AN: Joe and I plotted this one....
Al was in the office on time the next morning, in fine fettle. His range of motion was back to very nearly normal, the pain was easily handled with ibuprofen, and he was OUT of that wretched sling. He knew there would be a reckoning when the doctors found out he had miraculously healed – he of course went to the para side though he didn’t need to – but that was a problem for another day.
He had had ENOUGH of reports – and paperwork – and all the administrivia of running his business. He was nearly caught up on the back-shop reports, the paperwork was thoroughly in hand, and he’d bloody-well had enough.
It was time to play.
First things first a cup of coffee – then a review with the staff on current projects. Then a personal review of said projects while in a ball cap and coveralls. Then a nice lunch…and perhaps fifty rounds through the Webley .Mk. IV that had arrived while he was broken. In .38/200 it was a toy, but he missed having a Webley in his armpit – and the old .455 had been honorably retired after the damage it took at Pillsbury.
Coffee in hand, he descended the stairs (carefully) and commenced to stroll the floor. Each bay got his attention, and the clipboards noting status of projects were carefully scrutinized.
While making the rounds, he noted that the floor was quiet. Smokey and John were not at their projects – unusual for them. Obviously, things had gotten a bit sloppy while he was hors de combat. This would have to be dealt with – gently, but dealt with nonetheless.
All of this evaporated as he reached the far work bays – 11 and 12. In the unusual silence he heard music – not coming from the shop audio system but what sounded like a car stereo.
As he walked down toward the sound, the lyrics came into focus…and brought a smile to his face. Wing was in the building…
… down Liverpool, where they play the West Coast sound
Sailor Sam, he came from Birmingham, but he never will be found
Doin' fine when a London sign, greets me like a long lost friend
Mister motor won't you check her out, she's gotta take me back again
Helen (Helen) Helen Wheels
Ain't nobody else gonna know the way she feels
Helen (helen) Helen Wheels
And they never gonna take her away
He walked quietly to the open bay door, and the sight took his breath away.
Being worked on by all three of his staff, the DeLorean shone. Last-minute bits were being taken care of, fluid checks, tyre pressures, last-minute fitting of accessories, torque checks…all the little things you did before you took a car out for the first time after a rebuild.
John had a clipboard, and they were walking through the standard in-house checklist. The other two were scurrying through and around the car, checking, fastening, bolting things in place – and calling completion out to John, who noted it on his clipboard.
He walked in, clearing his throat – and coincidentally startling his staff badly.
“You do realize that song was written about Paul and Lynda McCartney’s Land-Rover, right?”
Wing looked up, momentarily frozen in place, then yelled “GODSDAMNIT! What are YOU doing here!” Her cleaning rag hit the ground, and her eyes blazed at him.
Al was taken aback – he hadn’t realized he was going to cause a problem. “Well, I do work here – and I own the place, after all.“
Wing immediately calmed down, a bit chagrined. “We were trying to get her finished up – we didn’t expect you today at all. Where’s your sling?”
“All better – I got some outside help that got me back together.”
By this time, Al had walked over to the DeLorean, and a practiced, professional eye began to look it over.
The car was pristine – everywhere he looked was clean, polished perfection.
The interior had been thoroughly cleaned after the fire, and the headliner, seat covers and carpet all replaced with factory original items from Texas. The dashboard and panel were spotless as well – not even a fingerprint marred the perfection.
The artfully installed stereo continued to pump out Paul McCartney’s voice, until Al reached in and with a fingertip restarted the song. The music was much the same age as the car – and suited the moment perfectly. It truly was Helen Wheels.
He set his coffee cup down on the nearest workstand and started to thoroughly inspect the car.
“Flashlight.” A spotting flashlight slapped into his palm, and with two twists of the bezel was turned to high brightness.
Court was in session.
With Wing at his side, Al went over every last section of the DeLorean, from the suspension to the pivots of the gullwing doors. The engine compartment came in for great scrutiny, as did the wiring and the relay rack – which showed no sign of its brush with incendiary hazards.
A half-hour later they were done.
“She’s perfect, folks. Looks ready to go. Wait here, please.”
With that, Al ascended to his office and came back with a package.
“Please fit this to the rear bumper – in the opposite corner from the DeLorean name.”
“This” was die-cut adhesive vinyl, in the same design and font as the vinyl on the opposite side. It read ADMC-12
“Rock deserves it – there should be at least one ADMC-12, for all the work he went through trying.” Al said, a little huskily.
Saying nothing, they fitted the decal – which looked as though it had always been there.
It damned well should be there – no one deserved it more Al thought.
“This goes on the front – but it can go on later." He handed Wing another package – which contained a grille badge with the DMC logo – and an A in front of it in the stylized shape used by the Alexander Harvesters company.
“Have you had it out – has it been tested?”
“No. We assumed you’d do that.” Wing said. The car had been run up to confirm the cooling system and such was correct, but it had never been driven. All tests had been done just as it sat.
“Wing, start it up.”
With that, she slid into the driver’s seat, after carefully dusting herself off with a clean shop cloth. She turned the key off, stilling the music, then turned it through accessory – to on.
The panel lit, all of the warning lights flaring, then going out. She turned the key further, and the starter whirred…and the LS1 caught.
A low, feral thrum of power throbbed through the shop. Smokey grabbed the exhaust hose, slipped it onto the tail pipes, then turned on the extraction fan.
The beaming smile of the young woman was a sight to behold. This was it – the car lived – and she and the team had done it under the supervision of the old engineer.
The car sang its song of power, howling arpeggios as she toed the gas pedal. Al walked to the back, carefully inspecting the LS1. He shone the light underneath, looking for leaks – to find nothing. Closing the compartment lid and the louver, he walked to the side.
“John, we have something to do. Come with me. I will be back in an hour, and this car should be in the same place. Am I understood?”
Smokey nodded. “Sure ‘nuf. Ex-zactly the same spot. Understood.”
Al and John left – and Wing and Smokey stared at each other – widening smiles of glee on their faces.
"You know, we really should go get gas for this thing."
"Yup. Hm. That Holiday station in Wayzata still at $2.28 a gallon for Premium?"
"I think so... Hey, I saw there was a station over in Lyndale that had it for $2.14... We should have enough in the tank to get there..."
"Yup."
"I'm driving."
"Y’all thought I was gonna argue?" Smokey grinned. "I'll get the plate - but I git to drive ‘er back.”
Adjusting the seat and clipping in was a matter of seconds. Wing then toed the clutch, shifted the car into first, feathered the throttle and the DeLorean moved out snoothly and quietly. Passing the parking area, Smokey jumped out, secured a temporary plate in the louvers, and opened the door. Wing pulled the car out slowly, gently and under perfect control – and the door closed.
As they left, two heads popped up in the Aston – Al and John.
“Ready?”
“Givr’hell, boss.” John, armed with a very large camera, was grinning unashamedly – as was Al.
“We’ll hang back – I just want to be there if there are any issues.”
“Yah, right – go ahead and tell me another one. You just want to see it on the road, eh?”
“And you don’t?”
“Never said that. Let’s go!”
The door rolled open and the Aston pulled though, singing its own song of contained fury.
