Enough to stop walking away.
The Single Dad knew the type.
People who had spent years being the smartest person in meetings learned to hide curiosity behind skepticism.
He had spent years around machinery.
Machines were easier.
They did not pretend not to be interested.
The Female CEO looked toward an auction specialist standing twenty feet away.
The man immediately approached.
“Yes?”
“What did we estimate this at?”
The specialist checked his tablet.
“Fifty to seventy thousand.”
The Single Dad laughed.
The specialist frowned.
The Female CEO turned.
“You find that funny?”
“A little.”
The specialist stepped closer.
“It’s an unidentified British-style competition car, likely a private build from the late fifties or early sixties.”
The Single Dad remained crouched.
“No.”
The specialist’s eyebrows rose.
“No?”
“No.”
The Female CEO’s mouth tightened.
The Single Dad pointed beneath the fender.
“Look at the upper wishbone mount.”
The specialist leaned slightly.
“I inspected it.”
“Then inspect it again.”
That was the moment several nearby collectors began paying attention.
The tone was wrong.
Ordinary bidders did not speak to auction specialists that way.
Certainly not while the CEO stood beside them.
The specialist straightened.
“I assure you, I know what I’m looking at.”
The Single Dad looked at him.
“I hope so.”
The Female CEO removed her sunglasses.
That changed the atmosphere.
Her eyes were pale gray.
Sharper than he expected.
She said:
“You’ve been here thirty minutes and already decided my staff are incompetent.”
“No.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying they were looking for the wrong thing.”
The specialist laughed.
The Female CEO did not.
She asked:
“What should they have been looking for?”
The Single Dad pointed toward the car.
“Hand fabrication.”
“Unequal weld spacing.”
“Modified brake duct routing.”
“Non-production suspension geometry.”
“And a reinforcement pattern I’ve only seen in two photographs.”
The specialist looked toward the CEO.
Then back.
“Photographs of what?”
The Single Dad wiped his hand on his jeans.
“A prototype.”
The specialist smiled.
“There were hundreds.”
“Not like this.”
The Female CEO stepped closer.
The Single Dad smelled expensive perfume.
Something clean.
Not sweet.
He disliked that he noticed.
She said:
“You’re making a very dramatic claim for someone holding a flashlight from a hardware store.”
The Single Dad looked at the flashlight.
“Twelve dollars.”
“That explains everything.”
He smiled.
The Female CEO almost did too.
Almost.
Instead she pointed toward the car.
“What prototype?”
He hesitated.
Not because he did not know.
Because once he said it aloud, the situation changed.
A suspicion became a public claim.
People recorded public claims.
Auction halls remembered them.
The Single Dad had learned long ago that sometimes the smartest thing a mechanic could do was keep his mouth shut until the bolts finished talking.
He looked at the CEO.
“Not yet.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“You challenge my appraisal in front of my clients and then refuse to explain?”
“I’m not challenging your appraisal.”
“You laughed at it.”