Shelter from the Storm. (Chapter 8)

The driver of the box delivery truck bearing the A-1 Automotive

logos on its sides was getting ready to get back in his truck when

what sounded like several auto horns sounding and he looked 

toward the direction of the sound and saw three vintage vehicles

pull in toward him. The first one was a  red 1964 Ford F-100

pickup truck with a white cab roof. The truck was sporting mag

wheels.

 The vehicle following behind it was a  light green 1962 Buick
Special station wagon, one of those unforgettable compact
wagons of early 1960s suburbia.  The old wagon had chrome
exhaust extentions coming out from just under the rear bumper
which gave the car a burbling sound. This car also had dark
red flames on its front fenders almost extending to the front
doors.

 The third vehicle was even stranger-looking, like a ghost out
of the past. It was a World War II-era VW Beetle that was
painted in the drab sand color of the German Afrika Corps
and stood up higher-than-usual for this was a 4x4 used in its
time to traverse rough and sandy desert terrain. 
It had the split oval rear-window that was a characteristic of
1940s VWs. 
What was more interesting was that the driver of the historic
VW was wearing the matching-era German helmet also
painted in the Afrika Corps color, though neither the helmet
nor the car bore any of the insignias.

 It's the Car Kooks, the driver thought to himself.  He heard
 that title was given to the drivers of these vehicles by Mac
Davenport, as he, the Car Kooks, as well as Mac Davenport
all were employed with A-1 Automotive.

 The driver of the Ford F-100 stepped out and came toward
the driver of the box truck. The F-100 driver was a average-
-heighted Hispanic man wearing a well-worn cowboy hat and
drab denim blue bib overalls over a red plaid shirt.

 "Hey, Carlos,"  The box truck driver said finally,  "You cruisin'
around in yer toys, you Gus and Mike?"

 "Like yea, man," Carlos answered then asked, "You have a late
delivery, Joe?"
 "Oh yea," Joe replied unenthusiastically, "And I nearly got
broad-sided a few miles back."
 Just then the two other men caught up with Carlos with the
fellow in the German helmet the next to speak.
"You wouldn't be talking about a beater red Dodge sedan
would you, Joe?" the VW driver asked.
"Yep, I sure am, Mike."
The driver of the old Buick wagon, an African-American man
wearing a chauffer's cap and a drab black blazer against faded
jeans and classic black sneakers then said, "Yeah, it nearly
collided with me. I noticed it was some blond woman behind
the wheel."
 "I already reported it to the cops, Gus,"  Joe said, "That
woman looked like she been drinkin.' "
"You get the license plate number?"  asked Mike.
 "I did and I gave it to the cops."
 "I hope they find her, too,"  Gus said.
 "So do I."  Joe then pointed east where the Dodge was
headed.
 "She was headin' in the direction of County General," Joe said.
    No sooner had Joe said it than when he saw a Newberry police
car head in that same direction, no doubt looking for the vehicle he
just reported.


This concludes Chapter Eight.