by Burt Levy
Big Ed had booked us a cabin at the Seneca Lodge on the advice of a couple regulars he'd bought drinks for at the S.C.M.A. club meetings he couldn't attend on account of he wasn't a member. "It's a little rustic compared to some other spots around town," they advised him, "but the food is good and a lot of racers stay there because it's the only place to sleep that's within walking distance of the Seneca Bar." The obvious conclusion was that the best of the Watkins Glen racing parties happened around the Seneca Bar, and only those who stayed on the premises could stagger or crawl their way to bed afterwards.
The lodge itself was a big log cabin sort of place made up of a large, loud dining hall packed to the rafters with laughing, jabbering racers and a little lean-to bar off the back that was packed even tighter. It was hard finding a parking place in front on account of the lot was jammed bumper-to-bumper and fender-to-fender full of MGs and Jaguars and Porsches and Siatas and Aston Martins and BMWs and Ferraris and Maseratis and just about every other kind of low-slung, two-seater European sports car you could think of. Big Ed checked us in and we dropped our stuff in the cabin (which, as promised, was about as basic as you could get and still be considered an actual man-made housing enclosure) but the air smelled of pine needles and freshly harvested crops, and you could hear owls hooting up in the trees and little furry things rustling in the bushes, all of which made the Seneca Lodge a very pleasant and serene sort of place to be. At least until you ventured into the bar, anyway.
Still, it was a nice feeling, now that I'd been around all summer, how all the racing people chewing their steaks and bellied up to the bar flashed me quick little half-smiles of recognition. Everybody except Sally Enderle, that is, who made a real point of looking right through me as if I had been suddenly rendered invisible. Then again, I had no idea what I would or could have said if she'd done me the courtesy of acknowledging that I was indeed another English-speaking human being whom she might have had a brief, passing acquaintance with some time in the distant past. Like say eleven days ago at Elkhart Lake. But like I said, I was just as happy she was hanging on Creighton Pendleton's arm again and ignoring me the way people of my social class and cultural background deserved to be ignored.
Big Ed bullied us up right next to them, making it even tougher for Sally to look right through me. But she had a real knack for it, and could make her eyes take a quick detour around me each time she scanned the room for somebody important she needed to talk to. And it didn't take long for her to spot a likely prospect, pop up on tiptoe, wave gaily, and take off for some other corner of the room. It was hard to believe I used to think she was such hot stuff, you know? Sure, she still filled out a pair of shorts and a midriff shirt better than any female I'd ever seen this side of a movie screen, but, like old Butch always said about Mean Marlene, "I'd druther have a woman ugly clear through than pretty on the surface and ugly underneath. It ain't near so disappointing that way."
With Sally Enderle gone from Creighton's arm, Big Ed saw an opportunity to strike up a conversation, and he did it in the usual Big Ed Baumstein way by offering to buy him a drink. "Say, I'm Ed Baum-stein," he said, sticking out his hand and even removing his cigar for the occasion. "Me an' Buddy here saw you win that big race at Bridgehampton back in May."
"How nice for you," Creighton allowed down his nose.
"Yeah. And I'd sure like t'buy you a drink. That was some pretty damn fancy driving you did up there."
"Was it?" He said it like neither me or Big Ed would know fancy driving if we saw it. But Creighton wasn't above taking a free drink when one was offered. Just so long as it didn't come with any strings attached and he only had to hang around until it was served. "Yes sir," Big Ed continued, not about to be brushed aside, "you did one hell of a job with that Ferrari of yours."
"Hmm."
"And boy, that's one hell of a car, too."
"Isn't it."
"Y'know, I'd like to get myself a car like that someday. One just like it, in fact."
A nasty little smile curled up around the corners of Creighton's mouth. "Well," he said into the swizzle stick of his tall gin and tonic, "why don't you buy yourself one then, hmm?"
"Aw, I tried. But it's tough to do." Big Ed knew he was getting hosed around, but he was after something and not about to spoil it by getting mad or giving up. "I tried buying one off that Carlo Sebastian guy, but he didn't have a car for me."
"Oh, really?"
"Nah. He said maybe I could get one someday—one of the street models, you know—but no way I could land one of the real racing jobs like you've got."
"And why is that?" Creighton was really jerking him around—just to see him squirm, right?—but Big Ed was a pretty shrewd customer, even if he didn't look it.
"Well, I figure there's only so many of those things to go around, right?"
Creighton nodded absently as the bartender placed a fresh gin and tonic on the edge of the bar.
"So guys like you—guys who've proved what they can do with 'em—get all the latest, hottest cars from Ferrari just as soon as they cross the Atlantic."
Creighton nodded again, his eyes starting to look around for a little better company to enjoy Big Ed's drink with.
"So anyway, see, I was thinking I could maybe buy that car of yours off you next time a new one comes over from the factory in Italy, y'know?" Creighton Pendleton the Third slowly rotated his head and looked Big Ed up and down as if seeing him for the very first time. "I'd give ya a good price for it, see, and you really wouldn't need it anymore, since you'd have your new one. Right?"
Creighton took a long, slow pull on his drink. "Well, Mr. Baum-stein . . ."
"Call me Big Ed, okay?"
"Well, Mister, um, Big Ed, I'm sure that's a very intriguing proposal. But I'm afraid it's just not possible."
"Oh? And why's that?"
"Well, let's just say I've always had a little sort of, um, arrangement with Reggie Welcher, and he always gets first crack at my race cars when I'm done with them." Creighton was the first guy I'd ever heard call Skippy Welcher "Reggie," but it sounded just right when he said it. Like ivy climbing up old brick walls.
But Big Ed was not about to give up. "Well, I guess that's a pretty sweet deal for you. But what if somebody were to offer you, say, a little more money. . . ."
"A little more money?" Creighton asked, arching up one eyebrow. "And what exactly might that mean?"
"Oh, I dunno," Big Ed shrugged while cash register bells rang in his head like fire alarms, "let's just say enough to make it worth your while. . . ."
I could see Creighton was just jerking him around, trying to get Big Ed to name a figure just so's he could look down his nose at it. But Big Ed had made enough deals in his life—automotive and otherwise—to know that the first guy to name a figure always loses. So he tried the old Colin St. John turn-the-tables-on-'em maneuver that generally starts with playing dumb as a post and pretending that the fish across the table is ever so much smarter, shrewder, wiser, and more appealing to the opposite sex than you are. "Tellya what, Creighton," Big Ed said, ordering up another round of drinks, "I'm new to all this sportycar stuff and really have no idea what a car like that Ferrari of yours might be worth—new or used— so why don't you just tell me what it would take to get in line ahead of everybody else when you're done with it?"
Creighton Pendleton rubbed his perfectly chiseled chin and searched for the exact combination of words that would chop Big Ed off at the ankles like a stalk of celery. "Well, that's really a tremendous offer, Ed," he said with what sounded like genuine gratitude. "But I'm afraid I'll have to pass it by."
"You will?"
Creighton nodded, picking up the second of Big Ed's gin and tonics. "You see, it's not just a question of money between Reggie and myself. We've always had this, well, this understanding about my cars, you see. Reggie always gets them when I'm done with them. Simple as that. Price has never been an issue."
"It hasn't?"
"Absolutely not." Creighton
took a quick sip of his drink. "I tell Reggie what I think the car is worth and he writes me a check. We never dicker over price. . . ."
Big Ed had never heard of such a thing. And neither had I, come to think of it. In fact, I got the distinct impression it was just an enormous load of bullshit laid out for the purpose of fertilizing the notion that Big Ed and me were nothing but no-class, no-talent, Johnny-come-lately, goofball outsiders. Especially after I caught the snide glimmer flickering in Creighton Pendleton's dark, penetrating eyes. "Well," Big Ed grumbled, realizing he was headed up a dead-end street with no place to turn around, "you just keep it in mind, OK?"
"Oh, I surely will," Creighton assured him. "After all, it's a really generous proposition." He said "generous" like it was some kind of incurable medical condition. "Then again," he added as he polished off the last of his drink, "I've never had much of a head for business." He pushed his stool away from the bar, obviously preparing to leave. "But then I guess I've just never actually needed one. . . ."
Come Thursday morning we had registration and technical inspection over by the courthouse in downtown Watkins Glen, and that's when I finally got to see Big Ed's top secret plan to race with the S.C.M.A. He'd gotten one of the other members to enter his car (I'm not sure, but I think it might have been Tommy Edwards) and he presented himself at registration as simply the driver. Now there was always a lot of that going on, with guys like Colin St. John and Ernesto Julio and even Briggs Cunningham entering cars for other people to drive, so no way could any of the hard-line S.C.M.A. armband types say anything about it. But then there was the little question of what made Mr. Big Ed Baumstein think he was capable of operating an automobile at racing speed. Just who, the S.C.M.A. wanted to know, ever told Big Ed he had the qualifications to be a racing driver?
That's when Big Ed pulled out one of those fancy leather-grain folders like lawyers and insurance salesmen carry and produced a bona fide American Automobile Association racing license and a bunch of ironclad paperwork to go with it. Now the Triple-A sanctioned almost all the big-time oval track races (including the Indy 500) and Big Ed knew they cooperated with the S.C.M.A. in running the road races at Watkins Glen. It was already a matter of record that the S.C.M.A. accepted A.A.A. licenses, since that Phil Walters guy who drove for Briggs Cunningham had raced the Triple-A circuit for years. So Charlie Priddle and the rest of the S.C.M.A. tight-asses had themselves a real problem with Big Ed Baumstein, on account of there was no way they could keep him from driving without creating a hell of a red-tape procedural mess. And those guys knew what they were up against, since they absolutely lived and breathed red-tape procedural messes every day of the week. They couldn't refuse his car without refusing the other entries from the guy who made it (whoever that was) and they couldn't keep Big Ed from driving unless they also shot down one of the star hotshoes on the Cunningham team. And that wouldn't do at all.
So Charlie Priddle and his armband buddies were outmaneuvered, and they knew it. The only loophole was to try to find something wrong with the car, but I had that Jag in perfect order, and knew she was ready as the best of them. Not to mention we had quite a few friends among the drivers and mechanics by then. The truth was that Charlie Priddle and his wolf pack of armband police were only a small percentage of the rank-and-file S.C.M.A. membership, but they somehow wound up running the show on account of all everybody else wanted was an opportunity to fire up their damn sports cars and go race.
Tommy Edwards came over to congratulate us after we cleared tech, and then he kind of eased Big Ed aside and told him to watch himself and be careful and not do anything stupid on account of Charlie and his buddies would be circling like vultures, just looking for an excuse to yank his dubious ticket and send him packing. "Keep your eyes on the mirrors, sport," he advised Big Ed, "but don't ever "—he wagged his forefinger under Big Ed's nose—"don't ever even think about moving over to make room for an overtaking car."
Big Ed looked confused. "How's that?"
"When a faster car comes up behind," Tommy explained, holding his hands out palms down to illustrate like racers always do, "the poor bloke has no idea if you've seen him or what you're about to do."
"So?"
"So the safest thing for everyone involved is for you to just drive along on your proper racing line and let him worry about how to get around you."
"It is?"
"Absolutely. It's the only way a faster driver can be sure of where you'll be. If you take a notion to be a good sport and pull over to make room, he may well have already committed to passing you on that side. Do you see what I mean?"
You could see the gears spinning behind Big Ed's eyes while he thought it over. "Yeah, I see," he said. "You wind up in his lap."
"That's it exactly," Tommy smiled, and patted Big Ed on the shoulder. "Outside of that, just relax, have fun, glance in your mirrors every now and again, and don't do anything stupid."
"Hey, thanks," Big Ed told him.
"Oh, and try to get a little practice around the circuit today and tomorrow. There won't be any on race day."
"There won't?" I asked, wondering just what the hell guys were supposed to do if they'd never raced at Watkins Glen before.
"No, I'm afraid not. They can't close down the roads until early Saturday morning, and, what with three races on the schedule, there simply isn't time."
"But how'rya supposed to know which way the damn road goes?"
"Well, they do give three warm-up laps before each race on Saturday, but I don't reckon that's enough to really familiarize oneself with the circuit."
"Oh?" Big Ed said, looking just a little bewildered.
"Look, I've got an idea. Let's you and I take a quick lap or two right now."
"Right now?"
"Absolutely. I can show you around. Then you and the mechanical Boy Genius can go out for a few more laps this afternoon—not at speed, you understand, just to more or less get the feel of things—and maybe I can take you out again tomorrow morning for a little fine-tuning. How's that?"
Naturally, Big Ed couldn't thank Tommy enough, and by then I was pretty sure he was indeed the guy who'd entered Big Ed's XK120 for him. Not that he was saying anything about it, on account of there were more than a few S.C.M.A. bigwigs with their oh-so-blue noses out of joint because a guy named Baumstein was running around loose in their own private playpen. But you could see Tommy was getting something out of the deal, too, since he seemed to be gaining a lot of his old Dawn Patrol confidence back by acting as sort of tutor and racing maven to Big Ed. And I was enjoying the hell out of it, since every now and then Charlie Priddle would stalk past with a look on his face like he was having serious gallbladder trouble.
While Big Ed and Tommy were out learning the course, I took a little stroll down Franklin Street, which was the main drag through Watkins Glen and also served as the start/finish straightaway for the races. I ran into Cal and a few of the MG guys at a neat little clapboard coffee shop and I joined them for a cup or two of java. Turns out Cal rode up with Carson Flegley again, but this time Carson was bound and determined to drive the TD himself in the Queen Catherine Cup smallbore race, so Cal was once again out shopping for a ride. And he wasn't having much luck, either. The guy with the evil Ford-powered MG was a no-show after putting it into a spin, a ditch, and a tree trunk in quick succession during a "shakedown run" after they'd completed repairs following Elkhart Lake, and although he wasn't hurt, the car was going to need all winter to get back in shape again. "How're things goin' with you guys?" Cal asked while sopping up a few quarts of syrup with the last of his French toast.
So I told him about Big Ed's Triple-A license and the look it'd put on Charlie Priddle's face and all about shoveling that monstrous, fire-breathing Chrysler into Tommy's Allard and how I suspected that Tommy was the guy who entered Big Ed's 120 for him. I was happy to see Cal got as big a kick out of it as I did. "So," I wondered out loud, "you got any fish on the line yet this weekend?"
"Well, the
prospecting hasn't gone too awfully well," he sighed, swirling the coffee around in his cup. "But we didn't roll in until two, and I've only had this morning to work on it."
"Something'll turn up."
"It sure better. I'm supposed to stand up at my sister's wedding this weekend, and all hell's gonna break loose at Castle Carrington when I get back."
"So?"
"So it'd be a damn shame to catch all that flack for nothing. . . ."
I could see his point.
"Well," he grinned, snaking on his aviator sunglasses and flashing me all those brilliantly white rich-kid teeth, "time t'go to work. Wish me luck."
"Good luck," I told him. And I meant it.
"And say," Cal added as he eased up out of the booth, "you think you could maybe pick up the tab for breakfast. I'm a little, er, financially embarrassed right now. . . ."
"You're always flat dead-ass broke," I told him. "Every damn time I see you!"