by Burt Levy
"You didn't blow it up?"
"Oh, I blew it up all right. Sky-high. But it wasn't exactly, uh, my MG."
"Oh?"
"Nah. It was Cal Carrington's car. You know Cal?"
You could see that Cal's name rated about twenty-five watts with Sally Enderle. "So," she wanted to know, "if it was Cal Carrington's car, why on earth were you driving it?"
"Well, see, Cal's sort of my, uh, friend, you know? Besides, I work on it a little for him every now and then. . . ."
"Oh, that's right," she said, looking past my left earlobe to see if there was maybe anyone more interesting along the bar to talk to, "you're that mechanic, aren't you?"
"Uh, yeah. You could say—"
"Excuse me," Sally interrupted, "but I think I see somebody I know." Before I could say another word, she'd taken a quick, dainty step around me. "Bye now," she called back over her shoulder. "See you again sometime. . . ."
Which left me standing all by my lonesome in front of that big Wurlitzer jukebox, staring into the turntable like I was looking over the edge of the Grand Canyon, my ears glowing about the same brilliant red as the illuminated plastic panels on either side. I naturally pretended like I was going over the songs real carefully (as if anybody was even looking, you know?) and wound up playing a couple of the syrupy, dreamy-soft Nat King Cole tunes that always seemed to get Julie in the mood, followed by a repeat spin of that new Hank Williams tune.
Just about everybody I'd ever seen at the races seemed to be in Siebken's bar that particular late-summer afternoon, and I even noticed my old asshole-buddy Charlie Priddle over in the corner with a couple of other armband types, embroiled in a very serious discussion about the scoring procedures for the so-called Monte Carlo Rallye to Elkhart Lake. It was obvious the thing hadn't been very well organized (what with whole entire cities used as checkpoints and much of the scoring done on the honor system) and most of the teams drifting into Elkhart had no idea even where to turn in their time sheets. Which was just fine with the rallye committee, since they really had no idea how to score them anyway. Fact is, the whole idea of the Rallye to Elkhart Lake was to get sports car enthusiasts from all over the country together in one place at one time for a few too many drinks and some lively conversation, and most didn't expect anything more than the phony Monte Carlo Rallye license plates and matching dash plaques they got for entering. But Charlie had his eye on the big, silver-plated loving cup on display for the winner, and he was doing his level best to make sure it wound up on his mantelpiece back home—right next to that fine first-place mug he "won" so convincingly at Giant's Despair. By God, he'd read the rules for that damn rallye, and they plain-as-day specified a substantial handicap based on the age of the automobile. And now, seeing as how the scoring was a hopeless shambles, and furthermore seeing as how he'd arrived in unquestionably the oldest automobile entered (supposedly the same 1914 Stutz that Barney Oldfield once drove), there wasn't a shred of doubt in Charlie Priddle's conniving little mind that he should be declared the winner. Even though one of the Porsche guys thought he saw Charlie and a couple local piano movers unloading the Stutz from a flatbed in Fond du Lac, less than forty miles away. Anyhow, Charlie and the other armband types looked to be taking the matter very seriously.
I recognized a few of the MG guys from Giant's Despair guzzling beers along the bar, so I leaned in and joined them for a round. They were mostly talking about some brilliant idiot from Detroit who'd stuffed a Ford V-8 into his TC, and moreover how the short wheelbase, narrow track, skinny tires, unfortunate weight distribution, and little pie-plate brake drums would surely make it a handful around a road circuit. "Whoever winds up driving that contraption better stock up on Brave Pills," one of them advised, and the rest of them clinked their mugs in solemn agreement.
Even old Skippy Welcher came trolling through Siebken's—Milton Fitting in tow, natch—searching desperately for any free pair of ears that would have him. I made sure to keep the back of my head pointed his way, and headed for the john pronto when I thought The Skipper recognized me and started muscling his way through the crowd in my direction. Who should I run into coming out of the men's room but my old English-accented traveling companion, Tommy Edwards. "Hey, Tommy," I said, "where've you been?"
"In there," he smiled, "shaking hands with the prime minister."
Some guy in a bright red polo shirt hailed us from the bar and bought Tommy a drink. "What took you so damn long to get here?" he asked. "Why, we've damn near used up all the booze while we were waiting."
"Took us three bloody hours to get through that blasted hometown of yours," Tommy groused as the bartender poured a tall gin and tonic. "And those new C-types don't much fancy city traffic."
"I expect not," the guy grinned. "But are they fast?"
"We'll find out later this weekend, won't we?" Tommy grinned right back. "Buddy," he said to me, "I want you to meet Eddie Dearborn, the fastest damn Allard driver in the whole bloody country." He shot me a wink. "Or at least that's what he tells people, anyway. . . ."
"At least that's what I tell people when you're not around, you worthless, no-good, crumpet-eating piece of dog meat. Say, is this kid old enough to drink?"
"Sure he is. But I'm not quite so sure about you. . . ."
"Hell, I was born old enough to drink. Everybody knows that. Hey, Doug!" the guy in the polo shirt yelled, "Get us another one!" And in no time at all I had a frosty mug of beer in front of me.
"So," Tommy asked, "who figures to be quick?"
"Well, there's you and there's me . . . but that goes without saying, doesn't it?"
"Right," Tommy agreed, clicking their glasses together. "Perhaps we ought to simply flip a coin right now and save everybody a lot of needless wear and tear on the motorcars."
"Don't think we'll be able to talk Cunningham into it. He brought the whole blasted Le Mans team this time. Two roadsters and a coupe. And just wait till you take a gander under the hoods . . . ."
"Oh? What're they running?"
"I'm not gonna tell you. Why spoil the surprise? You'll see for yourself soon enough. But he's got Johnny Fitch in one of the roadsters and Phil Walters in the coupe, and Briggs is gonna handle the other car himself."
"Fitch won here last year, didn't he?"
"Sure as hell did. Ran away from everybody."
"And what happened to you?"
"Me? I broke a wheel bearing. You know that."
"Well, that's not the way I heard the story," Tommy said, slipping me a wink.
"You're obviously misinformed, Edwards. But then, we've come to expect that sort of thing from you—Hey, Doug! Three more down here!—why, I'm amazed we won the damn war with people like you as our allies. Probably would've made out better with the damn krauts."
"I'm sure. But no matter how you try to change the subject, Mr. Dearborn, Buddy and I are not leaving until we hear all the grisly details about last year's race and your famous wheel-bearing failure."
"Aw, it just broke. You can ask anybody."
"I have. They all say you collected a bloody hay bale."
"Of course I did!" Eddie howled, banging his palm on the bar. "How'dja think I broke the damn wheel bearing?!"
Needless to say, we got a pretty good rise off that, and as I recall, Tommy and me never exactly got around to getting cleaned up or going out to a proper dinner that evening. We just stayed there at Siebken's, drinking beer and shooting the breeze and wolfing down a couple fat roast beef sandwiches right there at the bar. They were served on thick black bread with lettuce and tomato and horseradish mustard and about a quarter-pound slab of Wisconsin Swiss on top, and did they ever taste great after our long day on the road.
It must've been eleven by the time Tommy went to check us in, and I meanwhile took an unsteady stroll down the sidewalk to get our stuff out of the Jaguars. There were sports cars of every type imaginable parked up and down the street, but even so, those two C-types had collected themselves quite a crowd. They were glistening
there in the half-light like a pair of well-oiled panthers, and, as anybody who knows anything can tell you, there's a very special feeling when you see a bunch of gawkers gathered around—talking in hushed tones and peering at the dashboard over the red-tipped glow of cigarettes—and you're fortunate enough to be that one-of-a-kind guy who waltzes through the crowd, casually pops the door, and hauls his own personal luggage out of footwell. Even if that "luggage" is just a soggy old laundry bag. "Say," one of the cigarette glows asked, "this is one of those new Jaguar competition jobs, isn't it?"
"Yup."
"Boy, I never seen one before."
"Nobody has," I said like it didn't mean anything to me. "These are the only two in the country."
"Wow! Are you one of the drivers?"
"Well, uh, sort of. I mean, I drove it here. . . ."
"But are you gonna race it?"
"Nah," I told him, pretending like it didn't make any difference. "Tommy Edwards is driving the green one for, uh, our shop, and some West Coast hotshoe is gonna be in this one."
"Oh? Y'know who he is?"
"I dunno. He drives for some big, important wine guy from California. They're taking the silver car back there after the races. Gonna race it out there on the coast."
"That's gotta be Ernesto Julio."
"Yeah. That's him."
"Then the driver must be Phil Hill."
"Who?" I said, like I'd never even heard of him (although the name sounded awful familiar, and I was sure I'd heard it once or twice before).
"I saw Phil drive out at Torrey Pines last July. Lapped the whole blessed field. Believe me, Tommy Edwards is gonna have his hands full with that guy."
"Oh really?" I said down my nose. I mean, obviously this West Coast jerk had never seen Tommy drive. But there wasn't much else to say—the gauntlet was already down, you know?—so I gathered up our stuff and headed for the office. On the way, who should I spy huddled in the shadows but our old buddy Creighton Pendleton the Third, standing real close and talking in whispers with one of the fresh-looking hometown cocktail waitresses I'd seen serving drinks in the bar. Or at least that's who I thought she was, but it was definitely not Sally Enderle. Not unless she'd suddenly grown a couple bra-cup sizes and sprouted a blond ponytail. I even glanced into the bar to make sure, and there was Sally Enderle over by the jukebox, smiling and laughing and knocking back shots of Peppermint Schnapps with a bunch of prep-school types as if she didn't care one way or the other where the hell Creighton Pendleton might be.
Made you wonder what the hell he could be thinking. I mean, to have a sleek, spirited, high-class girl like Sally Enderle on a string and then take a chance fooling around with some underage local nobody, well, it just didn't make sense. Especially seeing as how Sally was right there on the other side of the wall, no more than thirty feet away. Then again, maybe old Creighton was trying to make some kind of point with her. Or maybe he was just one of those compulsive-chaser types who simply can't resist going after fresh meat whenever and wherever they come across it, just so's they can rack up another kill.
I went looking for Tommy after that, and finally caught up with him in a quiet little wood-paneled bar they had hidden under the stairs in Siebken's main office building, right behind the restaurant. It was more of a brandy-snifter kind of place than the big, noisy, beer-keg tavern across the yard, and that's exactly what Tommy was sharing with this incredibly tan older guy wearing a billowy white silk shirt like you'd expect Errol Flynn to wear in one of those Hollywood pirate movies. I'd never seen a male person dressed like that except maybe at a Halloween party, so I knew right away the guy had to be from California. I mean, nobody from Jersey ever dresses like that. At least not in public. "Hey, sport," Tommy called over, "pull up a bit of rail and have a nightcap with us."
I stepped up to the bar and Tommy's elegant-looking friend lit himself a pencil-thin black cigar and nodded for the bartender to pour me a brandy. He was about fifty or so, and looked pretty damn tough in spite of his longish silvery-white hair and puffy silk pirate shirt. But he didn't talk much. In fact, he hardly said anything. "So," Tommy asked, "how are things out by the cars?"
"Aw, some wise-ass said you were gonna have your hands full with that jerkoff California Hotshoe in the other Jag."
"Oh really?" Tommy said, arching his eyebrows up like Eddie Cantor. "And did he happen to mention who the blazes this fellow from California might be?"
"I dunno. Some guy named Hill, I think."
"Hmmm. I don't suppose that would be Phil Hill, would it?"
"Yeah. I think that's him."
"I see." He turned to the guy in the white silk shirt. "You ever heard of him?"
The guy with the skinny black cigar gave an elaborate New York-style shrug. But you could tell he was fighting real hard not to laugh.
"Well," I continued, wondering what the hell was so damn funny, "the guy said this Hill character's won a bunch of races out on the West Coast. Says he lapped the whole field at some place called Torrey Pines back in July."
"Do tell," Tommy said like it didn't mean anything at all to him, and the guy in the pirate shirt nodded.
I drained the last of my brandy and the guy next to Tommy pointed for the bartender to pour me another. "So," I asked, "you ever run against this Phil Hill character?"
"No," Tommy said evenly, "not wheel-to-wheel, anyway. But I understand the bloke's been building himself quite a reputation out west." He turned to the guy with the silver hair again. "You know anything about this Hill fellow?"
The pirate shirt raised itself up in another fully orchestrated shrug.
"Aw, don't worry about it," I told him. "Tommy'll show 'em all the quick way 'round come Sunday. Won'cha, Tommy?"
"Well, I'll certainly give it my best," he allowed through a perfectly chiseled grin.
The guy with the silver hair couldn't contain himself any longer and burst out laughing like the lid blowing off a pressure cooker. I saw Tommy laughing right along with him, and somehow knew I was the butt of the joke, even though I had no idea on earth what it was all about.
"Buddy," Tommy laughed, clapping his hand on my shoulder, "I'd like you to meet the chap whose car you've been abusing so thoughtlessly for the past three days." He stepped back so I was face-to-face with the guy in the pirate shirt. "Buddy," Tommy said with a flourish, "shake hands with Ernesto Julio." The guy stuck out a tanned, muscular hand with a carpet of coarse silver hairs on the back and two fat gold rings on the last finger.
"So," he growled in a threatening voice, "Tommy says you beat the living crap outta my car on the way up here. . . ."
"N-No, sir," I stammered. "I never did. Not even once. I took it real nice and easy the whole way."
"Bullshit! You kept up with this guy, didn't you?"
"Uh, sure I did. Of course. I just followed along behind Tommy and did whatever he did the whole way here."
"Then I know you beat the shit out of my car! Why, I bet you wound it past the goddam redline every chance you got!"
"No, sir, Mr. Julio, I never did. Not even once."
He leaned in so close our noses were almost touching. "Oh, yeah?" he snarled. "Not even once?"
I looked down at the empty brandy snifter in my hand and kind of shuffled my feet around on the floor. "Well," I admitted, "maybe just once or twicc. . . ."
"Good!" he bellowed, slapping me on the back. "That's exactly what the goddam things are for! Right, Tommy?"
"Right!" Tommy agreed, tossing off the last of his brandy.
Ernesto Julio insisted on buying us one last round and spent the whole time beating me up about how I'd messed up his car—boy, did he ever know how to put the needle in! Afterward, Tommy and me staggered off to bed. And I do mean staggered. Along the way, I asked if he really thought he'd have any trouble with that Phil Hill guy from California. "Well, he's won quite a few races now, hasn't he?" Tommy acknowledged with a steely little edge to his voice. "Then again, we didn't come all this bloody way to run second, no
w did we?"
"Hell no!" I agreed, leaping up the stairs three at a time and damn near falling through the railing. "We're gonna beat the living bejeesus out of everybody!"
I awoke Friday to the dull, scratchy thump of hay bales being unloaded from a flatbed and piled around a lamppost, and the sound skittered around in my skull like a three-pound rat trying to claw its way out of a bowling ball. My head hurt something awful and my body felt like lumps of putty held together with a few rusty cabinet hinges. I made my way unsteadily toward the john to get one of Butch's infamous morning-after cocktails (two aspirin with a Bromo-Seltzer chaser) and I was fortunate to find the necessary ingredients right there on the sink. Obviously, somebody was looking out for me. Then I crawled back to bed, covered myself with the soft, puffy down comforter, and waited for the medicine to do its work.