Drag-Strip Racer (3 page)

For a few moments his father rocked harder on the chair, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“Sure, sure. I might as well talk to that wall there,” he said.

“Well, Uncle Louis
did
will him that car,”
Ken’s mother broke in. She was sitting on the sofa, perusing a magazine on organic gardening. “And Ken really doesn’t have
any other interests.”

Ken was startled by her remark. “That’s not true, Mom,” he said. “Isn’t basketball an interest? And what about those computers?
And sculpting models out of tree branches?”

“Yes, but how long did those hobbies last?”

“I’m still sculpting.”

“All right, but how often?”

“Once a week—at least.”

“Or less,” she said.

It was two years ago that he had toyed around with computers. He had made one from kits, but his interest in it had flagged
and he began sculpting models out of tree branches. Birds, mainly, because he found them the easiest to do. He didn’t know
of any kids who sculpted from tree branches. That was what he liked, doing something that wasn’t easy and popular. That’s
why he enjoyed drag racing. There was something different about sitting behind the wheel of a stock car and giving it all
it had down a quarter-of-a-mile stretch. Something alive and vibrant.

“Well, you can’t race again until your foot heals and the brakes are fixed,” his father said. “From what I see that’s going
to be a long time.”

Ken looked down at his cast-covered leg, “Not as long as you think, Dad,” he said assuredly.

His father looked at him. His mouth opened and a nerve twitched at the side of his neck.

But he said nothing, as if what he’d say might not make any difference anyway.

Ken knew it wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to forgo his summer job at Cowosocki Camp until he was able to maneuver around better.
But he’d get that fender straightened and the master cylinder fixed as soon as possible and pay for them out of his savings.
He had no problem in that department—yet.

It wasn’t till the following Wednesday that he called up Dusty Hill, owner of an automotive parts store that catered to the
racing car trade. Dusty also owned the garage next to his shop and was vain enough to tell his customers that the best mechanic
in town—not
one
of the best, but
the
best—was right there in his shop. His name was Rooster Falls.

Dusty had another sideline—he sponsored drivers in drag races, a point that Ken had considered before he made the call.

“Hi, Mr. Hill,” he said, getting the owner on the line after the third ring. “This is Ken Oberlin. I don’t know if you know
me, but—”

“Yes, I know you. You’re Lou Oberlin’s nephew,” Dusty interrupted. “I heard you had some trouble at the trial runs last Saturday.”

He had a voice that seemed to come from the bottom of a well. And he talked slowly, as if measuring each word before uttering
it.

“Right,” Ken said. “The master cylinder went bad and I—well, I came out of it with a fractured foot.”

“You were lucky. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to get the brakes fixed and the front left fender straightened.”

“Okay, but it won’t be for another week or two,” Dusty answered promptly. “I’ve only got one mechanic and he’s up to his back
pockets with work. Anyway,” he added, chuckling, “you’re in no hurry, are you? You can wait another month. Maybe two.”

“No, Mr. Hill,” Ken said. “I’d like to get the car fixed as soon as possible. It’s my left leg in a cast, so I can still drive.”

There was a pause. Finally Dusty’s slow voice came back over the wire. “Okay, Ken. I’ll get my book. Hold on a second.”

In half a minute Dusty was back on the phone, an appointment was made, and Ken hung up. He felt the sudden grip of impatience
because he
knew that the ten days he’d have to wait for his car to get fixed would seem like an eternity.

He heard the back door open and close, and pretty soon saw his father come in and sit down on a chair in the kitchen. He started
to take off his shoes, a wide patch of sweat gluing his gray shirt to his back.

He didn’t see Ken till he’d kicked off the shoes and straightened up in his chair. Tiny rivers of perspiration trickled slowly
down the thin lines of his face, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve just made an appointment to get my car fixed, Dad,” Ken said.

“Oh?” His father’s eyebrows arched. “You think you’ll be able to race Li’l Red again, even with that cast on your leg?”

Ken smiled. “The cast is on my left leg, Dad,” he pointed out, “not on my gas foot.”

Less than two weeks later, on a Friday, Ken drove the pickup and trailer to Dusty Hill’s garage to bring back the Chevy racer.
Rooster drove it up the ramp and onto the trailer, then got out and stood on the ground, looking at it admiringly.

“A real pussycat,” he said, wiping his hands on a grease cloth. He was a small man in his forties,
with thick black hair and a toothbrush mustache. “Dusty told me it was your uncle’s.”

“Yes,” Ken said. “He wanted me to have it after he died.”

Rooster nodded. He and Ken were standing at the side of the car, its sheen so bright that their reflections mirrored clearly
back at them. Ken thought the job Rooster had done on the fender was excellent and was going to voice his appreciation, when
the mechanic interrupted. “Louis Oberlin. I knew him well. He was good, but he never
could
make the top, could he?” He turned to Ken and his mild, gray eyes sparkled. “Maybe you will.”

Ken smiled. “You never know.”

“That’s right. You never know.”

Ken paid Dusty Hill by check, then drove away with the car. He began to ponder his next move and whistled as he did so. He
couldn’t wait to get home to make another phone call, this one to Buck Morrison, co-owner of Candlewyck Speedway.

The earliest he could use the track was on Monday, Morrison told him. The morning trial runs and the afternoon races on Saturday
and Sunday tied up the weekend.

Ken rushed through breakfast on Monday
morning, then drove the pickup, with Li’l Red on the trailer, to the track. Janet begged to go along with him, so he took
her. He had a feeling that when she came of age she might try racing, too. She showed a lot of interest in it.

An overcast sky promised rain by the time he swung through the open gate and he wished it would hold off till he got in a
few passes. He drove up near the timing tower where Buck Morrison’s red pickup was parked. Buck and his partner, Jay Wells,
were probably up there in their office, getting the weekend’s racing results compiled for the newspapers or preparing for
next weekend’s races.

Ken wished he could have the Christmas tree out there on the track. Getting used to starting with it despite his cast would
be good practice. But he knew that neither Buck nor Jay would drag it out of the building and set it up for him or anybody
else.

He unloaded the Chevy and drove it to the staging lanes. It purred like a cat, and the brakes responded quickly and smoothly
to the slightest pressure.

He got out, put on his firesuit, gloves, and helmet, and got back into the car. He buckled his seat belt, then looked at Janet
and smiled.

She raised two fingers, said, “Good luck,” and backed away from the track. A rising wind stirred her hair.

Ken drove the Chevy up near the number one staging lane, where he sat for a moment while he listened to the purring engine
and looked down the long ribbon of asphalt ahead of him. He tried to visualize a car on the lane next to his, engine buzzing
like a chain saw, its driver bent on getting that all-important start.

He set his cast-laden leg in place, and settled his right foot on the gas pedal. For a second he glanced at the ash-gray sky.
No rain yet, but it looked threatening.

He jammed on the gas pedal a couple of times, and each time the Chevy bolted forward a few feet, its rear tires getting a
good bite of the rosin-blackened surface.

Then he was in about the spot where he would be if the Christmas tree were set up. He paused a minute, took a few deep breaths,
and got ready.

One…two…three! He hit the gas pedal and the car took off. Its front end leaped, wheels almost leaving the asphalt, yielding
all power to the wide-tired, spinning rear wheels. The front tires were regulars and a little used. It wasn’t necessary that
they be the best, anyway. The
demand for the all-out zip and power came mainly from those slick, giant babies in back.

Then the front end settled down and Ken felt the brief impact and the jar of the steering wheel. The car swerved to the left
just a little and he righted it gently. Then he glanced at the speedometer and saw the needle quivering at the 104-mile-per-hour
mark. How many seconds was that? his mind quickly asked. Thirteen? Fourteen? In that neighborhood, he assumed.

He touched the brakes and smiled as he felt them take hold. He pressed harder, and the car slowed up and then stopped on a
dime as he gave the brake pedal a final thrust. All this time he had scarcely thought of the cast on his other leg.

“Good ol’ Rooster,” he said aloud, smacking the steering wheel with affection. “Well, now for another shot.”

He drove back to the number one staging lane, shouting, “How does she look?” to Janet as he rolled slowly past her.

“Just great!” she cried.

He ran the car again and again, each time feeling that he had done better than the time before. It was nearly noon when he
decided that he and the Chevy had had enough. The overcast sky had been slightly burned away by the sun, which
glowed like a dim yellow ball behind fragments of clouds that flowed in front of it. It hadn’t rained and it wasn’t likely
to.

They returned home and, because Mrs. Oberlin was working and would not be home till shortly after four o’clock, Janet fixed
lunch for Ken, Lori, their father, and Dana, who had pulled into the driveway only seconds after Ken.

“Well, had her on the track?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How’d she do?”

“Just fine.”

“You didn’t have trouble with that bad leg?”

“Not a bit.”

Over lunch he explained what he’d like to do. He’d like to race Li’l Red as soon as possible and he was going to ask Dusty
Hill to sponsor him.

“Why Dusty?” Dana wanted to know.

“Because he can afford it,” Ken said. “He’s got a parts store and a garage. And, as far as I know, he hasn’t sponsored a driver
in a race this year yet.”

He looked at the faces around the table for a reaction. His father’s eyes came up from beneath tired lids and fastened wearily
on him.

“I’m not too crazy about your racing, you
know that,” his father said. “And neither is your mother.”

“It’s safe, Dad, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Ken tried to assure him. “It’s not like the oval races, or the Indy
500.”

“Safe? Your brakes gave once, didn’t they?” his father reminded him, a dark glint in his eyes. “What makes you so sure something
else won’t happen the next time? Or the next?”

“There’s some risk, sure, Dad,” Ken replied quietly. “But anything that’s worth shooting for is risky.”

He loved his father very much, but there was that bit of overcoddling that he couldn’t stand. His father still treated him
as though he were a little kid.

Ken knew it stemmed from his earlier years—before he had reached his teens—when he was so shy he played mainly by himself,
or with his sisters. He and Dana had seldom played together Dana was much more outgoing than he, and had a lot of friends
in the neighborhood with whom he’d rather play.

He glanced at his sisters now and smiled as he saw reassurance on their young faces. They were both for him one hundred percent.

“What do you think, Dana?” he asked his older brother. “You for me or against me?”

At one time he didn’t care what Dana thought. He was sure, ever since the will had been read, that his brother resented Uncle
Louis’s willing the car to him. Nonetheless, Ken wanted his brother’s approval.

“I’m for you, brother,” Dana answered, a cynical smile on his lips. “After all, what else in this world do you really care
to do, anyway?”

Ken prickled, but kept his temper. “Maybe lots more than you think, Dana,” he said, and wished he had kept his mouth shut.

Two days later he drove the pickup to “Hill’s Automotive Parts,” Dusty’s store in the Wade Mall. He arrived early, hoping
to get there before the customers started to come in, and found the owner in less than a cheerful mood near the rear of the
store. Dusty was shoving some of the larger parts on the floor from one place to another, doing it angrily, as if it were
a job he detested.

A bell over the door had clanged as Ken entered, but Dusty either hadn’t heard it or was deliberately ignoring it.

Ken walked across the floor, skirting a display of clutches and brake shoes, and paused a short distance away from the store
owner.

“Be with you in a minute,” Dusty said, continuing with his work without glancing up.

“That’s okay, Mr. Hill,” Ken said. He steadied himself on the crutches, letting the cast-covered leg rest on the floor.

Dusty stopped working then and looked up at him. Sweat glistened on his face. “Oh, hi, Ken,” he said. “Didn’t know it was
you. How you doing?”

“Okay.”

Dusty bent over and started moving parts around again. Ken watched him, suddenly realizing that something was different about
the place. It wasn’t the change Dusty was making, either. It was something else.

In a moment he realized what it was. The big 350-turbo engine that had been sitting near the center of the floor was missing.

“Did you sell that engine, Mr. Hill?” Ken asked.

“Wish I had, kid,” Dusty said grimly. He straightened up, took a handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped the sweat
off his forehead. In his mid-forties, his hair was still dark, but receding. “Some rot-bellied devil broke in here last night
or early this morning and stole it. That’s well over a thousand bucks, you know that?”

N
OTHING ELSE
was taken, Dusty told Ken. Just the engine.