He did not dress up. He did not shave. He pulled on his usual flannel shirt, faded khakis, and work boots still flecked with grease from the morning's repair job. He climbed into the Chevy, turned the key, listened to the engine groan before it caught, and pulled onto the road.
The Foster Automotive dealership on Fifth Avenue was a cathedral of glass and chrome. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the street, Italian marble covered the showroom floor, and a row of Ferraris gleamed under precision lighting like jewels in a vault. The air smelled like new leather and money.
Theodore parked the Chevy between a white Porsche Cayenne and a black Mercedes S-Class. The truck looked like a stray dog at a horse show.
He stepped out, adjusted his collar, and walked through the front doors.
Every head in the showroom turned. A receptionist's smile flickered and died. A salesman in a fitted suit looked him up and down, then looked away. A couple examining a Ferrari Roma Spider whispered behind cupped hands.
Theodore barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on one car: a crimson Ferrari 296 GTB parked on a raised platform in the center of the showroom, rotating slowly beneath a single spotlight.
He walked toward it.
Twenty feet away, behind a glass desk, branch manager Derek Whitmore looked up from his laptop, saw Theodore Foster approaching his most expensive display car, and felt his lip curl into a sneer.
What happened next would be captured on four security cameras, two cell phones, and one live stream. None of it would end the way Derek expected.
Derek Whitmore had been branch manager of the Fifth Avenue dealership for three years. In that time, he had never once sold a car to a Black customer. It was not because none had tried. Derek made sure they rarely stayed long enough to sign anything.
He stood from his glass desk, straightened his tie, and walked toward Theodore with the slow, deliberate stride of a man who wanted everyone to watch.
"Excuse me."
Theodore turned from the Ferrari. "Good afternoon. Beautiful car."
"It is." Derek's eyes traveled from Theodore's work boots to his flannel collar, then back down again, cataloging every stain. "Which is exactly why I need to ask what you're doing next to it."
"I'm here to test-drive it. My son called yesterday to arrange it."
"Your son?" Derek folded his arms. "And what's your son's name?"
"Elliot Foster."
Something flickered in Derek's face, a tiny hesitation. Then it vanished and a smirk replaced it.
He did not check the system. He did not pick up the phone. He looked at Theodore's oil-stained fingers and made his decision in under two seconds.
"Sir, I don't know what kind of scam you're running, but Elliot Foster is one of our most valued clients, and you..." He paused, letting his gaze drag down Theodore one final time. "You are not Elliot Foster's father. Not in this lifetime."
"I am, sir."
"And I'm the Pope."
Derek turned toward the nearest salesperson. "Brenda, get over here. You need to see this."
Brenda Cole walked over on clicking heels, a brochure tucked beneath her arm. She was in her mid-thirties, blonde, with a customer-service smile that disappeared the instant she looked at Theodore.
"What's happening?"
"This gentleman," Derek said, loading the word with sarcasm, "claims he is Elliot Foster's father. He wants to test-drive the 296 GTB."
Brenda looked at Theodore. Then she looked through the glass at the rusted Chevy in the parking lot. She pressed a hand over her mouth and laughed, a sharp, bright sound that bounced off the marble.