by Burt Levy
Anyhow, we shot the bull back and forth for a couple minutes, and he allowed as how he'd "think it over" about letting me come back to work there at the Sinclair. Maybe. If I asked him real nice.
So I did.
Needless to say, Barry Spline didn't take too kindly to my plan to pack up and leave Westbridge. "Where's yer bloody sense of loyalty?" he wailed, his nostrils flaring. "Why, we've one bloody race ter go yet h'at Watkins Glen—the biggest bloody race of the whole bleedin' season!—and that's when yer decide yer wanter run h'ome t'bleedin' momma!"
"Gee whiz, Barry," I told him, "it's not like that."
"Oh? And just 'ow is it then? We got ourselves the biggest bloody last-minute project of the whole bleedin' year t'finish up fer Tommy Edwards, and yer not plannin' t'be around t'do yer bleedin' share."
"How's that?" I asked, just a little curious as to what the project might be.
Barry curled his lip at me. "Can't bloody tell you, mate. Why, h'its top bloody secret!" he snarled, spitting on the floor behind the parts counter for emphasis.
"Really? What is it?" In spite of all my thinking and planning and plotting and considering, I was still a sitting-duck sucker for an interesting race car project.
"Can't give any bleedin' information h'out t'somebody like yerself 'oo won't even be around t'lend a bloody 'and. . . ."
"I don't get it."
"Well, why not just take yerself a bloody look 'round the back of the shop, eh?" Barry growled, and walked into the office.
So I did, and it didn't take long to find Sylvester Jones bent over a huge, gaping hole in the middle of Tommy's Allard. "What's goin' on?" I asked.
"How th'hell should I know?" Sylvester snorted, fiddling with the fuel and oil lines on the firewall. "They tells me t'pull a damn engine and I pulls a damn engine. Even if th'damn thing is running jus' fine as can be. Sheee-it! It don't make no damn differents t'me. . . ."
Sure enough, the hot-rodded Caddy V-8 from Tommy's Allard was sitting against the back wall, trickling a little blackened oil and brackish water onto the floor. It made me wonder what was up, you know? I mean, no question that was one fast Cadillac engine sitting there against the wall.
About then Colin St. John came rocketing out of his office like a launched torpedo. "So!" he snapped in an icy voice, "I understand you're planning to leave us today. Is that the case?"
"Well, er, uh," I mumbled into my collar. "It's just I, uh, I . . ."
"Don't mumble, young man," Colin growled disgustedly. "Let's have it. Spit it out."
"Well, see, it's like this," I told him, hunting around for words like a guy pretending to look for change in his pockets when he knows he doesn't have a cent to his name. "I been doing a lot of thinking, see . . ."
"And?"
"And, well, Manhattan is just so blessed far away from home, you know. . . ."
"So that's why you're quitting?" Colin demanded, drawing himself up like there was a guywire pulling on the top of his head.
"Well, I kinda got a girlfriend, too, and she's been tellin' me she's plain sick of never seeing me anymore and never going out to movies and stuff. . . ."
"But you've had this girlfriend all summer, have you not?" Colin snapped.
"Well, yeah. Sorta." I could see he wasn't buying it. "And, well, I also got this opportunity to run this gas station back in Passaic, see . . ."
"Oh, I see all right," Colin snorted. "In fact, I see perfectly. You have an opportunity to take the skills and knowledge you have accumulated right here—in this very shop!—and use them to leave us in our time of greatest need so that you can go into business against us." Colin looked down his nose at me like I was a smear of road slime. "I do have that all properly accurate and correct, don't I?"
"Well, uh, geez, Mr. St. John, if you put it that way. . . ."
"Oh? And could you perhaps explain some other way to put it? My understanding as of ten minutes ago is that you plan to simply take your leave—on a moment's notice!—leaving us in a lurch with the biggest, most important event of our entire summer season at hand, not caring in the least that we have undertaken a major engine project on your supposed 'friend' Mr. Edwards's Allard. . . ."
"Uh, gee whiz, Mr. St. John . . ."
". . . A project that will undoubtedly not be completed in time for Mr. Edwards to race at Watkins Glen because of your sudden and capricious departure." Colin stared at me with a look of withering disdain and sadly shook his head. "You are planning to leave us," he asked me point-blank, "aren't you?"
"Uh, well, gee whiz, a'course not, Mr. St. John," I heard myself say, "I mean, you'd have to be a real heel t'do something thing like that. . . ."
"Indeed," Colin agreed softly, and just like that, I realized old Colin St. John had somehow maneuvered things around and turned the tables on me. Again.
"But I'm still planning to leave after Watkins Glen," I threw in lamely, trying to salvage some small, tiny fragment of self-respect.
"That will be fine with us," Colin agreed coolly. "As a matter of fact, we usually terminate all our race mechanic positions after the last event of the season anyway." He said it like they had maybe two or three dozen race-weekend grease monkeys working there at Westbridge instead of just me. And so, without really thinking about it, I'd somehow agreed to stay on at Westbridge two more weeks until the race at Watkins Glen was over.
I went across to the sandwich shop where I could at least be alone and called Julie's mom's house. But there was no answer, so I called the Sinclair and told Old Man Finzio I'd given my two weeks' notice at Westbridge (like that's what I'd planned to do all along, right?) and would be coming back to work at the Sinclair on Monday, September 22nd. He didn't much more than snarl and grunt once or twice, and it was actually kind of nice to hear him sounding like his nasty old self again. "Say, lissen," he said before hanging up, "y'oughta call Big Ed sometime. He's been droppin' by with that fancy-ass English sports car of his, lookin' fer you. . . ."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Couple times at least. Y'oughta give him a call over t'the scrap yard."
"Okay. Sure I will. Thanks."
Then the Old Man hung up on me, which was his way of saying good-bye. So I rang Big Ed up at his scrap yard over by the Jersey shore, and he right away dropped what he was doing as soon as he heard it was me on the line. "Hey, long time no see," he said around his cigar. "Whaddaya been up to?"
"Aw, not too awful much. Just workin' my ass off down at Westbridge. But I been goin' to lotsa races and stuff all summer."
"So I heard. I see a couple a'those high-flyer friends of yours over at the meetings every now and then, see."
"Meetings?"
"The S.C.M.A. meetings over in Manhattan."
"You mean you got in?" I couldn't believe it, you know? I mean, last I heard, Charlie Priddle was still Head Man on the S.C.M.A.'s membership committee (not to mention just about every other committee they had) and he'd made it pretty clear he'd sooner take his liver out with a pair of needlenose pliers than let somebody like Big Ed Baumstein into the club.
"Naw," Big Ed groused, "I didn't get in. But I started showing up at the damn meetings anyway. Just to piss off that Charlie Priddle asshole, y'know?"
"What a swell idea."
"Yeah, wasn't it though? But I'd just sort of hang around the bar and buy a few rounds for the guys before the actual meeting started in a private room upstairs. Charlie'd even put a guard at the door just t'make sure I couldn't get in. But I didn't try. Didn't want to give the little prick the satisfaction of having me thrown out. But I got t'know some of the other members pretty good. Even turns out we do a little scrap business here and there with some of 'em."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Some of 'em actually hold down jobs and work for a living. . . ."
"But you still can't get in?"
"Nah. Not unless I have that Priddle asshole fitted for a building foundation or a dock piling first."
"That's too bad."
"Nah, it isn't."
>
"It isn't?"
"Nah." And then it got real quiet on the other end, and I could almost see Big Ed's cigar making rolls and twirls and figure-eight loops right through the receiver. "I figgered a way so's I can race my Jaguar anyway, see."
"You did?"
"Uh-huh. And believe me, it's gonna piss off that Charlie Priddle jerkoff something awful. But there ain't a goddam thing he can do about it."
"Why, that's, that's . . ."—I was stumbling for words—". . . that's just terrific!"
"Yeah, ain't it? Anyhow, that's where you come in."
"I do?"
"Yeah. I need for you t'come up to Watkins Glen with me next weekend. T'help get the car squared away and all."
"Sure, Big Ed. Glad to. I got a lot of experience at that stuff now. Honest."
"So I heard. Everybody says you do a good job."
Big Ed couldn't have made me feel any better if he'd given me a hundred-dollar tip. But then I remembered the deal I'd just made with Colin St. John. "Say, lissen, I got one little problem . . .," and I explained to Big Ed about my two weeks' notice at Westbridge and the big mystery project on Tommy's Allard.
"No sweat," Big Ed answered without skipping a beat. "I unnerstan' how stuff like that goes. Just see you find time t'go through my Jag before we leave. The guy I got on it now's got it screwed up so's it runs like shit. No lie."
"Shouldn't be a problem," I told him, taking a certain perverse pride in knowing his Jag was running poorly without my attention. "By the way, how'dja ever swing a deal so's you could race with those tight-assed S.C.M.A. types?"
"I ain't saying nothin'. Not to you or nobody else. But you'll see soon enough up at Watkins Glen." Big Ed took a long, slow drag on his cigar. "I got a nice little surprise worked up for those guys. . . ."
It sounded like another of Big Ed's world-class ideas, and no question I wanted to be a part of it. "So what can I do to help?"
"Just get the damn car ready. I can leave it over by Old Man Finzio's if you want," he took a quick pull off his cigar. "Th'grapevine sez you're comin' back t'work there anyway."
"Gee whiz," I gasped, "how'dja know that?"
"That niece of his with th'big knockers told me. You know, Julie. The one you like so much."
"Oh, really?" I sort of choked. "And exactly when was that?"
"Last week, I think. Or maybe the week before. . . ."
And that's when I started wondering all over again about who the hell was actually running my life. I mean, just as I was getting this notion that I was really Taking Charge of Things and becoming Captain of My Own Ship, I come to discover I'm just another below-deck slob with one oar in the water.
You ever wonder like that?
Back at Westbridge, I asked Barry what the big deal was with Tommy's Allard. "Yer'll see in h'about an 'our, mate," he answered with a mysterious wink. "Let's just say we need yer t'go on a little cross-town parts h'excursion with Colin and me, eh?" And sure enough, Barry came around an hour later and pulled me off the postrace inspection, lube, and oil I was doing on the green C-type. The rumor was it had been sold, and we had to get it all properly spiffed up for its new owner. I only had a little more to do—just the brake adjusters and a spoke check—and I really would've just as soon finished it. But Colin was in a big hurry because "we had to meet something someplace," and I must admit that sounded a little strange. It also seemed odd that we needed three people to go on a damn parts run, you know?
But it was never my business to ask questions around the Westbridge shop, so I packed up my tools and clambered into the back of the parts truck while Colin and Barry climbed in front and then did my best to stay more or less seated on the wheelwell while we shimmied and juddered our way across Manhattan and bounced across the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn. It wasn't until we hit the Sunrise Highway that I realized we were on our way to Idlewild. But I still couldn't figure why we were going or what could possibly require three whole people and a parts truck to accomplish. So my curiosity glands were pumping overtime by the time Barry wheeled us into the airport, and they accelerated to Maximum Flow as we passed right by the passenger terminal and headed up a little access road that dumped us right out on the flight line. Jeez, I'd never been out on an airport flight apron before, and it was a little overwhelming. All around us, big four-motor DC6s and twin-engined DC3s were getting between-flight service and loading up with passengers and luggage. We even passed one of those incredibly graceful Lockheed Constellations (the ones with the three tail fins) done up in Pan American Clipper Service colors that had just returned from someplace tropical, judging from the flower-print shirts and oversize straw hats on the departing passengers. Then one of those double-decker Boeing Stratocruisers passed over on its landing approach—engines howling!—and it felt like an entire Manhattan skyscraper toppling over on us. I know I dived for cover (of which there wasn't any in the parts truck) and banged my head on the opposite-side wheelwell. "I say," Barry observed, "did'jer 'ave yerself a wee fright there, mate?" After which Colin and Barry enjoyed a nasty little chuckle at my expense. Real funny, right?
We followed along the perimeter of the field to a faded hangar with some ex-military freight planes and a few beat-up forklifts out front. "Wait here," Colin said, and went inside. So I sat there with the back door open and watched that monstrous Boeing Stratocruiser taxi past, and it was hard to believe that anything that enormous could get off the ground. It was scary just thinking about it. Plus I'd had enough ugly mechanical experiences with cars not to have the greatest faith in ivory-tower engineers who spend their workdays poring over drafting tables (not to mention clock-watching production workers who ultimately screw their stuff together) and you must admit that the sky is a little short on places to pull over and have a look-see if any problems crop up. So it was kind of scary watching those rivet-winged monsters charge down the runway—engines roaring—gaining speed and gaining speed as they strained upward. I swear, my heart stopped cold every time one of them lifted off the concrete and climbed into the sky. . . .
"Ahh, Mr. Palumbo? Excuse me?"
I wheeled around and Colin was staring at me over the seat back.
"Everything's set. Come give us a hand now."
So I followed him into the hangar, and in the middle of the floor was a wooden crate about the size of a Frigidaire. I cocked my head so I could read the label, and sure enough it was addressed to Tommy Edwards, c/o Westbridge Motor Car Company, Ltd., and the return address was someplace in Detroit. Hmmm. Well, the three of us could hardly budge it—not even with two air-freight attendants helping—and Barry had to back the truck right into the building so they could load it on with one of the forklifts. With a lot of grunting and shoving and cussing and sweating, we managed to get it levered into the back of the truck, and the weight compressed the springs so much that the front wheels damn near came off the ground! It didn't look real stable, so we took a bunch of rope and a piece of chain and kind of lashed it down, and then all three of us piled into the front seat to balance the load. On our way out, a thunderous whooshing sound passed over— like the noise Niagara Falls makes, only from the sky—and I looked up to see one of those fabulous British Airways Comet jets coming in from Europe. Wow!
It took damn near two hours to get back to the shop on account of Barry couldn't go much over 20 with that huge crate in back, and the three of us were wincing in perfect unison every time we went over a bad bump or dropped a wheel in a pothole and felt that thing lurch and bang against the floorboards. But we made it, and then it took damn near everybody in the shop to get that thing down on the floor.
"So," I said, wiping off my brow, "what the hell's in there, anyway?"
"Well, it's this way, sport," Tommy chuckled as he came through the door. "Let's just say it's that 'bigger stick' I was telling you about at Elkhart." Boy, it was great to see Tommy again, and I was happy to observe he had a little spring in his step and some of the old Tommy Edwards glint back in his eyes. No question he
hadn't been himself through that whole business with Phil Hill and the two C-types at Elkhart Lake, and sometimes you worry stuff like that is going to be permanent. But you could see Tommy had his old confidence and enthusiasm back, and he could hardly wait for Barry to grab a crowbar and open that crate. The lid came off with a grating, chalk-on-a-blackboard sound as the nails creaked out of the wood, and that's when I found myself staring at the biggest, widest, meatiest damn automobile engine ever to come stomping out of Detroit. It was a hemi-head Chrysler, of course—just like the ones in the Cunninghams!—and it even had the same special intake manifold (only with Carter carbs instead of Zeniths) and a swept-back set of tubular exhausts like pipes off a monstrous church organ. Wow!