Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

“We’ve lost five years in a row,” the blond said, coming to a stop.

For the first time, I got a good look at her. She had light blue eyes and high cheekbones. Her lipstick was the exact shade of her dress, a light pink. She was barefoot, yet she was only an inch shorter than me.

She was a tall blond goddess.

She dragged me to the pit where two pastors stood across from each other on opposite sides of a thick rope. Both men’s faces were stern, and both were doing stretches.

This was Yankees vs. Red Sox.

“Pastor John, look what I got,” the blond said.

Pastor John appraised me to the point I thought he was going to ask to see my teeth, then said “Nice work, Caroline.”

Caroline.

“I hear you’ve lost five years in a row to Lutheran United,” I said, unable to think of anything else.

Pastor John shook his head. “We are Lutheran United.”

I turned and looked at Caroline. She’d poached me from the Tarrin Baptist front lawn.

On this note, a woman ran over and said, “Oh, no! He’s with us.”

It was Annie.

“Not a chance, Annie,” Caroline barked. “He’s with us.”

“Thomas?” Annie asked.

“Thomas?” Caroline echoed.

I froze.

Brain: Thomas, you know the right thing to do.

Dick: Yeah you do, buddy.

Brain: Must I remind you that you were at Tarrin Baptist to see Annie? You were eating her fried chicken. Four pieces.

Dick: Dude, must I remind you that you haven’t been laid since Gina left? Which was, oh, I don’t know, SEVEN MONTHS AGO!

Brain: Did you hear the preacher, Thomas? “Chasten yourself against the temptations of the flesh.”

Dick: Did you see her running, Thomas? That was like some Baywatch style bouncing, my man.

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a step closer to Caroline.

Annie’s face fell.

Brain: I’m so disappointed.

Dick: Yahooooooo!

There were ten spots on each side. Pastor John walked me down the line, and like a baseball manager staring at his lineup card, he switched a couple people around, then put me in the eighth spot.

I wrapped my hands around the rope.

Someone yelled, “One minute!”

The crowd around the volleyball court quickly doubled.

Let’s go, Lutheran!

Let’s go, Baptist!

Lutheran!

Baptist!

Lutheran!

Baptist!

Someone counted down from ten, then a gunshot erupted. And not some fake starter pistol. A rifle shot.

Everyone started pulling.

I heaved, a blinding pain shooting through my ribs.

Brain: Karma.

The pain in my side was nearly as bad as when I first fell off the ladder, but Caroline screaming my name—Come on, Thomas! Pull, Thomas! Harder, Thomas!—kept me going.

Dick: Pull!!!

A minute later, it was over.

Baptist won for a sixth straight year.

Caroline made her way over to me and asked, “Are you okay?”

I might have been lying on the sand holding my ribs.

“Uh, yeah,” I groaned.

I told her how I fell out of a tree and then fell off a ladder.

“Oh, honey, why didn’t you say so?”

I filled up the Range Rover at the small gas station and while I was there, I asked for directions to the address the Tarrin Police Department receptionist had taped to my license.

It took me five minutes to find the place, a small house on the outskirts of town. There was a dirt road leading to a house set back on a couple of acres. A blue Toyota Tacoma was parked in the dirt out front.

I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. I walked around to the back of the house and saw a man working on a hot rod.

“Hey,” I announced.

He glanced up from the engine and squinted in my direction. He had a thick Selleck mustache, and his hands were covered in grease. There was a shotgun leaned against the front tire of the car, and he picked it up and ambled toward me.

He stopped five feet short and asked, “Whatcha need, partner?”

“Was thinking maybe we could chat.”

“What, exactly, would we be chatting about?”

“The Save-More murders.”

He glared at me, then looked down at his gun, then back at me.

“Or we could just talk about the Cardinals,” I said.

“Now we’re talking.” He stuck his hand out. “Mike Zernan.”

“Thomas Prescott.” If my name meant anything to him, he didn’t show it.

“You know anything about cars, Thomas?” he asked, waving me toward the hot rod.

The last time I attempted any car maintenance myself, I put window washer fluid in the radiator.

“Can’t say I do.”

He seemed to second-guess putting his gun away, took a breath, then tilted his head toward the hot rod. “This here is a 1930 Ford Model A Pickup.”

The hot rod frame was black with an exposed chrome engine. Two exhaust pipes stuck up from the engine like the pipes of a church organ. The wheels were thin, black rubber with concentric circles of white and red. The frame of the truck hovered six inches above a small patch of gravel. It looked in excellent condition, save for the front headlights which were both cracked.

He said, “I’ve been restoring her for going on a year and a half now.”

“Looks like you’re almost done.”

“Yeah, just a few more little projects.”

“What are you working on today?”

“Waiting on a couple headlights to be delivered. Supposed to be here an hour ago, if Pete would get off his lazy ass.”

I laughed. “Who’s Pete?”

“UPS guy. Probably down at the bowling alley drinking a beer.”

I didn’t pry further.

Mike cracked his neck, then said, “Just been fiddling with the engine most of the morning. Trying to squeak out a few more horses.” He leaned over the engine, then said, “Come here.”

I joined him.

He fiddled away for a good ten minutes, detailing his every move, then said, “Jump in and give it a whirl, would ya?”

I opened the driver side door and slid in. The key was in the ignition, and I turned it. The engine rumbled to life.

“Gas it!” Mike yelled over the thrum of the engine.

I did.

The engine rumbled two octaves louder, the entire car vibrating. It made my father’s Range Rover seem like a Big Wheel.

“Okay, kill it!” he yelled.

He waved me out, wiped his hands on his jeans, and asked, “What did you think?”

“Instant