Drag Strip Racer Read online

  He drove block after block, not knowing or caring where he was going. Then he thought of Sally—Sally Biemen—and made a right-hand turn at the next intersection.

  Sally was a six-foot, interesting-looking brunette he had met at a motorcycle slalom some eight months ago. She had her own bike, a 125CC Honda that she drove back and forth to work. Somehow they had gotten to like each other and had gone out a couple of times a month. She lived alone in a one-room apartment on Casey Street.

  He arrived there shortly, left his bike in the driveway, and walked into the apartment building and up the stairs to the second floor. He knocked on her door, tap-tippy-taptap, a sound that had become their signal.

  A few seconds later the door opened and she was there, staring at him, her blue eyes shining.

  “Dana!” she said. “What a surprise!”

  “Yeah, I imagine it is,” he murmured. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course, silly.”

  He entered and tossed his helmet on the couch. Then he sat down and sprawled his long legs out in front of him.

  She closed the door. “What happened? You look as if someone’s put you through the wringer.”

  “You’re right. My brother.”

  “Ken?”

  “Yes. Ken. Got any beer?”

  She didn’t drink the stuff, but she kept a few cans of it in the refrigerator for the times when friends dropped by.

  “There’s some left. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Never mind. I’ll get it.”

  He rose, went to the refrigerator, and took out a can. He cracked it open, carried it back to the couch, and held it until Sally placed a coaster on the coffee table. He set the can on it and looked with disinterest at the moisture that was forming on it.

  Sally sat down on an easy chair across from him. She was wearing a white blouse and blue slacks with tiny anchors down near the bottom of each pant leg. A Saint Christopher medal hung on a slim chain around her neck.

  “Want to tell me about it?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just had to get away, and this is the best place I thought of getting away to.”

  She didn’t press him. She just kept looking at him as if in hopes that if she looked long enough she could figure out why he needed to be there.

  He liked that about her. She was no gabby-mouth, nor was she inquisitive.

  She reached over to the coffee table, opened a silver-plated case that was on it, and took out a cigarette. Then she picked up a small, plastic replica of a Civil War cannon, flicked the back end of the barrel with a finger, and lit the cigarette with the flame that burst forth from the front end of it.

  She took a drag on the cigarette, then handed it to him. He took it and automatically placed it between his lips.

  “Would you like to stay for supper?” she asked quietly.

  He shrugged. “You sure you want me to?”

  “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t, would I?” she said.

  He smiled, took a long drag on the cigarette, held the smoke in his mouth for a while, then blew it out. It hit the coffee table, then began a slow, lazy ascent toward the ceiling.

  There was the sound of a car outside. Dana’s preoccupied mind caught a familiar, subtle ping in the sound of the motor, but he dismissed it.

  He leaned over, picked up the can of beer, and took a slug of it. How many cans of beer had Ken drunk in his life? he thought. Not many, I bet. Heck, by the time I was sixteen…

  Someone was coming up the stairs. Someone with crutches.

  Ken, Dana thought. What the heck did he want?

  There was a knock on the door.

  “It’s Ken,” Dana said thickly.

  “Ken?” Sally frowned as she rose to answer the door.

  She opened it, then calmly greeted Ken and invited him in. Dana didn’t bother to look around. He didn’t glance up until Ken came within his line of vision.

  Before Ken could open his mouth to speak, Dana snapped, “Who invited you here? Get out.”

  Ken stood there, his hands gripping the handles of the crutches. “Dana, I’d like to speak to you a minute.”

  “Why? You got more insults you want to hand me? No, thanks. Sally, show my brother—”

  “Dana, you’ve got to listen to me,” Ken interrupted. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  Dana’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I was here?”

  He saw Ken glance at Sally and then realized that Ken didn’t need a dozen guesses to figure it out. It was either Nick’s pool parlor or Sally’s apartment, and Ken had chosen the more likely place where he’d expect to find him.

  “Okay, never mind. Speak your piece and get out.”

  Ken hesitated. There was an awkward moment as Sally excused herself and went into the kitchen.

  The brothers faced each other.

  “I came to apologize for what I said,” Ken began. “I got to thinking about it after you left, and I began to see your side of it.” He paused briefly, then went on. “I appreciate what you did for me. I guess I couldn’t let your first feelings about the car be part of the past, and I’m sorry I was suspicious of you.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Well, that’s all I’ve got to say.” He turned and headed for the door.

  Spellbound, Dana watched his brother open the door and leave. He didn’t move until he heard the familiar sound of the pickup start up and take off.

  Sally came back into the room and stood in front of the door, silent, her hands clasped tightly close to her chest.

  Dana squashed out the cigarette on the ashtray and got up. He picked up his helmet. “Give me a rain check on that dinner, Sally. Okay? See you later.”

  He went to the door, opened it, and walked out.

  TWELVE

  IT WAS on a Wednesday two weeks later, and two days after the cast was removed from his leg, that Ken drove over to Dusty Hill’s auto parts store and told Dusty he was in tip-top shape for Saturday afternoon’s race and was anxious to run a few passes.

  Dusty glanced at Ken’s legs, first one and then the other, and broke into a wide smile. “I can see you’re good as new,” he said.

  “There’s a clinker in the works, though,” Ken said, and explained about the moratorium placed against him at the Candlewyck Speedway.

  “Moratorium?” Dusty echoed, his eyes turning yellow. “Who said so, and why?”

  “Buck Morrison did. His first excuse was that I had a cast on my leg. When I told him I couldn’t believe that, because the cast was on my left leg and I used my right to drive with, he told me the truth. Somebody called him up and told him that he and some other guy would not drive in a race if I was allowed on the track, because I’d been drinking before I had gotten into that accident.”

  Dusty’s jaw muscles twitched. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asked.

  “I wanted to wait till I had the cast off.”

  “Wish you hadn’t.” His eyes focused on Ken’s. “Was that true? Did you drink before you got in that accident?”

  “No. I have a beer now and then, but that’s all,” Ken answered evenly. “Anyway, that accident was caused by a bad brake cylinder which ‘Rat’ Taggart, himself, discovered for me.” He went on to explain that it was at his brother Dana’s suggestion that he had asked “Rat” to look at the car.

  Dusty frowned. “Did you tell Buck that?”

  “I couldn’t,” Ken replied. “He wouldn’t listen tome.”

  Dusty nodded. “I see.” He squinched his eyes as he looked at Ken again. “Got any ideas who called Morrison?”

  Ken shrugged. “There is no one who would have a reason to lie about me except the same guy who looked at my car, ‘Rat’ Taggart.”

  “Right. His name was the first to pop into my mind, too. He’s got lots of reasons for wanting you not to race, and, from what he’s done to me, I’m sure one fat lie about you hasn’t bothered his conscience one bit.” He raised a finger. “Excuse me a minute.”

  He pic
ked up the phone directory, found the number he wanted, then took the phone off its cradle and dialed.

  “Hello. Buck? This is Dusty. How you doing?”

  For a few seconds Dusty and Buck Morrison exchanged idle chatter, then Dusty got to the point and asked Buck if he still intended not to let Ken Oberlin trial-run his car, or race at the track. He listened awhile, angry expressions crossing his face, then asked Buck if it happened to be “Rat” Taggart who had telephoned him.

  A few seconds passed. “Come on, Buck. The truth. It was ‘Rat,’ wasn’t it?” Dusty prodded him.

  A few more seconds passed. Then Dusty nodded. “Just what I thought, Buck. Well, ‘Rat’ lied. He doesn’t want to see young Ken Oberlin race because I fired him as my driver and hired Ken. I have a valid reason for doing so, but I can’t explain it to you. Anyway, Ken Oberlin didn’t drink before his accident. What happened was, his brake cylinder blew. He said he had tried to tell you that but you were too busy to listen.” He paused. “Well, what do you say? Does he run on your track or doesn’t he?”

  Dusty listened for a while again to what Buck Morrison was saying, then a smile came over his face, broadening by the second; and when he hung up it was obvious that he had won his point.

  “He said you can start using the track tomorrow morning,” Dusty said. “And if you want to enter the race on Saturday or Sunday you’d better sign an entry form and pay your fee as soon as you can. There are already about forty drivers signed up for both events. The Eliminator is on Saturday, the E.T.’s on Sunday. You’re racing in the Eliminator, right?”

  “Right,” said Ken. “And I’ll make sure to pay my entry fee. Thanks for talking to Morrison.”

  “My pleasure. And I’ll reimburse you for the entry fee.”

  “Right, thanks.” Ken headed for the door.

  “Hey, you’re walking like a new man, Ken,” Dusty called after him.

  “Feel new, too,” Ken replied.

  He was up early the next morning, had breakfast, then drove to the track. His sisters begged to go with him, but he said that today, and tomorrow, Friday, he preferred to go alone. He intended to spend most of the time at the track and didn’t want them to hang around there all that time by themselves.

  Their hurt looks expressed their disappointment, but he hoped they understood.

  He was one of the first drivers at the track. He went up to the timing tower to sign the entry form and pay his fee and found both Buck Morrison and Jay Wells busy talking and joking with a couple of racing drivers.

  Buck caught his eye almost instantly, but looked away and continued to talk and laugh with the men until Ken drew up closer to them and made his presence obvious.

  Everyone seemed to stop talking at once and glanced around at him. Buck’s smile looked as if it were pasted on as his eyes dropped to Ken’s legs and a surprised look flashed into them.

  “So you’ve got the weight off,” he said. “How you doing?”

  “Fine.” Ken noticed that there was nothing in Buck’s expression that hinted of Dusty’s phone call to him. He took a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet. “My entry fee for Saturday.”

  “Okay. We’ll get you signed up in a minute. Would you like us to start scoring you points? You’ll need them to qualify for the national championships.”

  “Not at this time,” Ken said.

  “Okay. You’ll have to sign a waiver. Step over here to my desk.”

  Ten minutes later Ken was back in the pits, driving the red Chevy off the trailer. He thought he detected a hiss in the engine, but it cleared up and he drove the car to the area just south of the entranceway to the track, hung around while the tech men inspected the car, then drove it back up around the timing tower. He got out and put on his firesuit, helmet, and gloves, then got back in. One of the three track crewmen waved him toward the number two lane next to a black Ford and he accelerated the Chevy till he had it in place.

  A blue, white-trimmed Plymouth was in front of him. He recognized it even without reading the name written in bright red script across the back of it: “Snakeman” Wilkins. Next to the Plymouth was a green Chevy.

  The Christmas tree was there some twenty feet ahead, its staging lights turned on. Ken watched the bulbs flash on one by one, then heard the deafening roar of the two cars as they bolted forward, twin exhausts belching smoke as their wide rear tires took a firm grip of the asphalt and whisked machines and drivers down the arrow-straight lanes. Seconds later a huge amber light flashed on at the right side of the lanes, indicating that “Snakeman” Wilkins had won, although the wins and losses meant nothing now and were not recorded.

  “Okay,” said one of the crewmen to Ken and the driver of the black Ford, and motioned them forward into staging position.

  Ken drove ahead. When the front wheels touched the electric staging beam the yellow pre-staging light flashed on and Ken stopped the car. In a second the Ford was also ready.

  Tension mounted in Ken as he watched for the staging lights to turn on. Suddenly they did and the skin on his arms prickled.

  This was only a trial run, but it still meant that he had to get the best performance possible out of the little red machine. She was known to have been a winner in the 11.00 to 11.19 E. T. bracket (determined by the car crossing the finish line first in the 11.00 to 11.19 seconds elapsed-time class; crossing it before 11.00 seconds meant a loss), but that was when Uncle Louis sat behind her wheel—he knew her like a mother knows her baby. He had bought her off a used-car lot and had transformed her into one of the fastest cars Candlewyck and a lot of other speedways had ever seen.

  But those wins had also had a lot to do with Uncle Louis’s knowledge of the garish collection of colored lights that stood on the tall stem in front of him. That intuition, that feeling that made you know the split second when the green “go” light flashed on, made the big difference between whether you won or lost.

  Uncle Louis had had it, and it had made him a winner.

  Ken hoped he’d have it soon, too.

  One by one, at half-second intervals, as he watched, the five amber lights popped on.

  Then the green light flashed on and he stepped on the gas pedal as if it were a deadly snake. The car sprang forward like a cat, its front end almost lifting off the asphalt, its wide rear tires spinning and biting into the hard surface in a desperate effort to get away from that spot as fast as they could.

  Ken glanced at the speedometer as the needle climbed up above the fifty mark to the sixties…the seventies…the eighties…

  It was about 105 when he flashed past the 1320-foot mark.

  “Ken Oberlin in Li’l Red, thirteen point thirty-eight and one hundred six point twenty-eight miles an hour,” came the announcement from the public address system. “That isn’t bad driving for young Ken Oberlin, who’s only sixteen years old. Jack Wheeler in the Ford, fourteen point eleven and ninety-seven point eighty-nine miles an hour. Maybe you haven’t been feeding those horses the right kind of hay, Jack.”

  Thirteen thirty-eight, one oh six point twenty-eight, Ken reflected, disappointed. If Uncle Louis could have heard that he’d turn over in his grave.

  Fifteen minutes crawled by before his next pass came up. This time he cut the time down by twenty-nine hundredths of a second.

  On his next run he hit the gas pedal too soon and red-lighted. On the next he did it again, and thought he’d better sit out the next two or three passes.

  He drove to the pits, unbuckled his seat belt, and got out of the car. He unzipped the firesuit partway to let the fresh breeze cool his skin, then walked over to the concession stand and bought a can of ice-cold ginger ale. He popped it open, took a long swig of it, then stayed there till he had emptied it.

  It was half an hour before he made his next run. This time he started off okay, but his time was slower by ten-hundredths of a second than it was on the first run, and he thought he’d better quit and go home. He had had Li’l Red running faster than that before, and he knew he could
have her performing better again.

  He got out of his gear, put the car back on the trailer, and drove home, pondering his mistakes and how to correct them when he returned to the track tomorrow.

  It rained during the night. The thunder woke him and his first thought was whether it would continue to rain throughout the morning. If it did, the trial runs would be called off.

  He didn’t need that. What he needed was to get as much practice as he could.

  The rain stopped before daylight. At nine o’clock he called the timing tower to ask if the track was going to be open. Jay Wells, answering the phone, said that the track was a little wet, but if it didn’t rain any more they would open it at noon.

  Ken thanked him and breathed easier as he hung up the receiver.

  There was another string of cars pulling into the speedway when he got there. By the time he was able to run a pass it was almost one o’clock. His initial run was timed at 12.02, 112.96 miles per hour, his best yet.

  The performance lifted his confidence to a new high, and even Jay Wells, speaking over the P.A. system, congratulated him for a “good drive.”

  He did another run in the twelves. Then something popped under the hood on his third run, slowing down the car, and he almost burst a blood vessel.

  “Oh, no!” he cried. “What now?”

  THIRTEEN

  KEN SHOVED THE CAR out of gear and stopped some fifty feet farther down the lane.

  He heard the clicking sound of the cooling engine, smelled the rancid odor of oil, and for a moment he wondered if a gasket had blown.

  He started up again, listened to the droning sound, and gradually the smell of the oil disappeared. He shoved the lever into first gear, touched the gas pedal, and felt no response.

  He pressed down harder on the gas. Still no response. A flash of irritation shot through him and he struck the steering wheel hard with the palm of his hand. He was no expert on cars, a situation he had to change as time passed. But he knew the trouble he had now. The clutch was shot.