The Thomas Crown of Internal Combustion: How to Steal $10M of Cars During Monterey Car Week, Part 2

30 Sep

Thomas Crown

This is Part 2 of my investigation into how one could steal $10M of cars during Monterey Car Week. I strongly recommend reading Part 1.

Friday, August 19th: Concorso D’Italiano, Monterey

There she was. My stunning Ferrari 328 GTS, sitting at the end of a row of her sisters at the Concorso D’Italiano, just one of numerous events at Monterey Car Week where I had cars on display. I stood by her for hours, answering questions and accepting compliments on her behalf, desperate to take her home.

That might be an issue, because she wasn’t actually mine.

My name wasn’t actually on her title. She legally belonged to someone else—probably the guy in the Tommy Bahama shorts, many-pocketed safari shirt, and Ferrari-branded red jacket and baseball cap, his legs splayed out in a $19.95 K-Mart folding lawn chair—but she was mine in every way that counted.

She was mine in my heart.

I’d dreamed of her since putting the poster on my wall in 11th grade. I didn’t care if that guy paid for her; he didn’t deserve her. Cash payment isn’t ownership. If he truly loved her, he would have dressed up before taking her out for her big day. Everyone who saw me next to her knew she mine, or they wouldn’t have ignored the legal owner and walked up to me instead to praise my good taste in salmon corduroy jackets from Italian outlet malls. Also, my taste in cars.

It wouldn’t be long before she’d know a better life.

Read the rest over at The Drive

When Oceans 11 Met Pebble Beach: How To Steal $10M of Cars During Monterey Car Week, Part 1

8 Sep

Oceans 11 of Cars

“You can never be overdressed,” said Inga, “you might need a bathroom.”

“I’m sure there will be enough bathrooms at Pebble Beach.”

“There are never enough bathrooms, especially where there is money. The sinks get better and the towels are cloth, but there are half as many stalls, and such people take twice as long. I think just to prove they can.”

I was counting on it.

“And your plan,” she said, “will depend on it.”

Inga was a survivor. Gorgeous, vain, judgmental and condescending, she had German-accented fluency in five languages. She was Audrey Hepburn with a bleached crewcut and two switchblades, one in her purse, the other for a tongue. The first was for cutting cheese. She carried a pocket ashtray in her pocket. She’d never earned a dishonest dollar, what dollars she’d earned. She’d also never passed up a guest house in St. Tropez, or Buenos Aires, or Gstaad, even if she had to drive nine hours in her 2005 Boxster S. Whenever she disappeared for too long, there was a truer story than what was told, or a man whose real name wasn’t Laszlo Kiss, and often both.

She would be the perfect accomplice for what I had planned:

The Oceans 11 of car theft.

Read the rest over at The Drive