Ken rose from the lounge chair, stepped into the dining room, then to a window facing the garage. He saw Dana put on his helmet, get on his motorcycle, and drive off. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, yet Ken felt that whoever had called him wanted to see him right away.
FIFTEEN
DANA BREEZED through the streets at a moderate clip, thinking about the brief telephone call from Nick Evans.
“This is Nick. I’d like to see you right away.”
That was it. He had hung up without giving Dana a chance to say whether he could make it or not.
But that was Nick—blunt, abrupt, arrogant, and sure. He seemed to have no doubt that Dana could make it.
A heaviness settled in Dana’s chest as he guessed Nick’s purpose for calling him. Nick had given him a job to do. He wanted to know if it was done.
But he could have asked me that over the phone, Dana told himself. Why hadn’t he?
Maybe Nick wanted to see him about something else.
He arrived at Nick’s pool parlor, parked in the lot close to the entrance door, and went in, carrying his helmet under his arm.
Business was thriving. There were players at each table and customers waiting for their turns.
Nick, wearing a dark blue shirt with a white collar, was sitting on the stool behind the cash register, one leg cocked up against the counter.
“Hi, Nick,” Dana greeted him. “What’s up?”
Nick dropped the leg and folded his arms across his chest. A slow smile came over his mouth that put Dana instantly on guard.
“Did you do it?”
Dana stared at him. “No, I didn’t,” he said.
The smile vanished from Nick’s mouth. “Why not?”
Dana cleared his throat. He took a glance at the customers, then looked again at Nick. “He’s my brother, Nick,” he said. “That’s why.”
“Oh. So now you’ve got a change of heart. He’s your brother.” The smile came back for just a moment. “Not too long ago you told me he was just like anybody else to you.”
“That’s changed.”
“I see.” Nick tapped his fingers against his bare arms. “You should have, Dana,” he said without looking Dana in the eye. “You should have done like I told you. It would’ve been very easy for you to have done something to the carburetor, or the gas line, or even the clutch. Phil told me he had one of his men put a new clutch in Ken’s car last week.”
“Right,” Dana said. “I was the one who called Phil.”
“I know.” Nick shook his head. “I put a lot of money on Taggart, Dana. A lot of money. But if your brother wins—” His voice trailed off and he shrugged.
“Sorry, Nick,” Dana said. “I gave it a lot of thought. I just couldn’t do it.”
He turned and started for the exit door.
“Dana, just a minute.”
Dana paused. He stood while Nick approached another door and opened it. Two guys rose from a table where they were playing cards and came swaggering out of the room. One was tall and had a deep dimple in his chin. The other was squatty, moon-faced, and wore a mustache.
Dana stared at them, knowing from their impassive expressions that Nick had other intentions in mind than to introduce them.
“These guys would like to see you in there, Dana,” Nick said.
Before he knew what was going on, the two guys grabbed his arms and yanked him into the room. The door slammed shut behind them.
Dana was suddenly aware that something unpleasant was going to happen to him unless he acted first. He slugged the tall one on the head with his helmet, and swung the helmet back in time to strike the squatty one on the arm as the guy was about to hit him. Then Dana dropped the helmet and began to use his fists. He unleashed a a couple of hard rights to squatty’s face, drawing blood as the second jab struck the man’s nose.
A blow on the left side of his neck from the tall guy jarred him for a moment, but he turned and belted him a series of undercuts that sent Nick’s thug crashing to the floor. Almost at the same time that the man was going down, the second man rammed into Dana with his mile-wide shoulders and drove him up against the wall. Dana, pinned there for a moment, turned so that he faced his opponent, dodged a blow directed at his jaw, then jerked up his right knee with all the power he could muster and jammed it against the man’s face. A painful grunt tore from the guy as his head flew up and more blood spurted from his nose. He fell back, covering his face with his hands, and stumbled to the table where he sat down heavily, taking a handkerchief from his pocket to blot his bleeding nose.
Dana started to swing at the tall guy again but held up when he saw the man raise his hands in surrender.
“Hold it, buddy,” the man pleaded, a bruise over his right eye turning black and blue. “Nick underestimated you. I don’t think he knew you were a fighter.”
“I only fight well against punks like you,” Dana said, rubbing his knuckles.
He picked up his helmet and walked out, winking at Nick, who stood outside the door staring at him.
“See you at the track,” Dana said, and left.
SIXTEEN
IT WAS LATE AUGUST and the rainy season, but the sky was clear and there was just enough breeze in the air to stir the trees surrounding the speedway.
Ken tried not to show his nervousness as he pulled on his firesuit, aware that he was the focus of attention of at least a half-dozen fans who had come to see him race. Dana and Dusty were in the pit with him, and somewhere up there in the crowded stands was the rest of his family.
His father hadn’t wanted to come. It was only because his mother had said that school was starting soon and this was probably Ken’s last race of the season that he had changed his mind.
Ken hadn’t told anyone that this might be his last race. He saw no reason why he could not run passes a day or two each week after school and race occasionally on weekends. But he said nothing about this to his parents. He wanted to make sure his father came to see this race.
He saw Scott Taggart in the pits with a longhaired guy he didn’t recognize and figured that Nick Evans must be somewhere nearby, too. Probably in the stands.
It would be something, he thought, if he and Scott had to pair off in one of the rounds. So far he hadn’t learned how fast Scott’s Volare was able to go.
There was a roar from the crowd as an announcement came over the public address system and the first of the sixteen pairings got under way. There were thirty-two cars entered. Each pairing and position had been decided beforehand according to the car’s best qualifying time, and Ken’s turn to run was sixth. The winners of the first two runs then paired off to race in the second round, the winners of the third and fourth runs paired off to race in the second round, and so on. The same system prevailed for the third, fourth, and fifth rounds. The winner of the fifth round was declared the winner and champion.
Ken watched the cars, both Fords, start with their front ends almost leaping off the asphalt, then settling to blaze down the lanes with smoke tearing from their rear tires.
They seemed to be even as they zoomed past the finish mark. Then, seconds later, came the announcement: “Winner of the first run, Jake Moller, at twelve point ninety-nine seconds and one hundred and ten point sixty-two miles an hour; Loser is Steve Blaser at thirteen point oh three seconds and a hundred and nine point ninety-nine miles an hour! Congratulations, Jake! Better luck next time, Steve!”
Again the crowd roared.
“Taggart must’ve been racing somewhere this summer,” Dusty said, peering through gold-rimmed sunglasses. “Any scuttlebutt on him, Dana?”
“Yeah. He’s been racing around the Palm Beach and Orlando area,” Dana replied. “Did pretty well, too, I heard.”
“He must have, or I don’t think Evans would even consider having his name on Taggart’s car. I wonder if it is his.”
“It is,” said Dana. “He bought it cheap, installed a new engine in it, and fixed it up into a good racer.”
“N
ew engine?” Dusty laughed. “I guess that was his idea when he took that engine out of my store.”
Dana smiled, then shot a sidelong glance at Ken. “Know what? I’d like to see you and ‘Rat’ Taggart match up with each other.”
“You never know,” murmured Ken.
He saw a deep, concentrated look come into his brother’s eyes and knew that he was thinking of the trouble Taggart had caused them, trouble that finally had brought them closer together than they had ever been before.
The eliminations continued, losers falling by the wayside, winners coming back to meet the challengers in the next round.
The sixth run was ready to start. Dusty shook Ken’s hand and wished him well. Dana waited till he got into the Chevy, his seat belt buckled and his helmet on.
“Good luck, brother,” he said then, and shook his hand—a tight, warm squeeze.
Ken sat, tensed, waiting for the announcement from the timing tower. It soon came and he started the car.
“Ken Oberlin, number two staging lane, please,” came Buck Morrison’s voice. “Jim ‘Little Beaver’ Applejack, lane one.”
Ken drove the Chevy up to the staging lane and saw that the car he was driving against was a white 1974 Mustang with Jim “Little Beaver” Applejack’s name splashed garishly across the side door and rear fender. Names of his sponsors were painted conspicuously over other parts of the car’s body.
Ken eased the car up the asphalt till the Christmas tree lights flashed on, indicating he was properly staged. Then the Mustang moved up into position and seconds later the five amber lights on the tree began to flash on at half-second intervals.
The suit was becoming a sweatbox as Ken sat there, tense as a spring ready to uncoil. His foot was on the gas pedal, his left hand on the steering wheel, his right hand on the shifting lever.
He reminded himself of the two things he could do that would prove fatal: stepping on the gas pedal too soon or waiting a split second too long.
…Three…four…five…
Now! He jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and the car bolted like a Brahma bull, rear tires grabbing the asphalt like a million angry, hungry fingers.
Ken held the steering wheel in a firm grip, guiding the car down the quarter-mile strip at a speed that increased with each progressive millisecond.
“Come on, baby. Come on,” Ken coaxed the blazing Chevy.
He had a terrible urge to look beside him to see where the other car was, ahead or behind. But he didn’t dare. He wanted every bit of his attention riveted on the lane in front of him.
Seconds later he zipped past the finish mark and took his foot off the pedal. Glancing at the rearview mirror he saw that the bright light had turned on—on his side of the track! He had won!
His heart beating wildly, he slowed the car down and headed back toward the pits, his body bathed in sweat, as he waited for the speed and time announcements of the race.
Silence fell over the track as the announcer’s voice crackled over the P. A. speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, Ken Oberlin’s time: eleven point thirty-four seconds and a hundred eleven point twenty-eight miles an hour. Jim ‘Little Beaver’ Applejack’s time: twelve point thirty-two seconds and a hundred and nine point ninety-seven miles an hour. The winner—Ken Oberlin!”
A thunderous cheer broke from the crowd, while Ken’s heart sang.
Dana came over to him and shook his hand again, a broad smile on his perspiring face. “Con gratulations, brother. You ate up that track like a real pro.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
He looked around for Dusty Hill, and Dana told him that Dusty wanted to sit with Dottie during that round.
“I guess he felt he should be with her while you ran that race,” Dana said. “It was a pretty important one.”
An understatement, Ken thought. If he had lost it he’d be out of the competition. Now he had won the chance to compete in the next round.
He and Dana checked over the plugs, the carburetor, the gas lines, and the tires, and found everything to their satisfaction/When they finished they were standing close to each other. For a moment neither one of them said a word, as if each were trying to think of what the other was thinking.
Ken could hardly believe that Dana had made such an about-face in his attitude toward him. It was something he had hoped might happen, but he had never dreamed that it would.
A lump was in his throat as he said, “Know what, brother? I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I,” said Dana.
Finally the second round started. Ken won again and would now race in the third round. His time and speed were slightly slower than his run against Applejack, but they were still fast enough for him to beat out a Ford driven by “Battlescar” Jones.
“You see who’s still running, don’t you?” Dana said, looking down the line.
Ken followed his gaze, although he was sure he knew whom Dana was referring to. He had Scott “Rat” Taggart in the back of his mind all along. Taggart had been burning up the lanes at speeds in the 117-miles-per-hour range, beating his opponents easily, and chances looked good that the race was going to wind up with Ken and Taggart and last year’s Division Champion, “Ace” Moreno, fighting for first place. In some quarters “Ace” was favored to win the race, but the way Ken and Taggart were blitzing their opponents, all three drivers were strong contenders.
It was ironic, Ken thought, that the race might end up that way. Although he felt sure that there was no hate between him and Taggart, he was sure that Taggart had no love for Dana.
Because of Scott’s feelings toward Dana, Ken had no doubt in his mind that Scott was going to try his best to beat Ken if the final round was between them. He knew there were two important values at stake for Scott Taggart: the humiliation over the theft, and the name of Nick Evans as his sponsor—Nick, who was known to bet heavily on cards, horses, and cars.
Ken won the third round in the first one hundred yards when the Chevy he was racing against broke. He later found out that a stripped fuel line had caused a massive fuel leak in the car.
The cleanup crew hurried out onto the lane with soap and water and scrubbed it clean in minutes.
The fourth round came up and Ken saw that he was paired with a Camaro driven by Al “Grease” Adams, another driver the racing brotherhood had learned to respect.
They drove up to the staging lanes, gave the thumbs-up sign to each other, then turned their full attention to the Christmas tree. The winner of this round faced the winner of the round between Scott Taggart and “Ace” Moreno for the first prize of five thousand dollars and the Pro Stock Eliminator Trophy.
The lights began to flash, then the last of the five amber lights popped on and Ken pressed his foot on the gas pedal. The little Chevy leaped forward, tearing down the lane like a red streak, front wheels almost rising off the asphalt, rear tires spinning, smoke streaming in gusts behind it. The cars were running hub to hub as they sprinted down the lane, though Ken feared the Camaro was just slightly ahead of him.
Then, seconds later, both cars zipped past the 1320-foot mark and Ken saw, in the rearview mirror, the bright light flash on, again on his side of the track! He had won!
With hammering heart, he drove back to the pits to listen for the timer’s announcement. He hopped out of the car, took off his helmet, and heard Buck Morrison’s voice boom over the public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time for Al ‘Grease’ Adams’s run: eleven point sixty-one seconds and one hundred sixteen point forty-eight miles per hour!”
A roar exploded from the crowd, then diminished again to silence. Breathless, Ken waited for the voice to continue.
“The time for Ken Oberlin’s run: eleven point thirty-two seconds and one hundred sixteen point ninety-four miles per hour. The winner—Ken Oberlin!”
The roar exploded again, this time louder and longer than the time before. Ken lifted his arms in a wave to the fans, then had to get back into his car to sit down and relax. Realizing that h
e had won the run that was going to put him into con tention for first place was almost more than he could bear.
Dana’s perspiring face glistened as he smiled and stretched his hand out to Ken. “You did it again, brother. One more to go.”
One more, thought Ken, the pulse throbbing in his temples. With whom was it going to be? “Rat” Taggart or “Ace” Moreno?
He took off his firesuit and stood in his short-sleeved shirt and cut-off pants, listening to the crowd cheer as Taggart’s name was announced as a driver in the first runner-up race. But, as “Ace” Moreno’s, name was announced, the applause was overwhelming. There was no doubt in Ken’s mind who their favorite driver was.
The race began, both drivers starting off superbly. Then, seconds later, it was over, and what seemed like a deafening quiet hovered over the fans as the light flashed on down the track for the winner. Then the silence broke and a smattering of cheers and applause went up for Taggart, the winner over Moreno. It was obvious the fans were disappointed.
Taggart’s time: 11.10 seconds and 117.59 miles per hour.
It was the best recorded time so far today.
Ken wished he had time to take a shower to wash off the sweat, cool his hot body, and relieve the tension that waiting for this important moment had built up in him. But all he could do was stand there and try his best to ignore the sticky humid air that was thick enough to slice with a knife.
“Well, Ken, it’s down to the wire,” Dana said. “You and Taggart. I hope you’ll show him your tail when you shoot down that lane.”
“Me, too,” Ken replied.
Several minutes later a call came from the timing tower for the two finalists to start their cars and drive up to the staging lanes.
“Good luck, brother,” Dana said, shaking Ken’s hand.
Ken thanked him.
There was strength in Dana’s grip, and Ken felt a tightness in his chest as he looked into his brother’s eyes. He didn’t have to wonder how Dana felt now that he, Ken, had gotten this far in the race. Seeing the proud gleam in Dana’s eyes told him all he needed to know.
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