman, “Why should I pay you fifty grand if you’re only getting me the keys?”

She made a face, pensive in nature but her round cheeks made it look as though she was pouting. “Why do you need this exact car?”

“If this is too much for you, I’ll be glad to ask someone else for their services.” He gestured to a freckled man also in a blue vest coaxing an older gentleman into buying a sports car he didn’t need.

“Wait,” Evelyn adjusted her posture, “Give me half. Twenty-five thousand.”

“Sure,” the man shrugged, “I hope you know that's not the kinda money they let you send through Zelle.”

“Obviously.” She cocked her head to the side so her cropped hair brushed her shoulders. “Wait, here.”

The girl disappeared down a wide hallway where she turned and entered a room. It was a minute or so before she returned with a clipboard.

“Follow me,” she said, continuing toward the entrance without stopping.

The man fastened the instrument over his shoulder and trailed after her through the glass doors.

“Here she is!” Evelyn made a great show of gesturing toward a sedan they had stopped in front of. “The Malibu is known for its fuel efficiency and overall smooth cruising.” She offered a mechanical smile, convincing anyone in the vicinity that this was a normal exchange between dealer and client. She dangled the keys between them. “Why don’t you take her for a spin?”

The man in the suit rose a brow.

Evelyn leaned over. There was a little black notebook opened atop her clipboard. She offered him a glance at the words she had written in the same chicken scratch sprawled across her name badge.

Drive into town. Find a bank.

Gravel crunched under the wheels of the yellow Malibu as it rolled back onto the lot. He put the car in neutral before rolling the windows down.

“Rides like a dream!” he said slapping the car door, “Just like you said.”

Evelyn went around, opening the passenger seat door and surveying the interior. The guitar case rested in the back seat and next to it, her eyes had landed and fixed on a Jansport backpack.

“Go on.” He offered a gleaming grin. He had put his shades back on during his test drive. “I was only able to withdraw twenty thousand at one time; don’t kill me for it.”

Evelyn crawled into the passenger seat, reached behind her, and unzipped the bag. The young woman exhaled deeply, shut the zipper, and sat back in her seat. Finally, she dug into the pocket of her blue vest and passed the strange man in the expensive suit the keys to the last on-site Corvette.

“You’re a doll, Evelyn,” he tucked the keys into the inner pocket of his jacket, right next to the offensive stain.

“If they question me I’m going to tell them I did this under duress,” she stated pointedly.

He shrugged, “Whatever helps you sleep, kid.”

Evelyn exhaled again, gazing out onto the street where the ruins of the first Corvette slouched miserably. She peered at the holes in its side again.

“I live in a bad neighborhood,” he defended.

“Sure.” She reached into the back again and grabbed the bag, “Hydrogen peroxide is good for getting blood out of clothes. Dab don't scrub.”

“How would you know something like that?” he questioned.

With the bag now on her back, she held onto both straps securely, “I’m pretty sure I hit puberty ten years ago so…”

“Right, right, sorry,” he nodded, “Thanks for the tip.”

“Thanks for the cash.” She threw her name badge off and it landed somewhere at her feet. Evelyn exited the car and shut the door behind her.

“Hold on, come here a sec,” the man in the suit beckoned her with two fingers.

“What?” she wore a sour look as she leaned in through the open window.

“Oh, is twenty grand suddenly too heavy for you to carry?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve never been an accomplice in grand theft auto,” her voice was thick with bitter sarcasm.

The car fell silent.

“Well, now I feel like a shitty guy.”

“What do you want?”

“Tell me how I’m supposed to get a car out of that building.”

The girl shrugged, “Easy. The whole place is made of glass. Just ram through one of the windows and hope you do less damage to this one than you did to the first.” Her smirk was almost wicked.

“Evelyn,” he pressed, “I know there’s gotta be a door somewhere.”

She rolled her eyes in a manner that was typical of girls her age, “There is. A loading dock. It’s in the back down the very end of the hall and through the split doors. It’s a squeeze so I hope you’re a good driver… but I doubt it.”

The man nodded, “Thank you, Ev.”

She turned on her heels and gave a halfhearted wave, “Don’t run anyone over.”