Lincoln Land

How do you make a feature about a car shop come alive with drama and tension? Take a lesson from John Barry's story: Let's say that back in the day, you were hell on wheels. But you've been around the block a time too many. You've picked up some rust. Let's say they drag you to Lincoln Land at the end of a tow hook.

The preserver has a look at you. If you're lucky, he sees something he likes. He's European, freshly shaven, wears a spotless blue uniform. He could make you good as new, or better than new. He could make you immortal.

But if you're very unlucky, the destroyer calls your number. He's a Jersey guy, wears a gray Fu Manchu and blue bandanna and waves a big, greasy adjustable wrench. If he gets his blackened hands on you, he'll slit your carotid artery and watch impassively as your green antifreeze drains all over his boots.

There are but two ways to go at Lincoln Land.

Resurrection. Or death.