How I Bought My 400A

I bought it over the Internet, sight unseen, except for photos. I'd read an article in Classic Cars magazine by Englishman Martin Buckley, I believe it is, on what a great buy this car is. Martin was using his every day, nothing was going wrong, he was veddy pleased with himself. Anyway, I contact the seller, a dealer, we'll call him Dave, also an Englishman, with a car lot many hundreds of miles from my home in New Orleans.
First conversation goes like this:
Me: So, Dave, what can you tell me about the car.
Dave: Frankly, sir, I was hoping to sell it to a blind man in Iceland.
Me: Why
Dave: Well, sir, he'd never see it and I'd never hear from him again.
Me: Dave, is it mechanically sound?
Dave: Far as I know, sir, though I do not recommend driving it any long distance.
Me: Does the air conditioning work?
Dave: Oh I don't think so.
Me: You don't know?
Dave: I'm afraid to try it. Repairs to those things can run into four figures.
Me: Dave, do you know a mechanic out there who could look at it.
Dave: Yes, course, the mechanic I use, sir. Marco.
Me: Do you have Marco's number?
Dave: Of course, sir, but may I speak frankly?
Me: Yes, of course.
Dave: Thank you, sir. My mechanic is a f....ing ass....
Me (at this point I have decided to buy the car): Give me the number, Dave.

 

Why would I take the trouble to make that up? The thing is, the guy was so frank, so unguarded, that something just told me the car was allright. Looking back, I can't believe I bought it tht way. But, it's a straight car. It has some of the usual problems, gas gauge reads full when it's almost empty, have to tap on the fuel filler cover to get it to open, only have one key, etc. But the thing was really in tune and I just enjoy it so much. Buckley was right; it's very reliable.

 

I took my car to the top Ferrari mechanic in New Orleans, Jim Lindsey, who told me the car had been 'sitting up' for a year or so, but that it was the best he'd seen. I had the fluids changed, radiator repaired, a hose changed that had to be bought in England, and that was it. This car reminds me of the wonderful big-engined American muscle cars, robust and fully tried. This is what legendary engines are all about. I've had many fine European cars, but the two best cars I've ever had, and I'm 54 years old, are this Ferrari and my 1980 Mustang 5.0.

 

I'll try to write it tonight. Involves my proposed trip across the Rockies in a car I've never seen.

 

Part I, found above, ends with the seller cursing his own mechanic while at the same time giving me the guy's phone number so I can check on the car, which at that time was in the mechanic's shop. We'll call him Mario, maitre de Ferrari. I call Mario's shop and a kid answers the phone: "Mario's not here in the afternoons."
Me: "He only works in the mornings?"
The Kid: "Yeah."
Me: "What time does he come to work tomorrow?"
The Kid: "I don't know if he's coming in or not."
"Look, I almost out of time to buy this car. Where is he?"
"Home."
'What's his number at home."
"I can't give you that."
"Please!"
"Okay, don't tell him I gave it to you."
I call the Ferrari mechanic's house and I get a recording that says, "Leave a number and I might or might not call you back depending on your tone of voice." It was something like that, but I am not exaggerating here. By now, I'm getting the idea that by buying a Ferrari I'm entering a very strange world, which has indeed proven to be the case.
I finally get Mario on the phone and he tells me the car is fine and to give him $50 for further information. He takes VISA.
The next day, I call the seller and tell him Mario said the car is straight. The seller says, "Oh, I was just getting ready to call him and offer him a hundred dollars to tell you it was fine."
I said, "Well, that won't be necessary. I'll send you a check and come out there and get it."
"WHAT?!" he says, alarmed.
I say, "I'm coming out there to get it. I'm going to drive it back over the Rockies."
"Oh, sir, I would not advise that."
Why? I say.
"Well it's a very old car, sir," he says.
I think I was wise to have it delivered.
Part III will be my wife's reaction to the Ferrari. A preview quote: "This is a heap."

 

You bet. My son will have to do it. These cars, the ones in black like mine, look like diplomats' cars.

 

Chapter 2 ended with the seller strongly advising me not to drive my newly purchased 400A over the Rocky Mountains, then through whatever God-forsaken wildnerness states one must traverse to reach the cultural Mecca of New Orleans. I did not consult with his mechanic and my PPI expert, Mario, on this because the seller had jokingly told me he was considering giving Mario $50 to green-light the car. What's in a joke? Maybe the truth, who knows, but I liked both these guys in spite of everything.
So I got Hector, auto transport driver, to negotiate the Donner Pass or wherever you pass through the Rockies. He arrived about midmorning in New Orleans after several shrieking calls to me on his cellphone about available parking lots to unload.
"The entire city is a parking lot," I told him, which he discovered was true enough.
The Ferrari was unbelievably filthy. "You got a real nice car here," Hector said, "and we do take tips."
I gave him one, signed his clipboard and turned to regard my newly purchased Ferrari, the car of dreams. Yes there was (and is) a piece of trim missing; yes the horn did not work, nor did the clock or the air conditioning, but who needs any of that stuff? Well, a horn, maybe, but I've found one can yell effectively if his air conditioning is out.
Ushering my wife into the passenger seat, we were off, out of the parking lot that held Mr. Ed's Restaurant before the hurricane. As we all know, the self-leveling suspension grows tired on these cars, so we did bounce a bit, I'll grant her. There were some creaks as well as strong odor of fuel. Someone in the car (not me) compared the engine sound to that of a Criss Craft.
She followed that bon mot with the announcement she would not be riding in the Ferrari until the gas smell was eradicated.
"This," she said, "is a heap."
I laughed and laughed. How could anyone be so wrong?