The voice at the door matched the one on the phone but not the picture I'd gone and generated in my mind.
"You must be Al Cooper?" she said, holding the door open, after taking the four stairs up to her elegant home and ringing the doorbell.
She was younger, maybe by ten years, than my expectations. Early forties, meaning she had about a dozen years on me. Her words were whiskey-soaked, maybe a little raspy from tobacco indulgence somewhere along the line, the kind of voice that Greg Allman's mother would have had.
"Yep, Mrs. Talcott. Thanks for letting me stop by."
Her hair was blondish, with gray streaked in. She was shorter than the voice suggested, with a twang that come a few hundred miles further south from here in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, maybe Birmingham.
"Al, I'd invite you and your companion in, but I know y'all didn't come all this way just to admire my interior decorating skills."
"This is my friend, Rod," I gestured towards my local neighbor who'd been kind enough to pilot me the four-hour journey from Greensboro.
We'd left before dawn that Saturday, not wanting to waste a minute of time on what I still thought was a shot at something that seemed way too good to be true.
Her blue eyes had a sparkle, and it didn't appear they missed much of what came into view. A slight smile at the edges of a sweet mouth, a nicely shaped clavicle visible adjacent to the two buttons undone at the top of her pale blue blouse. Elegant but understated earrings, just enough make-up so you'd know she had some on. A crisp, summer lightweight linen skirt—she was refined, comfortable, confident, wouldn't have been out of place near the drinks bar at the local country club.
"It's right in front of the garage," she gestured to her left. I'd already noticed it.
A burgundy red 911. That number sequence—"Nine Eleven"—that said so much in so many ways. Emergency. A day of infamy. An immortal classic car. The newspaper ad indicated it was of 1973 vintage and there was no evidence to suggest otherwise. What looked like the original five-spoke alloy wheels screamed "Porsche!" from the days of Nixon and pre-emissions control. I salivated.
She walked us across the lawn, smelling of recently mown grass in the early morning air, to the proud vehicle in front of a well-kept two-car garage. The house was white clapboard with dark green shutters to the side of each window. It could have graced the cover of the
Tennessee Architecture
magazine. Flowers whose names I should have known bordered the house and stopped at the edge of the lawn.
The car looked great, far better than what I had feared.
Rod stood next to Mrs. Talcott and made small talk while I took a long and careful walk around the beauty. Minor scuffs on the bumper, a scratch on the right rear quarter panel, but it had clearly been well cared for, windows intact and clean, it looked freshly waxed, and even the Michelins gleamed black in the morning light.
She watched patiently, even with a hint of amusement, as I did my inspection, looking underneath, opening the engine compartment and front trunk, checking the dash, upholstery, trying to find any signs of rust, but it looked like it had been a summer driver only, a fact that Mrs. Talcott confirmed.
There were some stains to the headliner and several blemishes to the overall complexion, but really it was in splendid shape.
"Can I take it for a spin?"
"I don't know why you shouldn't."
She looked at me, then Rod.
"You want my credit card for collateral?" I asked, guessing at her concern and offering up my Visa card.
"Naw. I have no idea how high your credit limit is, and you're just a young'un in my book."
She was not naive and gave us an appraising look. "I trust you but expect you'll take your friend with you on your drive. Why don't you just leave me the keys to the truck?" She pointed at Rod's late model Ford 250.
"Keep it, say, to ten minutes so I don't get nervous?"
I nodded easily, fair enough.
Rod passed the keys over and stood aside while I sat in the driver's seat of the Porsche, pumped the accelerator a couple times and started the beast.
It caught easily but was a little noisy when cold. I listened while it settled into an idle. The timing chain sounded loose, slopping around a little. Either needed a new tensioner or a complete chain replacement, maybe both. It wasn't loud enough to cause alarm, nothing that I couldn't handle later.
Rod whispered in my ear, "I get an erection every time I hear one of these things fire up." I did love the sound of these old air-cooled flat-six engines myself, one of the supreme automotive design gems of the twentieth century.
He hadn't spoken quietly enough to keep Mrs. Talcott from overhearing.
She chuckled. "That's what Chas always said too. He loved that car more than me, most of the time."
"Charles Ulhrich Nickerson Talcott," she pronounced. "Ulhrich was his maternal great-grandfather's name, came straight from Swabia just before the Great War. Chas had plenty of money before I met him and has mostly done fine for himself since."
She stopped and leveled a look at me.
"'Cept that I hate the bastard now." Her voice had a venom that took me by surprise.
Rod and I looked at each other. What were we supposed to make of that?
She waved a hand. "I'll tell you more after your test drive. This is his car, or was, or is about to be. But go ahead and put the thing through her paces." She pointed at the car, then stood back, hands on hips.
It ran mostly fine. Suspension was reasonably tight, cornered well on a good line. Second gear synchro was a bit worn, you couldn't hurry a shift there, but otherwise no untoward tranny noises.
Rod gave me a goofy grin from the passenger seat.
"Think it's a go?"
"Still worried about the price. I figure I am missing some angle here, but I reckon we'll find out soon enough."
"Quite the MILF though. Wouldn't mind putting her through her own paces."
I laughed. "We're in different mindsets here. For me it's not MILF but MILTOTA."
"Huh?" Rod looked at me as if I was daft.
"My, I'd Like To Own This Auto."
