The Last Open Road

by Burt Levy

  "Say, whazzit take to join this goddam club, anyway?" Big Ed was asking for maybe the sixteenth time, leaning forward so the business end of his cigar was maybe a half inch from Charlie Priddle's eyelid.

  "Well, let's see," Charlie sniffed, looking Big Ed up and down like he was 300 pounds of horse manure. "First, you must of course own an example of one of the recognized marques. . . ."

  "Whatsa mark?" Big Ed wanted to know.

  "A marque is—hmm, what would you call it?" Charlie Priddle rolled his eyeballs like he was fishing for a word somebody as dumb and coarse as Big Ed Baumstein might understand. "A marque," he said at last, "is what a person such as yourself might refer to as the 'brand name' of an automobile."

  "Oh, yeah?" Big Ed nodded. "Well, y'saw my Jag 120 parked out front."

  "Ah, yes. Indeed I did. But you also have to be approved by the S.C.M.A. membership committee."

  "So tell me," Big Ed asked without skipping a beat, "just how does a guy get himself approved by this here membership committee?"

  "Oooh, they have to vote on it, of course."

  "So how do I get voted on?"

  "Oooh, I'm afraid they won't vote on you."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm quite certain your name won't come up."

  "Whyzzat?"

  "Because your name won't be submitted."

  "Submitted?"

  "Of course. Every new club member must be sponsored by an existing member. Can't you see? That's the only way any name can come before the members of our membership committee."

  "Lookee here," Big Ed growled, biting into his cigar, "why don'cha just do us both a favor and put my name up t'yer damn committee, huh? Whaddaya say?"

  "Oooh, I'm afraid I couldn't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't know you. And, more importantly, Mister Bomb-Steeen, I'm not quite sure you'd fit in. Besides," Charlie continued, delicately stroking his chin, "shouldn't you be off in one of your, uh, sin-a-gogs today?"

  Boy, you could really feel the heat starting to rise off Big Ed.

  But Charlie Priddle wasn't finished. He rolled his face upward with all the righteous sincerity he could muster in those basset-hound eyes of his. "You do practice your faith, don't you, Mister Bomb-Steeen?"

  Big Ed's nostrils flared like a bull ready to charge, but he somehow held himself in check (Lord only knows how!) and when he finally spoke, the words came out so soft and carefully measured it was downright scary. "I don't need t'practice, see. I do it fine already." Then he leaned in so close you about needed a feeler gauge to check the distance between Big Ed's nose and what remained of Charlie Priddle's hairline. "Now I'm gonna ask you one more time, Bub: Will you put my friggin' name up t'yer friggin' membership committee or not?!"

  Charlie took a deep breath and eased his chair back out of Big Ed's shadow. "I'm afraid that's impossible," he sighed without looking up. "You see, I'm chairman of the committee. It wouldn't work out, don't you see?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Good. I'm glad you understand."

  "But I DON'T understand!" Big Ed bellowed, slamming his fist down so hard it made the table legs buckle.

  That startled the hell out of Charlie Priddle (not to mention everybody else in the tent) but I gotta hand it to the little pipsqueak. He didn't spook easy. In fact, he rose up out of his chair, squared his skinny shoulders, leaned right into the glow of Big Ed's cigar, and explained the way things worked in the S.C.M.A. real loud and slow—like you do when somebody doesn't understand English very well. "Look here, Mr. Bomb-Steeen," he said with a threatening tremble in his voice, "I have a lot of very important things to do today, and talking to you is definitely not one of them. So let me give you a little advice. There will be a tow truck outside this tent within the next three minutes, and I suggest you either move your automobile immediately or be prepared to make separate arrangements with the Bridgehampton Police Department later on this afternoon. It's entirely your choice, Mr. Bomb-Steeen. And now, if you will excuse me ...," and with that, Charlie Priddle sat back down, buried his skinny Anglican nose in a stack of entry forms, and started ignoring Big Ed. He was a true world-class talent when it came to ignoring people.

  6:THE BUG BITES

  EVEN OUR run-in with that asshole Charlie Priddle couldn't put a damper on the swell day Big Ed and me had out at Bridgehampton. Oh, he was plenty pissed about having to move his car from our cozy spot in front of the tent to some local farm geezer's stinking weed patch damn near a mile and a half away. Especially when the guy charged us fifty cents to park there, just on account of we were driving a Jaguar. On our way back, Big Ed's fat Cuban stogie was about doing figure eights from one side of his mouth to the other, and you could almost hear the wheels turning under his bright yellow Jaguar cap. It was a question of class—yeah, that was it! Big Ed understood all about class, and was savvy enough to know he didn't have any. At least not the kind those tight-ass, nose-in-the-air S.C.M.A. bastards cared about. So what? He was proud of his family and religion (even if he didn't pay much attention to either on a regular, day-to-day basis) and how he and his cousin had built up that scrap machinery business—from nothing!—so he could afford any damn car he wanted. Or any car club, for that matter. He sure didn't enjoy getting the high-hat routine from a snotty WASP creep like Charlie Priddle. Not one bit. And Big Ed wasn't the kind of guy to take it lying down, either.

  I tried to get Big Ed's mind off the situation by telling him I'd seen Dave Garroway and Jackie Cooper and Robert Montgomery, but I could tell he wasn't really listening. So I steered us over by Skippy Welcher and his ex-everything XK120M, just to give Big Ed a close-up personal glimpse of the kind of top-quality membership standards they had in the S.C.M.A. As you can imagine, Big Ed's eyes lit up like a pair of Marchal driving lamps when he saw The Skipper's Jag. "Say," he grinned, "I gotta XK120 just like this one."

  Naturally, that got Skippy's face popping and twitching like there were weevils under the skin, and in less than a heartbeat he was off into that same rambling speech I got earlier about the many important differences between an ordinary XK120 and his goddam car—blah, blah, blah. It didn't take Skippy more than thirty seconds to start getting on Big Ed's nerves—especially since he had a habit of putting his face right up into yours and then talking loud enough so you could hear the sonofabitch two blocks away. You'd get wet, too, on account of The Skipper always blew a little spit once he got up a head of steam. Not to mention that any discussion with Skippy Welcher was bound to be full of strange tangents, hairpin turns, mental bank shots, and twirling about-faces. I remember he was smack-dab in the middle of explaining why you should never, ever, use anything but genuine, high-altitude mountain air to fill racing tires ("Air's thinner and cooler up there—heh—with fewer impurities. That's why I have my squire Milton—heh—that's him over there with the tire gauge—heh—haul our compressor and tanks up to Bear Mountain every couple of weeks to get some for us. Y'gotta be over three thousand feet to get the really good stuff, of course. Makes an enormous difference on the track. . . .") when he made one of his trademark conversational U-turns, put his hands up on Big Ed's shoulders like they were old long-lost Army buddies, and blurted out of his absolute sincerest misshapen gold-tooth smile, "You know, Mr. Blackstone—"

  "Ah, that's Baumstein," Big Ed corrected him.

  But it was like The Skipper didn't hear him at all. "Yes, sir, Mr. Bockstein, I can't tell you how thrilled and dee-lighted I am to meet another Jaguar aficionado." Then again, I bet old Skippy was always "thrilled" and "dee-lighted" whenever he got a run at a fresh pair of ears. By that time Big Ed had gotten himself a good, deep gander into The Skipper's eyes and realized that you could no way see bottom, so he and I made screwy finger and eyeball signals back and forth while The Skipper rambled on about all the races his car had won (none with him at the wheel, far as I could tell), how to clean wire wheels with your toothbrush, and the size of the larger bug splats he'd picked off his Jag's windshiel
d after a good high-speed run.

  Twenty minutes later The Skipper was still at it, explaining techniques for proper braking point selection ("Y'gotta find yourself a shutoff marker, see. Preferably in a—heh heh—tight sweater"), when this enormous black-over-silver Rolls Royce Phantom IV limo slinked into the paddock with a tarp-covered race car strapped to a trailer behind it. The sight of it stopped Skippy dead in mid-sentence (honest it did!) and you could see heads swiveling like gun turrets and hear tools thudding to the ground all over the paddock. I looked at Big Ed and he looked back at me as that mysterious Rolls limo glided past, ghostly silent except for the soft crunch of gravel under its tires and a faint, mouselike squeak off the trailer springs. Behind the wheel was an honest-to-gosh Park Avenue chauffeur, all done up in brass buttons and a peaked cap, but you couldn't tell who was in back because they had pleated wool curtains drawn over the rear windows. The Massachusetts license plate read CP3, and it was mounted above the only trailer hitch I have ever seen mounted on a Rolls Royce automobile.

  The race car strapped on the trailer was even more intriguing. They had it all covered up with a fancy tan chamois tarp (which was even tailored, with special seams and darts and stuff to show off the car's shape) but you could see it had a lean, muscular sort of build to it, making the fabric stretch over the fender arches like those tight cashmere sweaters the Hollywood starlets wear. Even covered with a tarp, you knew this was no ordinary sports car. Not hardly. I sized it up as a good bit sleeker and lower to the ground than any Jag or Allard, and whatever it was, that tarp-covered race car was gathering itself one hell of a crowd as it toured slowly around the paddock. "Jeez, what the hell is that?" Big Ed wanted to know.

  "Oh," The Skipper said grandly, "that must be Creighton Pendleton's new four-point-one Ferrari. Used to drive a two-point-six, but she didn't—heh heh—have enough of the old steam down the straightaways. See, y'gotta have that BIG horsepower for those long straightaways—heh—always gotta have the ponies." Then Skippy leaned in like he was letting us in on some big atomic secret or something. "You watch. Creighton'll blow everybody's doors off with that baby. Suck their headlights out. Make 'em eat dust. Run away and hide . . ."

  But Big Ed and me were gone, off to join the crowd following that Rolls Phantom around the Bridgehampton paddock. Why, it was like some rich stiff's funeral procession, what with everybody shuffling along behind that shroud-covered race car on careful little steps and talking in those hushed funeral parlor whispers where your lips hardly move.

  The Rolls/trailer rig made two stately parade laps around the paddock before pulling up next to a spanking white International Travelall with CARLO SEBASTIAN IMPORTS and a little Italian tricolor painted on the doors. Which instantly flew open and two swarthy, tough-looking southern Italian (or maybe Sicilian) types in matching white coveralls leaped out and sprinted toward the trailer. They had barrel chests and huge, hairy forearms, and they pounced on that mystery race car like hyenas on a fresh kill, shouting and arguing and cussing the living hell out of each other along the way: "Ey, Stugatz, at's notta way!"

  "Waddaya mean, at's notta way?"

  "You gonna droppada whole fuckin' ting onna groun'!"

  "Ba fangu, Stroontz! You tinkin' widdayou dick again!"

  "Yeah? I'm-a bedder tink widda my dick den talk outta my fuckin' asshole!"

  "Yeah? Well why donnayou getta you ear down a liddle close, ey? I'm-a no tink you can hear me so good."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "At's a'whaddeye said."

  It kept up like that nonstop, and a couple times I thought it was going to actually break out in a fistfight. But it never did. And did those guys ever know what they were doing! In less time than it takes to tell, they had that trailer chocked, angled, ramps down and ready to unload. Another guy in white coveralls appeared carrying a special flannel-lined canvas bag for the car cover. Unlike the other two, he was thin, pale, and gangly, with thick wire-rim glasses and a perfectly matched set of enormous, flamingo-pink ears. He had a real whopper of a nose, too, but it was more one of your vulture-beak Hebraic models than the rounded, Roman Empire variety sported by the other two.

  By this time, a crowd twelve- or fourteen-deep had gathered in all directions, and for exactly that reason the two tough-looking dagos changed tempo (just to get the proper dramatic effect, you know?) and very slowly—almost painfully—one of them lifted the rear corner of that chamois tarp and gingerly began rolling it back. You could almost feel a breeze off the mass intake of breath as the fabric gently peeled away: Underneath was the leanest, meanest, reddest, most dangerous-looking chunk of metal I had ever seen in my life. It was the color of arterial bleeding and shapely as a young woman's body, what with smooth, graceful fender lines and huge finned alloy brake drums—big as ash-can lids!—peering out from behind the wire wheels. When the tarp came off the front, I found myself staring into the wide-open jaws of a vicious killer shark! I tried elbowing my way around to get a better angle, and I swear the headlights on that car seemed to follow me like eyes. Why, you could damn near feel a pulse off that thing if you leaned in close against the fenders.

  Above the grille was a small enameled badge featuring a wild black stallion reared up against a brilliant yellow background and the word "FERRARI" spelled out below in serious block letters. FERRARI!!! The name was like fire on your tongue.

  With help from the other two, the mechanic with the big ears folded up the special chamois car cover (doing it four times lengthwise and then in neat little triangles, like a troop flag) and then more or less stepped off to the side while the two burly-looking guys eased the car down off its trailer like it was a damn concert grand piano, working the winch one or two clicks at a time and checking underneath every six inches or so to make sure the tires were still properly aligned on the ramps. The pale guy with the big ears just stood over by the panel truck, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and chewing nervously on his fingernails. My guess was they didn't trust him with much except tarp-folding duty, and it was easy to see why. He was one of those tight, jittery types who seem to drop things all the time and stumble over their own feet a lot.

  About then one of the Sicilian mechanics popped the hood for an instant to give everybody in the peanut gallery a quick glimpse of the magnificent all-alloy Ferrari V-12 nestled underneath. What a motor! It had three Weber carburetors lined up down the center of the vee—each with its own louvered air cleaner—and the valve covers were done up in that crinkly black satin finish you usually find on expensive telescopes and binoculars and such. I was hoping they'd leave the hood open so I could move in for a closer look (or better yet, fire it up!) but it was just a tease for the crowd and the other mechanic closed the lid as soon as he'd checked the oil and water. After that, the vulture-beak guy brought them over a couple cold sodas and the three of them just kind of leaned back against the fenders (but carefully, since it was all hand-shaped aluminum alloy) and lit up a round of cigarettes. Real nonchalant, you know, as if nobody was watching them at all.

  You could tell they really enjoyed the limelight.

  Pretty soon we heard a bunch of little four-cylinders revving like a swarm of six-pound bumblebees on the other side of the paddock, and I sure as hell wanted to get over by trackside and see what was up. Big Ed had the fever, too, and in a heartbeat he was elbowing his way through the crowd, heading for the noise, plowing us a path that would've done credit to the Notre Dame offensive line. We finally broke through up against a wobbly stretch of snow fencing, about fifty yards downstream from the start/finish line. To tell the truth, it was nothing more than an ordinary small-town village street dressed up with a couple K.L.G. spark-plug signs, some Shell Oil pennants, and a big banner strung across between a tree and a light pole that read:

  S.C.M.A. BRIDGEHAMPTON SPORTS CAR RACES

  Sponsored by the Lions Club of Bridgehampton

  About then we heard the angry swarm of bumblebees again, and a whole jostling freight train of MGs, Porsch
es, and stuff I couldn't recognize came roaring around the last corner and pouring down the straightaway. They blew past us at a giddy 65 or 70 miles per hour—engines twisted clear to the redline!—and in a flash they were gone and everything went quiet again. Big Ed looked at me and I looked back at him, and I swear both of us were blinking like we had short circuits in our eyelids.

  Wow!

  Big Ed bought us a souvenir program (which was all of four pages and cost him half a buck!) and inside was a map of the so-called Brid-gehampton Grand Prix Road Racing Circuit. Why, it was nothing more than four ordinary country roads stitched together in a squiggly sort of rectangle, and it didn't take long to figure out that the real action had to be out on the corners. So Big Ed bulled us a path down toward the first turn. It was really just a regular, everyday crossroad intersection where the racers made a sharp, 90-degree right off Ocean Road onto Sagaponack. The S.C.M.A. had fixed things up for the occasion by positioning three or four armband people with a bunch of colored flags on the inside and a few stacks of hay bales on the outside to keep overeager drivers out of the local scenery. Cars came barreling toward us—the faster ones doing damn near 90!—and somewhere along the line, each driver had to make a Major Personal Decision about removing his foot from the gas pedal and laying into the brakes. As you can imagine, the general idea was to stay on the loud pedal until the last possible instant, but you could see there were a lot of different opinions as to exactly where and when that might be. Plus they had to drop down a gear or two, and it obviously took a bit of skill to get that handled while you were pushing down for all you were worth on the brakes. Some of those guys were lurching and weaving all over the place as they desperately attempted to operate three pedals with two feet. But the really slick ones could "heel-and-toe," so they could goose the throttle for each downshift while simultaneously keeping hard, steady pressure on the brakes. It was sheer magic when a guy got it exactly right, hauling his car down straight and true while blipping the motor to match the revs for each lower gear. Hell, you could sort out the legit hotshoes just by the sound!