by Burt Levy
So I kept hammering the old hard sell at Julie every chance I got, talking about sportycar racing pretty much nonstop every time she dropped by to tidy up the office or help Old Man Finzio with the books. I talked about it on our way to the movies on Friday nights, too, and usually picked up wherever I'd left off at Weedermen's or the Doggie Shake over Cokes and a couple orders of fries. Truth is, I was yakking about it all the time. Except when we were parked out behind the Sinclair, that is. I mean, a guy's gotta keep his priorities straight.
I knew I was making progress the day Julie casually allowed as how the races might be a good place to do some sketching. "Yeah!" I told her. "They got some great subject matter at those races." That's what artistic types look for, see, is subject matter. "In fact," I told her, "there's no question that racing is absolutely lousy with prime, grade-A subject matter."
"It is?"
"Absolutely!"
Julie didn't look entirely convinced, and that was easy to understand if you ever leafed through her sketchpads. Truth is, I didn't think too much of the stuff Julie picked to draw, since most of it was flowerpots and driftwood and whole production-number garden parties of slender, stylish, arched-over-backward young women in flowing gowns and piled-up hairdos that about required external scaffolding. Dullsville, you know? I thought a couple MGs and Jag 120s (or better yet, Tommy Edwards's Allard mixing it up with Creighton Pendleton's 4.1 Ferrari!) would put some real zing in Julie's artwork. Besides, I was tongue-hanging-out dying to have Julie come to the races with me, and if "subject matter" would get the job done, hell, I was all for it.
Meanwhile, Cal Carrington was dropping by the garage behind my aunt's house every couple days to help out with his MG (or maybe leave off some fresh parts from Westbridge if he was in one of his flash-flood "liquid" stages) but it was slow going on account of everywhere I looked on that rattletrap TC, the more stuff I saw that needed attention. Why, every single wheel spoke was either bent, busted, or in serious need of tightening. And the tires were shot—even the spare!—what with the rubber worn down to nothing and the cords showing through on the edges (not hard to understand at all if you'd ever seen Cal drive). I figured we needed two complete wheel rims, four tires, a fistful of inner and outer spokes, a new hub, a new brake drum, and a set of tie-rod ends. And when I finally managed to worry that ground-up brake drum off the right front (following two solid hours of hammering, prying, levering, and cursing in the best Old Man Finzio tradition), I discovered linings down to the rivets, brake fluid weeping all over, and wheel bearings that smelled like burnt toast. The bushings were shot, the shocks all needed rebuilding, there was play in the steering—and we hadn't even started with the engine or driveline yet (not that you could miss how the carbs leaked like lawn sprinklers and that either the gauge was flat busted or that poor old motor didn't have much in the way of oil pressure). To put it bluntly, I couldn't find anything on Cal's MG that wasn't in desperate need of repair, with possible exceptions awarded to the gas tank, shift knob, hood latches, and rearview mirror. And I wasn't real sure about the hood latches.
To make matters worse, my Aunt Rosamarina's garage was a shitass lousy place to work. There was hardly any room, the lighting stunk (as did the used kitty litter in the garbage cans just outside), and I had no lift, hoist, compressor, bench vise, torch, hydraulic press, or even a decent floor jack to work with. In fact, the only tools I had were the assortment of Stone Age implements that come in what the MG factory laughingly refers to as a "tool kit," along with the ones I carefully selected out of Butch's toolbox late each afternoon and sneaked home in a folded-up grocery bag. And that's not even mentioning the teetering piles of books, magazines, picket fencing, yard tools, and old furniture that came crashing down on my head once or twice a night—regular as clockwork—as if the whole place had been booby-trapped by the North Korean Army.
But I kept after it, five or six nights a week, all afternoon and evening on Saturday, and of course all day Sunday, too, doing my level best with the cave-dweller equipment and facilities on hand and the piece-at-a-time hardware Cal brought me every few days from West-bridge. I was even sneaking stuff into the Sinclair so's I could work on Cal's TC while Old Man Finzio was out chasing parts or picking up dead cars. Of course, Cal would help out wherever he could at my aunt's place (he wasn't exactly welcome around the Old Man's gas station) and I must admit, he turned out to be reasonably handy once he had a little shop time in. Like I've explained before, Cal's problem was he just didn't know anything.
But that could change.
For example, Cal dropped by on Memorial Day, and the two of us sort of "borrowed" my aunt's old upright radio so's we could listen to the Indy 500 while we worked on the MG and swilled down an occasional cold beer. Troy Ruttman won the 500 that year in 3 hours, 52 minutes, and 41.88 seconds, and I swear it took that entire time for Cal to do the front brake and wheel bearings on one blessed side of the car. But then he turned around and got the other side handled in less than a half hour. All he needed was experience. Like anybody else who's ever dug his mitts into a toolbox, Cal had to pay his rightful dues in ruined parts, blood blisters, split fingernails, busted knuckles, and localized second-degree burns before he could call himself any kind of automobile mechanic.
But he'd come right, I'd see to it. Or at least I'd try. Once he got the hang of all the basic stuff (like not using pliers on bolt heads and never grabbing for the nearest screwdriver when what you really want is a chisel, punch, or prybar), Cal's biggest problem was that he was so damned impatient. He wanted that TC done. And I mean right now (if not sooner!) so he could toss his helmet in back and go racing again. That made him a bit of an angle-shooter in order to get jobs done quicker. He'd tacked this copy of the S.C.M.A. schedule to the wall of my aunt's garage, and all he could think about was the Giant's Despair Hillclimb and Brynfan Tyddyn Road Races (whatever the hell they were) coming up July 25th and 26th in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. As far as Cal was concerned, the whole blessed world would come to an end if he didn't make that event. Why, it was bigger than Judgment Day!
Now and then I'd let Cal's crazy enthusiasm get the better of me and I'd start ignoring everything in my life except that piece-of-shit MG and the stupid race and hillclimb we were trying to make in Pennsylvania. In fact, the only thing that saved me from a terminal case of falling-down, foaming-at-the-mouth racing mania was that I worked on cars all day at the Sinclair, and believe me, after eight or nine hours fixing Hudsons and Henry Js for Old Man Finzio, the last thing I wanted to see was another sick automobile. Especially a desperate case like Cal's raggedy TC. Plus every now and then I'd get this crazy notion that I was entitled to a life of my own. I wanted time to go out with Julie. Take in a show. Share a couple cheeseburgers at Weedermen's or the Doggie Shake. Park behind the Sinclair and neck for an hour or so. But that gets impossible when you're thrashing away on busted automobiles from seven ayem to three the next morning. And on those rare occasions when you do manage to steal a few hours to behave like a normal human being, you find yourself stumbling around like one of those dead-eyed zombies from an old Bela Lugosi movie.
Needless to say, Julie was not real pleased with the situation, and it all came to a head when I actually dozed off while we were parked out behind the Sinclair one night. "Hey!" she hollered, giving me a solid shot to the ear. "Sorry I'm keepin' you up, Palumbo!"
"Huh . . . oh . . . uh, sorry, Julie, I was just, uh . . ."
"Lissen, bozo," she growled, jumping to the far side of the seat, "you ain't gotta feel sorry fr'me. Not in this lifetime. I mean, if it's I bore you . . ."
"Aw, Jul—"
". . . I mean, if I'm keepin you awake. . . ."
"Aw, Julie, you know—"
"Yeah? What do I know? Huh? You tell me!"
"Aw, you know I—"
"Lissen here, Mister Buddy Palumbo, if you really want, I can fix it so I stay home and do my frickin' nails on Saturday nights. Makes no difference to me."
Fr
om there it only got worse.
But back at my Aunt Rosamarina's garage, Cal Carrington was after me like a hound on the scent, pushing for us to work quicker, work later, work longer, work more nights a week, even though we didn't have near all the necessary pieces to finish his damn car. No question Cal had gone absolutely blind crazy with the idea of making that S.C.M.A. event the fourth weekend in July, and there was just no reasoning with him. To tell the truth, I didn't think we had a chance. Time was running short and there was still a tremendous amount to do (heck, I hadn't even pulled the valve cover yet!), not to mention Cal kept running out of money every other week like a damn state legislature. But Cal's mind was made up, so he kept prodding me along and scrounging for parts wherever and however he could, and I suspected that he was rifling every stray purse, pocketbook, and pair of pants back home at Castle Carrington in order to feed his dirty little habit. This was really my first close personal look at the racing disease, and I can't honestly say I appreciated its seriousness at the time. But I learned . . .
Who should tool up to the pumps the first of July but Butch Bohunk and Mean Marlene in a rusty old Ford sedan with a sheet of plywood over the back window and a web of plumber's strap holding up the left-hand headlamp. But Butch was real proud of that heap on account of he had less than a ten-spot in it and said he did every bit of the mechanical work himself. "Take a look at this little beauty," he beamed, unhooking the coat hanger wire that held the passenger-side door shut. "I got her down in Tennessee fer five bucks. Five bucks! The engine was froze up s'bad she wouldn't turn a lick. Not even with a three-foot plumber's wrench on the pulley! Some jackass musta run her friggin' bone-dry on oil. Haw! Picked up another shortblock—outta the same damn boneyard!—and we was on the road in less'n a week. An' I did every goddam nut an' bolt myself!"
I had a little trouble believing that, what with Butch still all busted up like he was. Oh, he was getting around a lot better—even using crutches now and then—but Marlene still had to wheel him around like a tea cart if they wanted to make any time at all from point A to point B. And for sure Butch's hand wasn't about to grow any new fingers. That's when I caught a glimpse of Marlene's nails, and right away I knew who'd been helping on that old Ford. Now you have to understand that Butch's wife had always been real particular about her nails (you know how some women are) and generally sported a set of lipstick-red war claws that any cocktail waitress would've been proud to own. She knew how to use those things, too, clicking them against a windowpane to show she was bored, shaking them under your nose to get your attention, drumming them impatiently on a tabletop, or creating fresh scar tissue. But not anymore. Mean Marlene had the hands of an auto mechanic now, right down to bruises on the knuckles and a split nail on her right thumb. And she didn't look particularly happy about it, either. Then again, you'd have a hard time recalling when Mean Marlene looked particularly happy about anything.
Anyhow, Butch had to grab the doorframe with both hands to lever himself up out of the car, and then it was all he could do to just sort of hang there while Marlene brought his crutches around. "Hell," he gasped, trying to ignore it, "ol' Marlene an' me drove this sonofabitch all the way back from Tennessee an' she never skipped a friggin' beat. Not one. Oh, I may be a little tore up yet, but I still ain't lost my touch around Fords."
"'Course not, Butch. You was always the best when it came to Fords."
"Sure as hell was. And still am, y'little jerkoff. Don't you forget it!" He added a limp elbow dig. "An' this job was no goddam picnic, neither. You oughta see what Marlene's brother calls a 'tool set.' Haw! I Guess it's ok if y'wanna mend a fence or lynch a nigger, but it was sure as hell crude fr'engine work."
That's when it dawned on me. "Say," I gulped, my voice going all lame on me, "you're probably gonna want yr'tools back now, arn'cha?"
"Aw, don't worry about it," Butch shrugged. "I'll let'cha know when I need 'em. Besides, I ain't exactly got anything, y'know, lined up right at the moment. S'you just keep 'em right here until the time comes I need 'em. Hell, maybe that old buzzard Finzio'll let me drop by an' use 'em if I got a side job or something."
"Sure he would," I agreed, not at all sure it was true. "You know how Old Man Finzio likes you. . . ."
"Yeah," Butch nodded, pumping out a weak laugh, "about as much as blood blisters an' cheap wine hangovers."
"Well, he always liked the way you fixed cars, anyway."
That got Butch to looking down at his hands—the right one like a huge thumb that'd been smacked with a five-pound sledge—and he slowly shook his head. "Truth is, I don't figger I'm quite ready t'start twisting wrenches again. Not fr'a living, anyways. I just can't get around good enough. . . ."
"Hell, Butch, you're doin'great," I told him, "just great."
"Sure I am. Why, I'll be dancing the friggin' jitterbug in a couple more weeks, won't I?" He stared out at the cars rolling by on Pine Street. "Fact is," he added in a half whisper, "I about need a friggin' nursemaid just t'change a God Damn set of spark plugs. It makes me wanna puke, y'know?"
"Yeah," Marlene snorted, "an' listenin' t'ya bellyache about it makes everybody else wanna puke, too!"
Butch spun around like he was gonna belt her, but of course it would've sent him sprawling across the pavement if he took anything like a decent swing. So there was nothing he could do but just stand there and take it. And then, almost like slow motion, Butch's face softened up into a big, helpless grin and he started to laugh. And then I saw Marlene was laughing, too, and for the life of me I couldn't figure it out. I mean, those two scrapped like alley cats—all the time!—but it was obvious Mean Marlene did something pretty special for Butch, too. Even if she made him pay for it along the way.
Anyhow, Big Ed's XK120 was in for a grease and oil that day, and seeing as how it was a swell July afternoon and furthermore seeing as how the Old Man was across town picking up a dead Studebaker, I figured it wouldn't hurt anything if I took Butch and Marlene out for a little spin. Just a professional test-drive with an Established Mechanical Expert, you understand, not some sort of frivolous, irresponsible joyride in a customer's neat car. Right. So I turned the radio way up, popped the phone off the hook, locked the john door with the water tap running (like I was in there, you know?), and the three of us piled into Big Ed's Jaguar. It was a tight fit seeing as how Mean Marlene is way big in the butt and we had to be careful about Butch's legs, but once he gave me the thumbs-up, I fired up that sweet-running six and we were on our way. I cruised her nice and gentle to the edge of town, just enjoying the buttery growl out the Jag's tailpipe and the way everybody looked and pointed as we oozed down the street. That happened whenever you drove an XK120, and it never failed to make you feel pretty special. Why, even Mean Marlene was smiling.
Once clear of the city limits, I blipped her down a couple gears and gave the Jag a bootful in second and halfway out in third. To tell the truth, she felt a little sluggish with three people on board (not too surprising when one of them had a butt the size of a prize hog) but Butch got a huge kick out of it anyway. Marlene didn't look nearly so impressed. In fact, she was clutching the door so tight I was afraid she'd leave dents and yelling so loud and shrill for me to slow down that you could hear her over the wind and exhaust noise and everything. She had herself one hell of a vocabulary, Marlene did.
Back at the station Butch thanked me while Marlene yelled at me some more and then he leaned in close and whispered, "Now lemme show you something, Buddy." Without another word, Butch hobbled over and popped the trunklid of his Ford. Jee-zus! Crammed inside were more damn fireworks than you ever saw in your life. There were boxes upon boxes of skyrockets and Roman candles and showering pin-wheels and blockbusters and Lord only knows what else! Why, that old Ford wasn't much more than a self-propelled incendiary bomb.
"Gee whiz, Butch, where'dja get all this?"
"Brought it up from Tennessee, Buddy. Hell, this stuffs cheaper'n pigeon crap down there."
"Jee-zus , Butch. Wasn't
that kind of, you know, dangerous?"
"Aw, nothin' to worry over. See what I done here?" Sure enough, Butch had hung an old bus mirror off the door pillar so he could look back and see if anything was seriously on fire. That Butch thought of everything. Naturally, I had no choice but to buy a whole shitload of fireworks off him as a matter of professional courtesy (plus you never know when that sort of stuff is going to come in handy, do you?) and I even tried to overpay a little. But no way would Butch let me. "Lissen here, Buddy," he growled. "The only charity this Marine will ever need is a .45 with one bullet in the chamber. You unnerstand me, boy?"
"S-Sure, Butch."
"You damn well better had."
After I had my new collection of fireworks safely stashed under the tool bench, I bought Butch a soda and told him all about the sports car races out at Bridgehampton. I made sure to mention Tommy Edwards's brutal Cad-Allard and Creighton Pendleton's incredible Ferrari and Skippy Welcher's ex-everything XK120M and even Cal Carrington's broken-down MG that was sitting up on pop crates in my aunt's garage. You could see it brought a fresh gleam up in his eyes. "Haw! That sounds like a lotta fun," Butch mused, rubbing his chin with his bad hand. "I'd sure as hell like t'get in on something like that."