Crow's Landing by Brad Smith Read Free Book Online

the darkshed so that Virgil could take a better look at the machine. It was in very good shape; the tires had plenty of tread and even the drive chains looked almost new. All the U-joints and bearings were dry of grease from years of sitting, but they didn’t appear worn at all.
    â€œWhat’s your price?” Virgil asked.
    Woodbine removed his hat and gave his scalp an energetic scratching with the tips of his fingers. “You’re a farmer yourself?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWould you give two hundred dollars for it?”
    Virgil said that he would. “But I think a scrap dealer might offer you more than that.”
    â€œA scrap dealer did. That’s why I asked if you were a farmer. It’s still a good baler. I’d rather not sell it to somebody who’s just going to melt it down for the steel.”
    After they made the deal, Virgil took a walk around the shed and had a look at what was left. There was a threshing machine that really was suitable for a scrap dealer, or maybe a museum. The stake truck was rusted badly and nearly worthless. The old Ford mentioned in the ad was a three-window coupe from the early thirties, tucked away in the corner of the shed. One of the shed’s ceiling joists had splintered and fallen and was resting on the roof of the car. The black paint was faded through to the metal in places, but the car appeared to be intact and complete. It had Ohio plates from 1959.
    â€œWhat year is this?” Virgil asked.
    â€œNineteen thirty-two,” Montgomery Woodbine said. “First year for the V-8.”
    â€œRight out of a gangster movie.”
    â€œFunny you should say that.” The old man moved toward the car. “Lookit here.” He wiped the heavy dust away from thepaint to reveal a bullet hole in the panel a few inches behind the passenger-side window. “My father used to tell a story about this car. He said it came from around Steubenville, Ohio, and that Pretty Boy Floyd stole it and was driving it when the cops spotted him. They put this bullet hole here chasing him.”
    Virgil stepped forward to have a look. He stuck his forefinger in the bullet hole, and he nodded, not wanting to step on the old man’s tale. “You figure that really happened?”
    Woodbine laughed. “I know damn well it never. I put that hole there myself. I was target shooting at an elm tree outside here, missed the tree, and the bullet went through the plank wall and hit the car.” The old man shook his head. “My father liked to pull your leg if you let him. There’s people around here who still tell about the time he fought Jack Dempsey to a draw.”
    â€œNever happened?”
    â€œNo, sir.” Woodbine rubbed more dust from the car. “I got a fella coming out from the city today to look at this. I’m told these things are popular nowadays. People paint ’em up and put new motors in them and hydraulic brakes and whatever. I told the fella on the phone I wanted ten thousand dollars, figured that might turn him sour on it, but he never backed off an inch.”
    Virgil bent forward to look inside the car. The upholstery was torn in places and it appeared that mice had made off with some of the stuffing. Otherwise the car was in remarkably good condition. “Well, if I had ten thousand dollars, I might just make you an offer. But with my luck, the cops might mistake me for Pretty Boy Floyd.”
    â€œOh hell, he’s been dead for years,” Woodbine said seriously.
    â€œI still don’t have ten thousand dollars,” Virgil said. “I mentioned I’m a farmer?”
    The old man laughed like he knew exactly what Virgil was talking about, and Virgil turned away and that’s when he spotted the cedar strip runabout, tucked in the other rear corner of the machine shed, under some disintegrating canvas tarp and about a half inch of dust and swallow droppings. It was a sixteen-foot