by Burt Levy
"Yer bloody well right about that, mate," Barry nodded. "All-alloy Vee-twelve. Over'ead cams. Triple Webers down the middle. The 'ole bleedin' lot. She'll be a man-sized load for our boy Tommy t'manage. No doubt about it." Then Barry leaned in a little closer and added, "'E's a stuck-up bastard, that Creighton Pendleton is, but the bloke can bloody well drive . . . ."
"Saaay," Big Ed wanted to know, "how much does one a'them Ferrari things cost, anyway?"
Barry Spline rolled his eyes. "Damn near three times a Jagyewahr one-twenty." Three times! "And that's if yer can get yer 'ands on one."
Even Big Ed had to be impressed with that.
Lined up behind Creighton Pendleton's Ferrari and "our" Cad-Allard were a few more Allards with assorted Cadillac, Ford, and Mercury engines, followed by a whole squadron of Jaguar XK120s mixed up with a couple of those cycle-fendered Frazer-Nash things and some oddball stuff I didn't recognize. Our friend Skippy Welcher and his ex-everything XK120M were situated back toward the end of the grid (occupying the outside slot on the second-to-last row, in fact) and it did my heart good to see the old asshole doing so poorly. I'd never been around the start of a big-bore sports car race, and it I must admit was pretty damn exciting. First everything was quiet, with just a few desperate, last-minute whaps of brass-head hammers on knockoffs to punctuate the hushed chatter of the S.C.M.A. officials and some off-the-cuff wisecracking between drivers gridded side by side. Then one of the armband people circled his arm in the air and all those mighty engines exploded to life—Jee-zus, it sounded like a damn artillery barrage!—and then that Robert Montgomery guy in the brand-new Nash Healey convertible led the pack around on a parade lap. You could tell he had a thing or two to learn about racing engines, because he took it so slow that a lot of those cars were steaming hot and snorting back through the carburetors by the time they lined up again at the start/finish line. And there they sat, glistening in the sun, twenty-six of the newest, fastest, most exciting sports cars in the world. Waiting . . .
Right on cue, this important-looking stiff in a sort of Great White Hunter outfit (no kidding!) marched up between the rows of cars with a large green flag rolled up under his arm. He did a smart about-face when he reached the front of the pack, keeping the flag hidden behind his back, and engines revved like crazy as twenty-six left feet poised hair-trigger to sidestep their clutches at a split-second's notice. But the Great White Hunter guy just stood there, glaring back at them, waiting to see if anybody was going to flinch. Engines raced even higher, and just as I was preparing to dodge a meteor shower of connecting rod fragments, the Great White Hunter whipped out the green and waved it like his arm was on fire. Clutches popped, engines screamed, and tires shrieked in protest as the field exploded toward corner one in a haze of burning rubber and castoroil fumes. I thought Tommy's Allard got the jump off the line, but then I saw Creighton Pendleton's Ferrari nip inside as the pack disappeared from sight. "Hey!" I hollered. "Let's go watch down by the corner." Big Ed nodded and began bulling us a path toward turn one, and we were about halfway there when the pack blasted by again, with Creighton Pendleton's Ferrari on the point and "our" Allard right on his decklid. And you wouldn't believe the blessed noise, what with the hot-rod Caddy's angry gut-rumble all twisted up around the wild animal howl of that twelve-cylinder Ferrari, both of them W.F.O. (Wide Fucking Open!) and straining for more. Why, it was enough to crust your jeans, honest it was!
Next lap, the Allard was in front—just —with the Ferrari right up his tailpipes and crowding to get by. You could see Tommy was having to battle that brute every step of the way, and no question the Ferrari looked every bit as fast (or maybe even faster) and a lot less work to drive. It braked without slewing all over the road and went through the corners in neat, nicely balanced drifts instead of bucking and snaking every which way like a rodeo bull. In fact, you got the notion that Creighton Pendleton was just playing cat and mouse with Tommy Edwards. But every time he sneaked into the lead, Tommy'd put on a wild-ass charge and somehow manage to get him back again. I swear, they must've swapped positions a dozen times—maybe more!—and the crowd was whooping and hollering every time they came by like it was the final minute of an Army-Navy football game.
What a race!
But a hundred miles at Bridgehampton is a long, long way, and by two-thirds distance Tommy was in trouble with the brakes again. You could see he was having to back off earlier and earlier for the corners, and it was only a matter of time before Creighton Pendleton pulled alongside, gave him a little "I told you so" finger wave, and motored off into the distance. There wasn't a damn thing Tommy could do about it. But he hung on and finished second(with no brakes left at all!) and you had to give him credit. Not many drivers know how to ease off and keep their cool when things get really desperate and first place is on the line.
Why, some guys can't even keep their wits about them muddling along at the back of the pack! Take Skippy Welcher, for example. He was soldiering on in his customary position near the tail of the field when Creighton Pendleton came up to lap him toward the end of the race. I guess the sight of that red Ferrari looming up in his mirrors got The Skipper a little excited. Or perhaps he thought it was time to show the world that he could go through a corner just as fast as the leader. Which, of course, he couldn't. Or maybe Skippy simply forgot where one of his precious braking markers was. Whatever the reason, The Skipper came charging into turn one waaay too hot, realized he was in over his head, and slammed down full force on the brakes (instantly locking all four, so now he couldn't steer, either). The Jag slewed left-right-left and snap-spun into the hay bales—KA-WHUMPHFF!—showering straw and dust all over the place. Creighton Pendleton had to make a Phenomenal Avoidance so as not to collect The Skipper broadside, and instantly we had armband people chasing around in all directions, blowing whistles and waving yellow flags and tossing chunks of busted hay bale off the racing line. To tell the truth, there wasn't much in the way of serious damage—just an ugly ding in the Jag's rear fender and a busted taillight lens—but the crowd went absolutely bug-nuts, cheering and hooting and clapping as Skippy reversed out of the hay, flashed his misshapen gold-tooth smile, waved to his imagined legions of fans, and fishtailed away, scattering straw and terrified S.C.M.A. corner workers in his wake. What a moron.
Creighton Pendleton went on to win the race easily, with Tommy's brakeless Allard a distant second, and afterward he paraded around on a victory lap accompanied by, without question, the single most gorgeous female creature I had ever seen in my life! Her hair was the iridescent chestnut of a Kentucky Derby winner, and I swear you could catch the sparkle off her smile from the far side of the fences. The two of them made quite a pair, laughing and smiling and waving to the crowd—checkered flag snapping in the breeze—looking like some sort of billboard advertisement for a life the rest of us poor slobs could only dream about. When they disappeared over the next rise, everything went terribly quiet, like after the circus closes down.
Neither me or Big Ed felt much like leaving, so we headed over by the start/finish line to check out the trophy presentation. To tell the truth, it was a pretty dull affair, since the S.C.M.A. had trophies to hand out down through sixth place in a bewildering assortment of classes, not to mention all sorts of special awards for Sportsmanship and Hard Luck and Best-Looking Car and Furthest Distance Traveled (which went to some masochist who drove his TD all the way from Nebraska!) and Lord Only Knows what else. The important thing was for every single S.C.M.A. driver to get some sort of pewter cup or dangly trinket to hang on the old mantelpiece back home. And if you somehow didn't manage to win anything, a bent or broken race car was almost as good. Just so long as you had something to brag about in the bar after the racing was over.
Unless you were Cal Carrington, that is. That poor kid looked absolutely shell-shocked, walking around and around his busted-up TC with his head in his hands, trying like hell to figure out what he was going to tell his father. You could see from his clothes that C
al Carrington came from some pretty serious money, but it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out he'd put that ragtag MG together out of embezzled college money and gone racing on the sly. And now it was in pretty sad shape, what with the fenders bashed in and the steering gear skewed hard left on the right side and hard right on the left (sort of pigeon-toed, you know?), not to mention that the brake drum was ground through to the shoes on the side where the wheel came off. No question that TC looked pretty damn grim.
And so did Cal Carrington. He was a lanky, good-looking kid with sun-blond hair, Bass Weejun loafers, and eyes as blue as the Pacific Ocean on a picture postcard from Hawaii. He didn't look a day older than me, so he must've had himself a top-notch line of bullshit (along with an exemplary set of phony I.D.s) to get the S.C.M.A. regulars to let him race. Of course, Cal was from a good family, and that always counted for a lot with the S.C.M.A.
I walked around that old TC a few times, and it didn't take more than a single tour to reach the conclusion that Cal Carrington didn't know jack shit about automobile mechanics. Why, he was worse than Old Man Finzio! Like the reason that tire parted company with his car and put him into the hay bales was because the rim had come completely unlaced from the hub. That has a habit of happening when you don't bother to check the spoke tension on wire wheels every now and again. But this was front-page news to Cal when I explained it to him. "Gee whiz," he said, "I sure wish I'd known about that. Why, my old man's gonna kill me when he sees this."
Considering the way Cal drove that old heap before the wheel came off, I felt like maybe doing a little something to help him out. He was one of those helplessly handsome all-American-boy types you just can't help liking, even though it'd drive you nuts how Cal never seemed to have any cash in his pockets—not ever!—even though he came from a wealthy family. And it'd also make you crazy how Cal never seemed to get dirty when he worked on cars. Even scruffy old shitboxes like that ratty TC. It was like grease just wouldn't stick to him! Plus he was one of those infuriating natural athelete gazelle types who could jump over any obstacle on a dead run or one-hand a set of keys whenever you tossed them over.
I swear, sometimes it made you want to tie his shoelaces together.
Anyhow, I noticed a New Jersey tag on the back of the busted TC and a little light popped on in my head. "Say," I asked, "you come up from Jersey?"
Cal nodded.
"But the program says you're from Palm Beach."
"Aw, that's just my uncle's winter place. I put it down on the entry form so they won't send any newsletters or race results or anything to my folks' house. Why, they'd ground me forever if they ever got wind I was racing."
"Don't you worry your uncle might say something?"
"Nah, not really. He's dead."
"Then who lives there?"
"Oh, just the servants, mostly. I guess we go down now and then in the wintertime, and so does my mom's sister."
"And they never see the mail?"
"Nah. I got a deal with the gardener. He burns everything addressed to me."
"You have to pay him off?"
"Not necessary. I saw him with my older sister once. He's happy to help out. Besides, he likes me."
I'd only known Cal for five minutes, but I could see why. He was just that kind of guy. "So," I asked him, "whereabouts you live back in Jersey?"
"Cedar Grove. Why?"
"Why, that's perfect!"
"It is?"
"Sure it is! I work at a Sinclair station over in Passaic. I'm a mechanic, see. In fact, I'm the head mechanic around our place. . . ."
"You are?"
"Sure am," I nodded, showing off my knuckles as proof. "And if you can get this heap towed over there, I'll be glad to help you fix it up to go racing again." You say stupid stuff like that when you've just gotten your first taste of racing and it's still buzzing around in your head like a hornet in a glass jar. You'll notice I didn't consider for one solitary second what Old Man Finzio might think of the idea.
"Gee, that'd be great!" Cal whooped. But then his eyes narrowed and he looked at me kind of sideways. "Now, you gotta understand, I don't have a lot of, um, ready cash on hand for parts or anything. . . ."
Big Ed cleared his throat. "Well, I could maybe see my way clear to lending ya a few dibs. Just t'help out, see. Yer good fer it, aint'cha?"
Cal looked down at his shiny Bass loafers. "Yeah. Sure I am . . . eventually."
Big Ed pulled out a wad of cash thick as a ham sandwich and peeled a couple crisp greenbacks off the top. "You be sure I get this back, bub, or else . . ."
". . . or else he'll use your head for a bowling ball!"
"That's right!" Big Ed growled, slipping me a wink.
"Wow! Thanks!" Cal gushed, stuffing the bills in his pocket. "Now all I gotta figure is what to tell my father. Geez, if he ever finds out I been racing . . ."
Fortunately for Cal, he was pitching to my greatest strength: making up believable stories about broken automobiles. "Oh, just tell him, um, tell him the car broke down near Passaic and, um, and you hadda leave it off to be fixed. Tell him, um, tell him the clutch went out."
"But I just had a clutch put in. Just last month."
"Okay, no problem. How 'bout a starter motor."
"Just had one of those, too."
"Say, you don't get your work done at Westbridge, do you?"
"How'd you know?"
"Just a lucky guess."
Then Cal went off to hunt up a tow truck and me and Big Ed wandered over by Tommy Edwards's Allard to congratulate him on a super race, even if it only got him second at the checker. After all, he still beat all the other Allards. Tommy was sitting on the ground with his shoulders propped up against a tire, drinking beer out of his shiny new second-place mug. You could see the race with Creighton Pendleton's Ferrari had taken a lot of the starch out of him. But he brightened up the moment he saw us. "Hey, sport," he called out, waving his free hand weakly through the air, "how about a tall, cool one."
As you can imagine, Big Ed and me were happy to oblige.
"Thanks again for all the help," Tommy said. "That was one hell of a decent job you did on the brakes."
"But they went out again," I reminded him.
"Of course they went out again," Tommy grinned. "Allards always run a bit shy of brakes toward the end of a race. Especially on a circuit with fiddly, tight little corners like this one. Bloody characteristic of the breed. But they lasted a bit longer than usual today, so nicely done."
While we were standing there, this short, dimply brunette wandered up carrying a wrinkled stub roll of toilet paper and a distinctly unpleasant look on her face. It was Tommy's wife, Ronnie, and you could see she was less than impressed with the powder room facilities at Bridgehampton. "This is undoubtedly the last roll of toilet tissue on Long Island," she announced, "and by God, I'm hanging on to it." Tommy's wife had big front teeth and a pushed-up little pug nose that made her look kind of cute (if you like mice, anyway) but she came off a tad too neatly pressed and domestic for my tastes. Anyhow, Tommy introduced us all around and asked Ronnie to rustle us up a couple cold beers. She said, "Sure," but it came out in such a way that it could've easily been mistaken for, "Drop dead, asshole."
Turns out Ronnie Edwards came from some well-to-do banking family in Westchester County, and she met Tommy while working as a U.S.O. volunteer in London during the war. It must have been very romantic, what with him a devil-may-care fighter pilot who might not survive his next mission and her working with all the famous bandleaders and movie celebrities who came over on tour. My guess is they only saw each other once or twice a week, and probably most of that time was spent in the sack. But then the war ended and they came over stateside to join her family (not to mention her family's money) and that's when things started going straight to hell. Without the R.A.F. and the U.S.O. and the drama and uncertainties of war to keep things interesting, their marriage quickly disintegrated into an uneasy truce between two people who didn't so much h
ate each other as not have much in common. Ronnie liked charity balls and garden parties and theater openings and such, while Tommy Edwards liked Ronnie's family's money and how it allowed him the free time and wherewithal to go racing. She struck me as one of those well-bred finishing-school types who work hard at being gracious and pleasant even when it's obvious there are maybe eight or nine thousand other places they'd rather be on a particular Saturday afternoon.
Anyhow, Ronnie brought us a couple beers and we helped them load up, and I guess we must've congratulated Tommy a dozen times apiece for the fine job he did in the race. "Oh, it wasn't much of anything," he shrugged. "After all, we didn't manage a win, now did we?"
"Maybe not," I argued, "but geez, you ran outta brakes. Besides, this thing looks like a real damn handful compared to that Ferrari you were up against."
"Oh, it's not so bad as it looks," Tommy grinned, patting the Allard gently on its nose. "These old girls are just a mitt stubborn about slowing down and turning every now and again. One gets used to it. And the buggers do go like bloody stink down the straightaways, don't they?"