Drag-Strip Racer (11 page)

A few minutes later Ken drove up to the staging lane for another trial run. Tensely watching the amber lights flash on, and
anticipating the green, he jumped on the gas pedal too quickly and red-bulbed. Angry at himself, he was sure that Scott Taggart
had seen him default and was probably snickering with pleasure.

Feeling hot and tense, he drove Li’l Red be-, yond the 1320-foot mark and headed for the pit stop. He was removing his helmet
and firesuit when he saw Dusty coming toward him.

“How long have you been here, Mr. Hill?” Ken asked, surprised to see him. Dusty seldom left the store to watch the trials.

“About half an hour.” Dusty jerked his head toward the lanes. “I see that ‘Rat’ Taggart’s driving a Volare and that Nick Evans
is sponsoring him.”

“Yeah. And with Nick sponsoring him you can bet that there’ll be a lot of money riding on him Saturday.”

Dusty’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Ken, “Scott worry you?”

“Not a bit.”

“Good.”

Smiling, Dusty left, headed for the parking lot. Ken watched him briefly, feeling a strong liking for the man. If only his
father had the faith and trust in him that Mr. Hill did, he thought, much of his battle about racing cars, and growing up,
would be won.

He finished removing his firesuit, then tossed all his gear into the pickup and drove home.

During the rest of the week he ran passes that put him solidly in the eleven-second category. Once on Friday he blazed down
the quarter-mile strip in 10.48 seconds, clocking a speed of 117.09 miles an hour.

Although he knew that he was driving the little red Chevy at a pretty fast competitive clip, Ken figured that it was premature
for him even to consider competing in the National Hot Rod Association’s events. But it was something that didn’t cost him
a cent to dream about. Anyway, he knew he would have to finish school before he could start turning that dream into reality.

Drivers competing for championship titles earned points to qualify, but he wasn’t interested in earning points just yet. He
might think about
that the first part of next year and start earning enough points to compete in a national event then.

The ultimate goal of the dedicated drag racer was to become the NHRA world champion, but to do so he had to win a certain
number of national events, a certain number of divisional World Championship Series (WCS) races,
and
the World Finals—and do it during a nine-month racing season.

There were racers competing at the Candle-wyck Speedway on Saturday who were shooting for more points—this was permitted according
to the regional rules—but it was up to the individual driver whether he wanted to earn points or not. Otherwise points were
awarded automatically to the top drivers for top speed in their class, for low elapsed time, for establishing an official
speed record, and for establishing an official elapsed-time record.

Aside from the points, there were prizes and trophies given to the winner and the first two runners-up on Saturday afternoons,
which made the race worthwhile for any driver. Five thousand dollars went to the winner, twenty-five hundred to the first
runner-up, and seven hundred and fifty to the second runner-up.

Minutes before Ken was going to leave for the
speedway on Saturday the phone rang. He was sitting on a lounge chair in the living room, discussing the upcoming race with
Dana. His mother and the girls were on the sofa, preoccupied with costumes they were making for the church bazaar.

“Answer it, Janet,” her mother said.

Janet laid down the costume she was working on and went to the phone. She spoke briefly into it, then held it away from her.
“Dana, it’s for you,” she said.

Ken watched his brother as he got off the chair and went to the phone. Something seemed to have been on Dana’s mind all the
time he had been sitting there, Ken had noticed. He and Dana had talked, but at moments Dana seemed to have had his mind elsewhere.
Did this phone call have anything to do with what he was thinking about?

Dana spoke into the phone for only a few seconds, then hung it up, a puzzled expression coming over his face. He smiled at
his family, a smile that wasn’t really genuine, Ken thought. “I’ve got to leave for a while,” he said. “Be back later.”

He went to his room, came out with his helmet, and left.

“Who do you suppose that was?” Mrs. Oberlin said.

“It was a man’s voice,” Janet said, picking up
the costume she was working on and settling herself back on the sofa.

Ken rose from the lounge chair, stepped into the dining room, then to a window facing the garage. He saw Dana put on his helmet,
get on his motorcycle, and drive off. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, yet Ken felt that whoever had called him wanted to
see him right away.

D
ANA BREEZED
through the streets at a moderate clip, thinking about the brief telephone call from Nick Evans.

“This is Nick. I’d like to see you right away.”

That was it. He had hung up without giving Dana a chance to say whether he could make it or not.

But that was Nick—blunt, abrupt, arrogant, and sure. He seemed to have no doubt that Dana could make it.

A heaviness settled in Dana’s chest as he guessed Nick’s purpose for calling him. Nick had given him a job to do. He wanted
to know if it was done.

But he could have asked me that over the phone, Dana told himself. Why hadn’t he?

Maybe Nick wanted to see him about something else.

He arrived at Nick’s pool parlor, parked in the lot close to the entrance door, and went in, carrying his helmet under his
arm.

Business was thriving. There were players at each table and customers waiting for their turns.

Nick, wearing a dark blue shirt with a white collar, was sitting on the stool behind the cash register, one leg cocked up
against the counter.

“Hi, Nick,” Dana greeted him. “What’s up?”

Nick dropped the leg and folded his arms across his chest. A slow smile came over his mouth that put Dana instantly on guard.

“Did you do it?”

Dana stared at him. “No, I didn’t,” he said.

The smile vanished from Nick’s mouth. “Why not?”

Dana cleared his throat. He took a glance at the customers, then looked again at Nick. “He’s my brother, Nick,” he said. “That’s
why.”

“Oh. So now you’ve got a change of heart. He’s your brother.” The smile came back for just a moment. “Not too long ago you
told me he was just like anybody else to you.”

“That’s changed.”

“I see.” Nick tapped his fingers against his bare arms. “You should have, Dana,” he said without looking Dana in the eye.
“You should have done
like I told you. It would’ve been very easy for you to have done something to the carburetor, or the gas line, or even the
clutch. Phil told me he had one of his men put a new clutch in Ken’s car last week.”

“Right,” Dana said. “I was the one who called Phil.”

“I know.” Nick shook his head. “I put a lot of money on Taggart, Dana. A lot of money. But if your brother wins—” His voice
trailed off and he shrugged.

“Sorry, Nick,” Dana said. “I gave it a lot of thought. I just couldn’t do it.”

He turned and started for the exit door.

“Dana, just a minute.”

Dana paused. He stood while Nick approached another door and opened it. Two guys rose from a table where they were playing
cards and came swaggering out of the room. One was tall and had a deep dimple in his chin. The other was squatty, moon-faced,
and wore a mustache.

Dana stared at them, knowing from their impassive expressions that Nick had other intentions in mind than to introduce them.

“These guys would like to see you in there, Dana,” Nick said.

Before he knew what was going on, the two guys grabbed his arms and yanked him into the room. The door slammed shut behind
them.

Dana was suddenly aware that something unpleasant was going to happen to him unless he acted first. He slugged the tall one
on the head with his helmet, and swung the helmet back in time to strike the squatty one on the arm as the guy was about to
hit him. Then Dana dropped the helmet and began to use his fists. He unleashed a a couple of hard rights to squatty’s face,
drawing blood as the second jab struck the man’s nose.

A blow on the left side of his neck from the tall guy jarred him for a moment, but he turned and belted him a series of undercuts
that sent Nick’s thug crashing to the floor. Almost at the same time that the man was going down, the second man rammed into
Dana with his mile-wide shoulders and drove him up against the wall. Dana, pinned there for a moment, turned so that he faced
his opponent, dodged a blow directed at his jaw, then jerked up his right knee with all the power he could muster and jammed
it against the man’s face. A painful grunt tore from the guy as his head flew up and more blood spurted from his nose. He
fell back, covering his face with his
hands, and stumbled to the table where he sat down heavily, taking a handkerchief from his pocket to blot his bleeding nose.

Dana started to swing at the tall guy again but held up when he saw the man raise his hands in surrender.

“Hold it, buddy,” the man pleaded, a bruise over his right eye turning black and blue. “Nick underestimated you. I don’t think
he knew you were a fighter.”

“I only fight well against punks like you,” Dana said, rubbing his knuckles.

He picked up his helmet and walked out, winking at Nick, who stood outside the door staring at him.

“See you at the track,” Dana said, and left.

I
T WAS LATE AUGUST
and the rainy season, but the sky was clear and there was just enough breeze in the air to stir the trees surrounding the
speedway.

Ken tried not to show his nervousness as he pulled on his firesuit, aware that he was the focus of attention of at least a
half-dozen fans who had come to see him race. Dana and Dusty were in the pit with him, and somewhere up there in the crowded
stands was the rest of his family.

His father hadn’t wanted to come. It was only because his mother had said that school was starting soon and this was probably
Ken’s last race of the season that he had changed his mind.

Ken hadn’t told anyone that this might be his last race. He saw no reason why he could not run passes a day or two each week
after school and
race occasionally on weekends. But he said nothing about this to his parents. He wanted to make sure his father came to see
this race.

He saw Scott Taggart in the pits with a longhaired guy he didn’t recognize and figured that Nick Evans must be somewhere nearby,
too. Probably in the stands.

It would be something, he thought, if he and Scott had to pair off in one of the rounds. So far he hadn’t learned how fast
Scott’s Volare was able to go.

There was a roar from the crowd as an announcement came over the public address system and the first of the sixteen pairings
got under way. There were thirty-two cars entered. Each pairing and position had been decided beforehand according to the
car’s best qualifying time, and Ken’s turn to run was sixth. The winners of the first two runs then paired off to race in
the second round, the winners of the third and fourth runs paired off to race in the second round, and so on. The same system
prevailed for the third, fourth, and fifth rounds. The winner of the fifth round was declared the winner and champion.

Ken watched the cars, both Fords, start with their front ends almost leaping off the asphalt,
then settling to blaze down the lanes with smoke tearing from their rear tires.

They seemed to be even as they zoomed past the finish mark. Then, seconds later, came the announcement: “Winner of the first
run, Jake Moller, at twelve point ninety-nine seconds and one hundred and ten point sixty-two miles an hour; Loser is Steve
Blaser at thirteen point oh three seconds and a hundred and nine point ninety-nine miles an hour! Congratulations, Jake! Better
luck next time, Steve!”

Again the crowd roared.

“Taggart must’ve been racing somewhere this summer,” Dusty said, peering through gold-rimmed sunglasses. “Any scuttlebutt
on him, Dana?”

“Yeah. He’s been racing around the Palm Beach and Orlando area,” Dana replied. “Did pretty well, too, I heard.”

“He must have, or I don’t think Evans would even consider having his name on Taggart’s car. I wonder if it
is
his.”

“It is,” said Dana. “He bought it cheap, installed a new engine in it, and fixed it up into a good racer.”

“New engine?” Dusty laughed. “I guess that
was his idea when he took that engine out of my store.”

Dana smiled, then shot a sidelong glance at Ken. “Know what? I’d like to see you and ‘Rat’ Taggart match up with each other.”

“You never know,” murmured Ken.

He saw a deep, concentrated look come into his brother’s eyes and knew that he was thinking of the trouble Taggart had caused
them, trouble that finally had brought them closer together than they had ever been before.

The eliminations continued, losers falling by the wayside, winners coming back to meet the challengers in the next round.

The sixth run was ready to start. Dusty shook Ken’s hand and wished him well. Dana waited till he got into the Chevy, his
seat belt buckled and his helmet on.

“Good luck, brother,” he said then, and shook his hand—a tight, warm squeeze.

Ken sat, tensed, waiting for the announcement from the timing tower. It soon came and he started the car.

“Ken Oberlin, number two staging lane, please,” came Buck Morrison’s voice. “Jim ‘Little Beaver’ Applejack, lane one.”

Ken drove the Chevy up to the staging lane and
saw that the car he was driving against was a white 1974 Mustang with Jim “Little Beaver” Applejack’s name splashed garishly
across the side door and rear fender. Names of his sponsors were painted conspicuously over other parts of the car’s body.

Ken eased the car up the asphalt till the Christmas tree lights flashed on, indicating he was properly staged. Then the Mustang
moved up into position and seconds later the five amber lights on the tree began to flash on at half-second intervals.