The Dead Peckers

Rock pulled into the Rebsamen Park Golf Course parking lot and saw that Tim Coop had arrived just ahead of him. He parked beside Coop's car and got out to pull his clubs from the trunk.
"Here comes Dave," Coop said.
Rock turned to see Dave Hollisman park his old Volkswagen Bug behind him and walk over with his clubs.
"How's that car running?" Rock said.
Dave's Bug had grown to his friends into a significant part of his persona. It, like he, was an admirable mess. The car's original sky-blue paint job had oxidized to dust, and rust extended up from its threshold in veins that, after forty years of progress, reached at least halfway up the side panels. Anyone inside, once they'd dug through an assortment of garbage typically dominated by beer cans and fast-food bags, could see whatever was under the car through rusty holes in the floor board.
"It's not running very well," Dave said. "The engine is just about shot."
"So are you going to get a new car."
"No way. I'm gonna put a new engine in this one."
As they spoke, Rock noticed a group of elderly men walk out of the clubhouse toward the course. He immediately identified them as the Dead Peckers, a group he had written about twenty-five years earlier for the now-defunct Arkansas Gazette. They told him at the time that they'd chosen their name after several of them overheard a girl say to another, "Come on, hurry up. We don't want to get stuck behind these dead peckers."
It was apparent to Rock that his two friends and he now faced a similar need for haste.