She had just passed through a sharp curve when her car suddenly died. She checked the fuel gauge, found it three-quarters full, pumped the accelerator three times, and tried the starter. Nothing.
She was faithful in following all the suggested maintenance schedules, and she had the oil changed every three thousand miles. Other than that, she knew very little about the workings of an automobile. She climbed out, went to the front, pulled the hood release, and looked inside at the engine.
Just then, she heard a screeching of tires and looked up to see a new 1952 black Ford four-door sedan coming out of the curve in a four-wheel slide. Once out of the curve, the car shot along the straight stretch of highway past her, accelerating at a frightening rate. About a quarter mile down the road the driver slammed on the brakes, and the car did a one-eighty turn in its own length. Then the automobile headed back up the highway toward her.
Shenandoah scrambled back to the driver’s door and swung it open. She reached for her shoulder bag just as the Ford came to an abrupt stop two feet from her car’s front bumper. She was about to yell an obscenity at the driver when the door opened and a man stepped out. He wore a white Oxford button-down shirt, Levi’s, and black cowboy boots. He had sandy blonde hair and penetrating robin’s egg blue eyes. He looked to be about her age and took her breath—he was the most handsome man Shenandoah had ever seen.
Indecision gripped her. Should she pull out the Colt? She took a deep breath and whispered, “I’ll chance this one.”
The man sauntered to where Shenandoah stood and asked in a slow southern drawl, “Howdy, ma’am, what’s the problem?”
“Don’t know. It just stopped and I can’t get it started.”
“You got gas?”
“First thing I checked.”
“Let me take a look.”
The man leaned in under the hood and unscrewed the wing nut holding the air filter over the carburetor. Then he jiggled the choke and pulled on the throttle cable. After replacing the air filter, looking around the engine block, and scanning the belts, he turned to Shenandoah and said, “You’ve probably got a vapor lock in the fuel line. It comes too close to the block in these Chevys. Let it sit for about an hour and it should start. I’d take it to a garage and have the fuel line moved out about six inches. If you bring it to Johnson’s Garage, I’ll fix it for you.”
“Thank you. What do I owe you?”
“Why, nothing, ma’am. I’m right happy to be of assistance. You’re obviously not from around here. Where do you live?”
“Memphis.”
“Mind telling me your name?”
“No. It’s Shenandoah Coleman.”
“Really. You wouldn’t be from Beulah Land, would you?”
“One and the same.”
“I’ll be darned. You sure don’t look like any Coleman I’ve ever seen. What you do down in Memphis?’
“I’m a reporter for the Memphis Express, up to cover the trial of Dr. Kate.”
“You don’t say. Now that’s right interesting. Reckon she’s guilty?”
“I don’t think she’s guilty, but that’s for a jury to decide. Thanks for stopping. You can move along now.”
“You sure are a pretty lady. Any chance I could get you to have a burger with me?”
Shenandoah laughed so hard her side ached. “No offense, mister, but that’s just not going to happen. I do appreciate your help, but I think you need to get back in your little hotrod and go back to Round Rock.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely.” Then as a second thought, she asked, “You know anyone who drives a brand-new Dodge pickup?”
“Not many new vehicles of any kind in Parsons County. I’ll keep my eyes open. Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“I’m very sure.”
The man frowned and looked heartbroken, but walked back to his car and in a few seconds was barreling down the highway toward Round Rock.
Shenandoah sat in her hot car and tried to make sense out of what she had just seen. Where had that man learned to drive like that? And as much as she had to admit it to herself, she had been greatly attracted to the daredevil. Of course it was out of the question. She had no intention of getting involved with some hillbilly hot rod jockey. Then she thought, He is awfully cute. And I don’t have a boyfriend in Memphis. Now she had two reasons to seek out Army Johnson.
* * *
She waited exactly an hour, then started the car and arrived at the City Café before too much of the afternoon had gone by. She grabbed a quick BLT sandwich with potato chips and a Coke and headed to the garage.
When Shenandoah walked in, she saw engine blocks, various auto parts, and tools of every description littering the work area. The black 1952 four-door Ford sedan she had just seen on the highway sat in the middle of the shop. Someone lay on a crawler, feet in white athletic socks hanging off the end and extending out from under the car. No one else seemed to be around. A radio tuned to an AM station played Hank Williams’s song “Hey, Good Lookin’” at a deafening level.
“Hello!” she shouted over the singer’s twang.
Getting no response, she shouted again. No answer. She walked over to the workbench and turned the radio down.
“Army, that you?” the mechanic asked.
“I’m looking for him,” Shenandoah shouted before remembering she had turned down the volume.
“Not here.”
Shenandoah squatted down by the mechanic’s feet. “When’s he coming back?”
“Grab the crawler and pull me out.”
As Shenandoah pulled the crawler, its wheels squeaked, and the mechanic, now clad in baggy bib overalls sans shirt, slowly appeared from beneath the car. Grease smeared both cheeks, and the mechanic’s hands were covered with grime. She recognized the man who had looked at her car an hour earlier. Offering her hand, she pulled him up.
“Thanks again for helping me back there,” she said.
The mechanic asked, “You looking for Army?”
“Yes, I’d like to talk to him for a few minutes.”
Pointing toward the door, he said, “Here he comes.”
Shenandoah turned just as Army strode into the garage. “That looks like a new car outside, Shenandoah. What’s wrong?”
“Your mechanic says I need the fuel line moved, and I want to talk to you for a few minutes.”
Army reached into his shirt pocket, extracted his pack of Lucky Strikes, and shook one free. He let it dangle from his mouth for a second before lighting it with his gold Zippo. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled the blue smoke through his nostrils.
“What do you want to talk about?”
Shenandoah glanced at the mechanic, then turned to Army and asked, “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“I don’t have any secrets from Bobby. But we can step into my office.”
Shenandoah followed Army to the back of the shop, where they entered a small, cluttered office. A desk sat against one wall, and a black steel file cabinet rested against the opposite one. A bikini-clad model holding a carburetor beamed down from an auto parts calendar. On top of the file cabinet, there was a photograph in a walnut frame of Army dressed in military fatigues and surrounded by marines.
“You were in the marines?” Shenandoah asked. “They give you a hard time about your name?”
“Yeah on both counts. You?”
“I worked with the WASP.”
“That the flying girls? I didn’t know you knew how to fly a plane.”
“I learned when I went to Nashville after graduation. The WASP wanted women who already knew how to fly.”
“So you ferried fighters. Interesting. You always were a tomboy.” Army tipped his chair back and leveled his gaze. “So,” he said, “what you want to talk to me about?”
Shenandoah leaned forward. “First, please let me say again how sorry I am about Lillian’s death.”
Army’s facial expression didn’t change, but his eyes lost their s
parkle. He stared over Shenandoah’s head. “It’s a painful subject, Shenandoah. I hope you understand. I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sure you don’t and I hate to pry, but I’m trying to help Kate.”
Army leaned toward Shenandoah and in a hoarse voice said, “I’ll tell you this and not a damn thing more. My Lillie worshiped Kate and with good reason. Kate saved her life at least twice.”
“There’re rumors about you and Kate. Care to comment on that?”
“None of your damn business.”
“That’s the kind of thing that would come out during a trial.”
“You trying to piss me off?” Army snapped.
“To be honest with you, I’m upset that you’ve supplied Kate with vodka. She’s hooked, and I think it might be your fault. Why are you mixed up with ridge running in the first place?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You got any idea what a country doctor’s life is like?”
“No.”
“It ain’t a pretty sight. The poor woman works twelve hours a day seeing patients in her clinic and then drives all over the god-damned county at night making house calls. Hell, people don’t even pay her half the time. She needs a little help now and then to get through the day. What’s it to you? She works herself to death. Leave her alone, Shenandoah. Maybe you ought to go back to Memphis while you still can.”
“That a threat?”
“If you want to help Kate, go back to Memphis.”
“I’m not going back to Memphis. You still haven’t answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Why you’re mixed up with ridge running.”
“What makes you think I know anything about that?”
“Hattie Mae told me.”
“Hattie Mae is a gossip. Doesn’t always mind her own business. Sort of like you. And what makes you think I’d talk to you about an illegal business?”
“I want to know.”
“Get the hell out of here. I haven’t got time for this shit,” Army said, picking up the telephone receiver.
Shenandoah stood and quickly left Army’s office. Back in the shop, she saw the mechanic wiping his hands on a shop towel. “Tell me why Army got into ridge running,” Shenandoah said.
“Ridge running?”
“Hattie Mae told me Army’s a ridge runner. I’d like to know why he’d do something like that when he has a good business fixing cars.”
“We don’t talk about our business.”
“Come on. I’m not going to report you. I’m just curious about why someone who has a steady job would do something illegal. Army said your name is Bobby. Is that short for Robert, or did your mother just bypass that part?”
“It’s Bobby—Bobby Johnson. I’ve got a brother named Jack and one named John.”
“That’s Round Rock for you.”
“How’d you get your name?” Bobby asked. “It doesn’t sound like something you’d stick on a kid born in Beulah Land.”
“My poor mother was an illiterate third cousin to my father. She found a brochure about the Shenandoah Valley at the Trailways bus station in Round Rock and thought it looked like a pretty name. She showed it to Dr. Walt when he delivered me and asked him to put it on my birth certificate. That’s it. Are you kin to Army?”
“Army’s my cousin. I grew up in Celina. So, you’re the reporter. How do I know I can trust you?”
“I have an honest face.”
“That’s not good enough, lady. This is an illegal business we’re talking about.”
“Look. Think about it. What would I gain by turning you in?”
Bobby looked toward Army’s office. He asked in a low voice, “You like cars?”
“Cars get me from point A to point B, but yes, I do happen to like cars.”
“Okay, come over here, and I’ll show you what I’ve got under the hood.”
Shenandoah followed Bobby across the shop and peered under the hood of the Ford. It seemed to Shenandoah that it was crammed full of engine and carburetors.
“First I pulled the engine, shaved the heads, bore out the cylinders, and put in larger pistons. Then I slipped in a racing cam, fitted her with headers and three two-barrel carburetors. Horsepower and torque are massive.”
Shenandoah asked, “How fast will it go?”
“One-twenty to one-thirty.”
“Jesus, you mean miles per hour?”
Bobby smiled.
“Is it safe to drive that fast?”
“If you need to leave the cops in the dust, you do what it takes.”
Shenandoah couldn’t believe she was standing in a garage and talking about outrunning the cops with one of the most handsome, grease-smeared men she had ever seen.
“I’ve got to check out the second carburetor. You want to come along?”
“I’m not sure. Do you have to open this thing up? I can’t remember a straight road up here anywhere.”
“There’s one between here and Static. I use it all the time. I was coming back from a test drive when I saw you on the side of the road.”
“Static is on the Tennessee-Kentucky line, right?”
“Yeah.”
Shenandoah glanced into the back of the car and could see into the trunk. “Where’s the back seat?” she asked.
“We take the back seat and the front of the trunk out so that we can pack the whole area full of whisky. Once it’s full, we throw a sheet over the bottles. Let’s check out that carburetor. You ready?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure you’re a good driver, but I’ve never been that fast in a car.”
“Come on, Shenandoah. Don’t go chicken on me.”
Of course, that was a direct challenge to Shenandoah. No one ever called her chicken and got away with it. She nodded and headed for the passenger seat.
Bobby slipped off the overalls, revealing his Levi’s, donned his white shirt, pulled on his cowboy boots, and got behind the wheel. As Shenandoah slid into the passenger seat, she noticed a webbed belt with a large buckle sticking between the seat bottom and back. “What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s a restraining belt. Stock car drivers use them. Holds you in place and keeps you from going through the windshield in a wreck. Army insists we wear them.”
Shenandoah had worn seat belts in airplanes but never a car. When Bobby turned the ignition, she expected the car to roar. Instead, it had a low exhaust rumble. The engine idled fast, and the whole car vibrated. Bobby slipped the transmission into reverse and backed slowly out of the garage. He turned the vent window on his side inward, so Shenandoah did the same. They moved through Round Rock at thirty miles an hour and soon headed north toward Static. Bobby drove about fifty. Shenandoah kept her eyes on the speedometer but noticed a smaller meter on top of the dash. Pointing to it, she asked, “What’s that?”
“Tachometer. Tells you how many RPMs the engine’s turning. Don’t want to redline the thing or it’ll explode -- throw a rod.”
Bobby said this matter-of-factly. Shenandoah had never heard of such a thing. The wind blew Bobby’s hair around his face, and he kept pushing it to keep it out of his eyes. Shenandoah, despite herself, was mesmerized by Bobby’s tight shirt.
In the first few minutes of the ride, Bobby paid more attention to Shenandoah’s anatomy than to the road. But suddenly he put the pedal down, and Shenandoah’s head snapped back as the car leaped ahead. An ear-splitting roar filled the passenger compartment, and the landscape outside her window blurred. They were on a long, straight stretch of road, and when she glanced at the speedometer, she saw the needle pass one hundred and ten. Her mouth went dry, and she held on to the front edge of her seat so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Bobby appeared relaxed as he pushed the car to its limits. At one-twenty, he let off the accelerator and started to pump the brakes. By the time they reached the first curve, he had the car down to sixty miles an hour. As they entered the curve, he tapped the brakes again a
nd then gunned the car, bringing them out of the curve doing eighty.
On a straight stretch again, he slowed to about forty, pulled on the emergency brake, turned the wheel sharply, and downshifted into low. This maneuver caused the Ford to do a one-eighty and turn in its own length, as it had earlier that day. He released the brake and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The whole episode took one or two seconds. Before Shenandoah could catch her breath, they were doing ninety-five miles per hour back in the direction they had come.
“What the hell was that?” she shouted over the roar of the three wide open, two-barrel carburetors.
“Bootleg turn!” Bobby shouted.
Shenandoah’s knuckles were still white as they slowed to a mere sixty miles an hour. Shenandoah sat back in her seat. She had no idea where they were, but she knew that at some point they had taken a turn away from Round Rock.
After a few minutes, Bobby started down a narrow road filled with sharp curves. It ended at Dale Hollow Lake. One of the TVA projects, it had a shore line of several hundred miles. Shenandoah and her father, Archibald, often fished for smallmouth bass in the deep, clear water every spring when she was a youngster.
A boat ramp sat to one side, and back from the water there were six concrete picnic tables. Bobby pulled the Ford in beside one and turned off the ignition. He undid his seat belt and stepped out of the car. Shenandoah followed him to a bench and sat beside him. He smelled of sweet sweat, gasoline, and grease, sexier than any men’s aftershave lotion she had ever encountered. Bobby raked his fingers through his hair as beads of perspiration popped out on his brow, and his face was flushed. He rested his elbows on the table and cradled his chin in his hands. “I love Dale Hollow Lake,” he said. “I like to come here and just sit. It’s so peaceful.”
It being the middle of the week, the lake was almost deserted. Shenandoah could see two johnboats in the distance, their occupants casting for fish near the bank. One outboard pulled a lone skier across the smooth surface of the water about a mile offshore. It was, indeed, a peaceful scene.
“Do you swim?” Shenandoah asked.
“Sure. I like to water-ski, too, but I don’t have much time for either.”
“How did you get to be a mechanic?”
The Trial of Dr. Kate Page 8