Frank smirked, leaning back. "People say a lot of things, Mike. Usually, it’s just a barn full of old newspapers and raccoon nests."
After a tense round of "the art of the deal," handshakes were exchanged. The Indian was loaded into the van, alongside a stack of and the porcelain sign. As they drove away, the sun setting over the Blue Ridge Mountains, Mike looked in the rearview mirror at their haul. American Pickers - Season 18
"Frank, look at the tanks on this," Mike whispered, his fingers hovering just inches from the metal. "This is the 'Holy Grail' of the mid-west." Frank smirked, leaning back
The smell hit them first: oil, old rubber, and history. Mike’s eyes immediately locked onto a shape draped in a rotting canvas tarp in the corner. He peeled it back, and the air left his lungs. It was a , its deep red paint barely visible under decades of dust, but the chrome was still there, waiting to shine. The Indian was loaded into the van, alongside
Across the aisle, Frank was already knee-deep in a pile of wooden crates. He pulled out a pristine, double-sided for a local soda company that had gone bust in the fifties. "Found the meat, Mike. This is a five-hundred-dollar bill all day long."
Frank just nodded, already looking for the next driveway. "Yeah. But that sign is still going to look better in the shop."