Drag Strip Racer

by Matt Christopher

  The whole family was there—his mother, father, Janet, and ten-year-old Lori. The moment he stepped into the room they turned to him simultaneously, looking as if they were surprised to see him.

  Dana noticed, as he had before, that at thirty-nine his father looked ten years older, very gaunt from his serious diabetic condition, but sun-browned from his regular stint in the garden he loved so much. His mother, by comparison, was almost as fit as she had been as a young woman.

  They exchanged greetings, then he stepped up to the bed where Ken was lying, his left leg in a plaster cast.

  “That’s a heck of a way to learn that racing is a man’s sport,” Dana quipped. They shook hands. “What happened?”

  Ken explained. “And don’t tell me I can’t race it,” he added firmly. “What happened to the brakes could’ve happened to any car.”

  Dana shrugged. “Right.”

  “Dana, I think you should check over those brakes for him,” his father cut in.

  Dana looked at him. “Why?”

  “Ken thinks they might’ve been tampered with.”

  Dana laughed. “Tampered with? Who’d tamper with the brakes on that car, anyway?”

  “Hooligans,” snapped his father. “Doing it for kicks. Anyway, Ken says he checked the car out thoroughly and hadn’t found anything wrong. I would appreciate it if you’d do it.”

  I wonder if he’d be that concerned about me, Dana thought. Ever since he could remember, both his mother and father seemed more worried about what happened to Ken than they ever did about him.

  “I’m a motorcycle man, Dad,” he said. “What I know about cars you can stick into a valve cap.”

  “Then ask that friend of yours. Taggart,” his father suggested.

  “Scott Taggart?”

  “Yes. He races cars, too, and he fixes them. He should be able to find out if the brakes were tampered with or not.”

  Dana rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Scott Taggart raced a small block Chevy II but had never managed to come out better than third runner-up in the two years that he competed. Along with the Chevy, he owned a Honda motorcycle, and what he knew about both kinds of vehicles could keep him in a good, steady-paying mechanic’s job for a long time. He just didn’t seem to like steady jobs.

  Dana shrugged. “Okay, Pops. Whatever you say,” he said.

  “Dana—please,” said his mother, looking hurt at the way he had addressed his father.

  Dana inhaled, then shook his head and clamped his teeth as he exhaled. “Sorry. Okay, Dad.” He turned back to his brother and forced a weak grin. “Don’t run off and do something crazy, okay?” Then he stepped toward his mother, gave her a peck on the cheek, smiled at his sisters, and headed for the door, the heels of his boots clicking sharply on the vinyl-covered floor.

  The cold voice of his father stopped him. “Dana.”

  Dana paused, turned, and faced him. His father’s bad eye, the left one, and the good eye fixed firmly on him.

  “Yeah?”

  “The garage man said he’d have a tow truck haul the car to the house at about two.”

  “I’m through work at three,” Dana told him.

  His father nodded.

  Dana turned away and walked out. In the hall he took another deep breath and shook his head. He and his father hadn’t gotten along since Dana’s elementary-school days. It seemed that there wasn’t a thing he did that was right, and, through all the years that he was growing up, the situation hadn’t changed. Sometimes he thought it was getting worse.

  He got back to the pool parlor, secretly hoping that Nick wouldn’t see him coming in. But the suave, dark-complected owner of the only pool hall in the small town of Wade, Florida, was sitting behind the cash register in a close conversation with a blond.

  “Hi, Nick,” Dana greeted him as he headed for the hall where he’d left the paint can and brush. Behind him he could hear the solid crack of cue balls breaking, then the quieter sounds of balls striking one another.

  Nick nodded to him. A few seconds later Dana heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw that it was Nick, smoke curling up past his eyes from the cigarette he held between his lips.

  “You’re late,” Nick said. He glanced at his watch. “Eight minutes late.”

  Dana felt a tightening in his stomach. “Ken got in an accident. I rode to the hospital to see him.”

  “What happened?”

  “He fractured his foot. He was running some passes with his racer this morning.”

  “Too bad.”

  “He’ll be okay.”

  Dana bent over, picked up the screwdriver lying on the covered paint can, and began prying off the lid. He wished Nick would leave. The guy made him nervous.

  He got the lid off, picked up the stirring paddle, and began stirring the paint. He went a little too fast and spilled some of it over the edge of the can and onto the paper the can was sitting on. Hands unsteady, he picked up the brush and wiped it off.

  “Take it easy,” Nick cautioned. “That stuff’s expensive.”

  “Sorry.”

  “See you around.”

  “Right.”

  He watched Nick turn and leave, the tip of the cigarette glowing red as Nick inhaled on it. Dana suppressed a curse. The last thing he wanted was to let Nick think he could scare him.

  He worked ten minutes overtime to make up for arriving late at noon, then telephoned Scott Taggart from a pay telephone a block away from the pool parlor. He explained about the accident and Ken’s wish to have the brakes on his racer checked.

  “Why does he want them checked?” Taggart wanted to know.

  “He thinks they might’ve been tampered with. Can you be there in half an hour?”

  “Make it an hour. Have you got a hydraulic jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. See you.”

  The family was all at home when Dana got there. Ken was resting on the sofa in the living room.

  “I’ve called Scott Taggart,” he told Ken. “He’ll be here in about an hour.”

  “Good,” his father said.

  It was almost four-thirty when Scott drove up on his black, red-trimmed Honda. From the living-room window, Dana watched him park next to the trailer on which the little red racer had been secured again. Then he walked out to meet him, trailed by Ken, who managed awkwardly on a pair of crutches, his cast-encased leg hovering slightly above the ground. The girls, Janet and Lori, were on either side of him, as if watching out for him should he miss a step and lose his balance.

  Greetings were exchanged as Scott unsnapped his helmet and hung it over a handlebar of his motorcycle. Slim, brown-haired, and beady-eyed, he had acquired the nickname “Rat” from the racing establishment.

  He and Dana lowered the ramp. Then Dana unlocked the chain and they pushed the car off the trailer. Dana noticed the crumpled left front fender. The fat repair bill his brother faced came immediately to his mind. Well, that was Ken’s worry. He had to expect things like this to happen.

  He went and got the hydraulic jack from the two-car garage, jacked up the front end of the car, and Scott began to examine the brakes.

  Dana, Ken, and the girls watched him with avid interest. Dana expected that his father was watching from a living-room window, too, although he didn’t turn around to see.

  Within minutes Scott came up with a discovery.

  “The master cylinder’s shot,” he said.

  Dana saw Ken’s eyes cloud over with doubt. “How can it be?” he said. “There was no leak.”

  “That’s because the cylinder’s all rusted inside and the plunger’s worn out,” Taggart explained. “The minute you hit the pedal that last time, the plunger dropped out and you had no brakes.”

  Ken nodded. “Okay, Scott. Thanks. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  Dana glanced at his brother, and for just a moment he wondered if Ken might have suspected him of tampering with the brakes. Ken knew that Dana would have liked
to have the little red Chevy for himself, and it might be possible that he thought Dana might pull a malicious trick.

  But I couldn’t pull a dirty trick like that, Dana thought. Never.

  THREE

  I THINK you’d better give it up before something else happens. Something much worse than a fractured foot,” said Ken’s father.

  The older man sat in the chair by the window, rocking back and forth with his hands clasped on his lap. The sunlight pouring in the window surrounded his face with a glow and hid the lines that creased it.

  “Please don’t tell me to quit, Dad,” Ken said. “Accidents can happen no matter what I do. Once I get the master cylinder fixed on Li’l Red I’ll make sure that she’s in tip-top shape every time I get on a racetrack. I promise.”

  For a few moments his father rocked harder on the chair, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  “Sure, sure. I might as well talk to that wall there,” he said.

  “Well, Uncle Louis did will him that car,” Ken’s mother broke in. She was sitting on the sofa, perusing a magazine on organic gardening. “And Ken really doesn’t have any other interests.”

  Ken was startled by her remark. “That’s not true, Mom,” he said. “Isn’t basketball an interest? And what about those computers? And sculpting models out of tree branches?”

  “Yes, but how long did those hobbies last?”

  “I’m still sculpting.”

  “All right, but how often?”

  “Once a week—at least.”

  “Or less,” she said.

  It was two years ago that he had toyed around with computers. He had made one from kits, but his interest in it had flagged and he began sculpting models out of tree branches. Birds, mainly, because he found them the easiest to do. He didn’t know of any kids who sculpted from tree branches. That was what he liked, doing something that wasn’t easy and popular. That’s why he enjoyed drag racing. There was something different about sitting behind the wheel of a stock car and giving it all it had down a quarter-of-a-mile stretch. Something alive and vibrant.

  “Well, you can’t race again until your foot heals and the brakes are fixed,” his father said. “From what I see that’s going to be a long time.”

  Ken looked down at his cast-covered leg, “Not as long as you think, Dad,” he said assuredly.

  His father looked at him. His mouth opened and a nerve twitched at the side of his neck.

  But he said nothing, as if what he’d say might not make any difference anyway.

  Ken knew it wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to forgo his summer job at Cowosocki Camp until he was able to maneuver around better. But he’d get that fender straightened and the master cylinder fixed as soon as possible and pay for them out of his savings. He had no problem in that department—yet.

  It wasn’t till the following Wednesday that he called up Dusty Hill, owner of an automotive parts store that catered to the racing car trade. Dusty also owned the garage next to his shop and was vain enough to tell his customers that the best mechanic in town—not one of the best, but the best—was right there in his shop. His name was Rooster Falls.

  Dusty had another sideline—he sponsored drivers in drag races, a point that Ken had considered before he made the call.

  “Hi, Mr. Hill,” he said, getting the owner on the line after the third ring. “This is Ken Oberlin. I don’t know if you know me, but—”

  “Yes, I know you. You’re Lou Oberlin’s nephew,” Dusty interrupted. “I heard you had some trouble at the trial runs last Saturday.”

  He had a voice that seemed to come from the bottom of a well. And he talked slowly, as if measuring each word before uttering it.

  “Right,” Ken said. “The master cylinder went bad and I—well, I came out of it with a fractured foot.”

  “You were lucky. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to get the brakes fixed and the front left fender straightened.”

  “Okay, but it won’t be for another week or two,” Dusty answered promptly. “I’ve only got one mechanic and he’s up to his back pockets with work. Anyway,” he added, chuckling, “you’re in no hurry, are you? You can wait another month. Maybe two.”

  “No, Mr. Hill,” Ken said. “I’d like to get the car fixed as soon as possible. It’s my left leg in a cast, so I can still drive.”

  There was a pause. Finally Dusty’s slow voice came back over the wire. “Okay, Ken. I’ll get my book. Hold on a second.”

  In half a minute Dusty was back on the phone, an appointment was made, and Ken hung up. He felt the sudden grip of impatience because he knew that the ten days he’d have to wait for his car to get fixed would seem like an eternity.

  He heard the back door open and close, and pretty soon saw his father come in and sit down on a chair in the kitchen. He started to take off his shoes, a wide patch of sweat gluing his gray shirt to his back.

  He didn’t see Ken till he’d kicked off the shoes and straightened up in his chair. Tiny rivers of perspiration trickled slowly down the thin lines of his face, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ve just made an appointment to get my car fixed, Dad,” Ken said.

  “Oh?” His father’s eyebrows arched. “You think you’ll be able to race Li’l Red again, even with that cast on your leg?”

  Ken smiled. “The cast is on my left leg, Dad,” he pointed out, “not on my gas foot.”

  Less than two weeks later, on a Friday, Ken drove the pickup and trailer to Dusty Hill’s garage to bring back the Chevy racer. Rooster drove it up the ramp and onto the trailer, then got out and stood on the ground, looking at it admiringly.

  “A real pussycat,” he said, wiping his hands on a grease cloth. He was a small man in his forties, with thick black hair and a toothbrush mustache. “Dusty told me it was your uncle’s.”

  “Yes,” Ken said. “He wanted me to have it after he died.”

  Rooster nodded. He and Ken were standing at the side of the car, its sheen so bright that their reflections mirrored clearly back at them. Ken thought the job Rooster had done on the fender was excellent and was going to voice his appreciation, when the mechanic interrupted. “Louis Oberlin. I knew him well. He was good, but he never could make the top, could he?” He turned to Ken and his mild, gray eyes sparkled. “Maybe you will.”

  Ken smiled. “You never know.”

  “That’s right. You never know.”

  Ken paid Dusty Hill by check, then drove away with the car. He began to ponder his next move and whistled as he did so. He couldn’t wait to get home to make another phone call, this one to Buck Morrison, co-owner of Candlewyck Speedway.

  The earliest he could use the track was on Monday, Morrison told him. The morning trial runs and the afternoon races on Saturday and Sunday tied up the weekend.

  Ken rushed through breakfast on Monday morning, then drove the pickup, with Li’l Red on the trailer, to the track. Janet begged to go along with him, so he took her. He had a feeling that when she came of age she might try racing, too. She showed a lot of interest in it.

  An overcast sky promised rain by the time he swung through the open gate and he wished it would hold off till he got in a few passes. He drove up near the timing tower where Buck Morrison’s red pickup was parked. Buck and his partner, Jay Wells, were probably up there in their office, getting the weekend’s racing results compiled for the newspapers or preparing for next weekend’s races.

  Ken wished he could have the Christmas tree out there on the track. Getting used to starting with it despite his cast would be good practice. But he knew that neither Buck nor Jay would drag it out of the building and set it up for him or anybody else.

  He unloaded the Chevy and drove it to the staging lanes. It purred like a cat, and the brakes responded quickly and smoothly to the slightest pressure.

  He got out, put on his firesuit, gloves, and helmet, and got back into the car. He buckled his seat belt, then looked at Janet and smiled.

  She raised
two fingers, said, “Good luck,” and backed away from the track. A rising wind stirred her hair.

  Ken drove the Chevy up near the number one staging lane, where he sat for a moment while he listened to the purring engine and looked down the long ribbon of asphalt ahead of him. He tried to visualize a car on the lane next to his, engine buzzing like a chain saw, its driver bent on getting that all-important start.

  He set his cast-laden leg in place, and settled his right foot on the gas pedal. For a second he glanced at the ash-gray sky. No rain yet, but it looked threatening.

  He jammed on the gas pedal a couple of times, and each time the Chevy bolted forward a few feet, its rear tires getting a good bite of the rosin-blackened surface.

  Then he was in about the spot where he would be if the Christmas tree were set up. He paused a minute, took a few deep breaths, and got ready.

  One…two…three! He hit the gas pedal and the car took off. Its front end leaped, wheels almost leaving the asphalt, yielding all power to the wide-tired, spinning rear wheels. The front tires were regulars and a little used. It wasn’t necessary that they be the best, anyway. The demand for the all-out zip and power came mainly from those slick, giant babies in back.

  Then the front end settled down and Ken felt the brief impact and the jar of the steering wheel. The car swerved to the left just a little and he righted it gently. Then he glanced at the speedometer and saw the needle quivering at the 104-mile-per-hour mark. How many seconds was that? his mind quickly asked. Thirteen? Fourteen? In that neighborhood, he assumed.

  He touched the brakes and smiled as he felt them take hold. He pressed harder, and the car slowed up and then stopped on a dime as he gave the brake pedal a final thrust. All this time he had scarcely thought of the cast on his other leg.

  “Good ol’ Rooster,” he said aloud, smacking the steering wheel with affection. “Well, now for another shot.”

  He drove back to the number one staging lane, shouting, “How does she look?” to Janet as he rolled slowly past her.