The Cal Brink Files live at the intersection of truth and fiction.
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1994
I had test-driven the car, sat through the credit application and negotiated the price. This wasn’t the car of my dreams, but it was a step up. The car? A used 1992 white Ford Taurus. Yes, I’m partial to Fords.
Since 1987 I had been driving a black Ford Escort, two-door. At 234,000 miles it was still a solid car but it leaked like a sieve. Every single morning before driving I had to add transmission fluid, brake fluid and radiator fluid. If it was liquid, it was mostly gone from the day before.
Besides, in September of 1992, Davis was born. Having more room in my car, and four doors, had finally become important since I was hauling Davis around as much as Shawna was.
The beauty of the Ford Taurus? Like the Escort, it was a best seller in its day. The streets and highways of the DMV (DC, Maryland and Virginia) were full of them. If you saw a black Escort or a white Taurus, you didn’t even bat an eye. Even if it seemed like it had been following you.
That was the point. As a private investigator I was expected to follow people. As a process server, I’d sit on streets and alleys for hours at a time hoping to not be noticed. These cars? Nobody cared. Well, generally.
So there I was, sitting at the F&I guy’s desk (Finance and Insurance) ready to discover the payment and sign the papers so that I could get out of there. I knew I wouldn’t be getting prime interest.
“Mr. Brink, since Calvin is your legal name, that is how we will submit the title to Maryland. Would you prefer I call you Cal for today?” asked the gentleman on the other side of the desk. He was in his late fifties, had a smoker’s voice, stained fingertips and a body built by sitting all day, every day. He had told me his name like we were friends, but I knew that we were friends only for the next three to four minutes, before I declined the undercoating, extended warranty and weatherproofing, whatever that would be.
He would ask, I would decline. Since I’d heard my, admittedly deserved, interest rate I wasn’t really in the mood to spend any more money.
“Cal, before we’re done and you sign the contracts and the back of the title, I would like to point out one thing,” the shark grinned. “You have a very unique car. Something to tell your friends.”
He leaned forward, placed the title face up showing the vehicle’s full information, including current ownership: The Russian Federation with an address of 2650 Wisconsin Ave., NW.
I laughed out loud. Not thirty days ago I had walked through those gates, checked in with security and waited in the most plain, boring waiting area I had ever experienced for a low-level lackey to come accept a legal document I had been hired to deliver. The document was in a sealed envelope.
Immediately my mind ran with the possibilities of entertaining my wife and friends with tales of what this particular white Ford Taurus had experienced. But when I told Shawna, she was unimpressed.
Still, me and that Taurus had a few more stories to experience.
Author’s Note
The Cal Brink Files live at the intersection of truth and fiction. This micro-story is a perfect example. The truth is most of this story is true. The fiction, in this case, is Cal Brink, Shawna and Davis. But the Russian Federation, the Ford Taurus and the dealership? That’s all true.
And the stories still yet to be experienced? Those are upcoming here on the Cal Brink Files. Or, The Process Server Chronicles. Depends on which versions I write.
As always, The Process Server Chronicles are true(ish) stories with names, dates and places altered to protect privacy and help with liability. The Cal Brink Files are fiction, though my life experiences as an investigator, process server, photographer and real estate agent all bleed in.
© 2026 Chris Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved
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