Lure

by Brian Rathbone

  Rolling past what had once been a gas station and was now a detailing shop, Sam spotted their prey, and Shells wiped her fingers on her jeans. Sam donned her best dumb blonde look and pulled into the gas station. Bert Richmond leaned against the glassy surface of his '78 Z28. That style had never been her favorite, which was why she drove a '71 split bumper, her preferred style. Redneck Brian sat on the back of his Chevelle, and a deep blue Chevelle sat in front of a primered mid-50's Ford pickup.

  "Fill 'er up," Sam said.

  "Very funny," said redneck Brian. "Man, that thing sounds worse than usual."

  Sam suppressed a smile. He was going to make this easy.

  "She runs just fine. Faster than that shiny piece of shit," Shells said, aiming her thumb at Bert's car. "Sorry, Bandit." She said as Bert stood up straight.

  "You must be kidding me," Bert said. "That thing is roached. I'll eat you alive."

  "Tell it to Sally Fields," Shells said. Again, Sam suppressed a smile. She had planned on goading him herself, but Shells was doing an admirable job of it.

  "That's some funny shit," redneck Brian said.

  "Rodger that, Iceman," Sam finally said, and redneck Brian laughed a little too hard.

  "I'd eat this thing alive," Bert said.

  "You want to put some money behind that bullshit?"

  "I ain't racing you," Bert said. "That thing'll probably spit chunks out the exhaust and scratch my paint."

  "Told you that shiny piece of shit had nothing for you," Shells said.

  "Oh, shit," redneck Brian said. "You gonna take that?"

  Now Sam knew that redneck Brian would make sure her plan came together. He gave her a quick wink when Bert wasn't looking.

  "If I tear something up, I actually have something to lose. That thing's already torn up. I don't need to prove anything to you. And I'm sure as hell not racing for pinks."

  "How about twenty-five-hundred bucks," Sam said, flashing the cash, knowing that Bert was loaded, that was one of the reasons it annoyed her and Morton so much that he didn't pay his bills.

  "You always ride around with that much cash?" Bert asked looking equal parts eager and suspicious.

  "Only when we want to eat some shiny Smokey and the Bandit bullshit for lunch."

  "I'm not talking to you, Stay Puff."

  Shells took one step toward Bert, and Sam held her back. Using that nickname for Shells was a good way to get an ass kicking, and that wouldn't make them any money.

  "If you've got any balls, throw 'em on the table, because I've got twenty-five hundred bucks that says my rust bucket will leave that shiny piece of shit in the dust. Put up or shut up."

  Even redneck Brian couldn't seem to come up with something to say into that silence.

  "I don't have that much cash."

  "What's that thing worth? Two, three grand? How about my cash versus your pink slip?"

  "Bitch, you're crazy. Wait here."

  Bert couldn't resist and his Z28 let out a throaty growl as it smoked the tires out of the parking lot and onto Main. Only a moment later, Officer Asshole sped by, gumballs flashing.

  "Wait here for Bert," Sam said to redneck Brian. "I'll meet you at the dike."

  "No way," redneck Brian said. "There's a football game in Pennsville tonight, Muttontown Woods."

  "I'll meet you there," Sam said.

  "That's cool. I can't wait to see this shit!"

  As quietly as she could, Sam crept out of town through the avenues. Once over Red Bridge, she opened the Camaro up a little bit and the wheel felt light in her hands, as if the front tires wanted to leave the road.

  "Shit, dude. This thing is nasty."

  "Morton knows what he's doing," Sam said. "I just need to take good care of the clutch and try not to abuse the rear end, and we should be fine."

  "You sure about this, dude. I mean, I know the car is badass, but do you really want to take this risk?"

  Sam thought about it for a moment. Following her gut, she said, "Yeah. I'm sure. Hold on. I'm gonna warm up the tires a bit and test the brakes."

  "Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Shells said, and then she sank back into her seat as Sam dropped the accelerator. Sam's face throbbed with the power and vibration, and when she snatched second gear, both were thrown back again, hard. The engine sang a glorious song, and the speedometer vibrated back and forth between eighty-five and a hundred-and-twenty. It felt like two hundred.

  "Oh my God, oh my God," Shells repeated over and over even as Sam applied the brakes. The steering wheel vibrated and the tires complained, ululating. "Oh shit. Don't do that again."

  "Sorry. I just wanted to check it out."

  "Abort, dude. Abort. That was insane. I thought she was gonna come apart. Straight up. No bullshit."

  "Don't worry, I'll let you out for the race."

  "You can't be serious. This thing is not safe at those speeds."

  "Just one run," Sam said. "That's all it's gonna take."

  "That's all it'll take, all right. I think you're crazy. There's no shame in backing out, you know."

  "This would be a hell of a time to start caring about my reputation," Sam said, a smell like burning oil grew stronger, and Shells was wrinkling her nose.

  "That doesn't smell good."

  "Just burning off some oil," Sam said. "It'll clear up. I usually don't heat her up that much, but she just needs to do one fast quarter mile, and I'll retire her from racing. I promise."

  "I just hope she survives. For all her quirks, I like this car. If you ever sell her, you'll come to me first, right?"

  Sam had already told Shells and dozens of others that she had no intention of ever selling her car, but nonetheless she said, "Sure." It just made things easier.

  Ahead loomed an intersection, normal in most ways, but when Sam made the right onto Acton Station road, the lines of tire marks became visible. For a quarter mile, the road was straight, and the race would end at the intersection that stood at the heart of Muttontown woods. Sam kept driving in that direction, making the left at the intersection and going around the block so as not to draw attention. Not everyone appreciated the hotrodders use of Muttontown Woods for racing.

  When they approached the next time, Bert and redneck Brian were waiting. Bert was lined up in the right lane, no chivalry there, and Brian was standing on the yellow lines. Sam could see headlights at the intersection where the rest waited to see the finish.

  Pulling up slowly into the left lane, all the while watching for headlights, Sam second-guessed herself as Shells opened the door and climbed out.

  "Good move leaving the Michelin man here," Bert said, and Shells gave him the finger.

  Sam's knees trembled as the adrenaline began to flow. Brian stood on the yellow lines, arms in the air. Beside her, Bert revved his engine, and it sounded good. Down went Brian's arms, and Bert's Z28 jumped before the redneck's arm reached the bottom of its stroke. Sam hit the throttle and dumped the clutch; the Camaro leaped to life and then immediately began to slow, the exhaust making a too deep noise. The steering wheel shook as Sam slammed her fist down on it, and the car roared back to life, just before Bert's back bumper cleared her front.

  Grabbing second gear, she heard the engine whine, and third gear hit almost just as hard. Ahead, Sam saw headlights, a pair on either side of the intersection, but another pair appeared over the hill, and they were coming straight at her. Winding out third gear, the intersection was approaching. People were jumping up and down and waving their arms in the grass alongside the road. The approaching headlights showed no sign of slowing. Mashing her foot down on the switch, Sam put on her high beams in hopes the other car would at least slow down. She could make it. She could finish the race and still have time to get back into her lane before the other car got there. It was a stupid thing to do, and she knew it. She could almost hear Shells yelling at her to stop, but something drove her foot farther down, and the Camaro responded.

  Bert pounded his wheel and Sam could see him cussing a
s she edged ahead of him, just as they reached the intersection. Immediately, she jumped hard on the brakes, the front end vibrating and the tires squealing, the smell of smoke now pouring in through the vents. The speedometer still vibrated from one hundred to a hundred and twenty-five. Bert slowed alongside her, and Sam cursed him for the fool he was. All she wanted to do was get in front of him or behind him, and he seemed to be trying to block her, trying to kill her. When it seemed he would continue braking, Sam double clutched, down shifted, and dropped the accelerator. To her horror, Bert accelerated alongside her, looking at her instead of the approaching car. Sam swerved toward him, and he moved right to avoid her. The oncoming car blew its horn as it had two tires in the grass to avoid them.

  Instantly, Bert dropped back under hard braking, and Sam moved back into the right-hand lane, her car taking longer to vibrate to a stop.

  In her mirror she saw Bert turning around and the rest converging near the finish line. After spinning around, Sam was glad to see that the car she'd nearly hit was continuing on, even if the driver did blow the horn and shake his fist at those gathered at the intersection.

  The Camaro's water temperature was creeping over 240 degrees, and Sam was glad to have the run over with; her knees were still trembling. As she rolled up to the finish line, Sam shut down the engine; it dieseled for a minute before shutting off, and then it backfired. The shouting reached her as she rolled to a stop.

  " . . . bullshit. She beat you."

  "She tried to run me off the road."

  "That was after the finish, and it still doesn't matter. She beat you."

  "I didn't get a good start," Sam heard Bert say. "I'm not paying her. She only beat me because she cheated."

  "Really? I cheated? How exactly did I cheat? Do you consider getting out of the way of oncoming traffic cheating? You're a freakin' moron, and I ought to kick your ass. Get out of that car and I will."

  "Race me again."

  "Why? I already beat you," Sam said.

  "You cheated. Race me again."

  "Fine. If that's what it's gonna take to stop your whining, then line 'em up."

  "I need to let my car cool down," Bert said, now a nervous note in his voice.

  "Line 'em up or pay up," Sam said.

  "Line 'em up or pay up, " the gathered crowd began to chant.

  "Fine," Bert said, and Sam almost wished he hadn't. She was still trying to figure out why she had agreed to race him again. Sometimes her anger got the best of her. The Camaro was still running hot, and the smell of burning oil hadn't gone away. The engine lopped at low RPM and sounded as if it would stall, yet it kept running.

  This time, Sam took the right lane, and Bert gave her a dirty look. Redneck Brian took his place on the yellow lines and raised his hands in the air.

  "What the hell?" Sam heard Shells saying, but before she could shout a response, redneck Brian dropped his arms. This time there was no delay in Sam's reaction. Beside her she heard Bert's V8 roaring as he was waiting until a higher RPM to shift this time, getting every bit of power he could from his thumping power plant. Sam drove her car the same as she had the last time, which was all out, no holding back. The dash looked like it might vibrate to pieces, and when Sam grabbed second gear, it chirped into Bert's open window before she pulled ahead, and she had him cleared by the time they reached the finish line. He moved to the right and tucked in behind her almost immediately, his lights bright in her mirror and making her fear he would rear end her, but his shiny car was far too precious to him for that to happen. Again they turned around and met back at the finish line. Redneck Brian was just pulling up when she arrived, and Shells leaped out of the passenger side of the Chevelle.

  "Dude, what the hell?" Shells said. "I thought you beat him the first time."

  "I did," Sam said. "But he needed me to beat him again."

  Bert flushed as laughter rang out from those assembled, and he threw an envelope at Sam's feet. "I hope you choke on it."

  Sam didn't care. She bent down and picked up the cold, hard cash. Bert fired up his Z28 and roared away.

  "That was badass," redneck Brian said, but then they heard the sound of other V8 engines sucking air and headed their way. "Time to go."

  Shells climbed into Sam's car, and then they were off, turning right, while others went left or straight. Gumballs jumped to life, red and blue lights lighting up the scene. Sam drove as fast as she could to the stop sign, and Shells was slamming on the imaginary brake pedal. Sam was hard on the real one, but her brakes were overheated, adding to the other burning smells in the car. After a rolling stop and a right onto Quaker Neck, she turned left and then left again. Not much farther ahead she turned left onto a grassy lane that led to a steep incline and railroad tracks. Once over the tracks, she shut down the engine and killed the lights. The V8 continue to cough and sputter and then issued another backfire.

  "Damn. Shit. Damn." Shells said from the passenger seat, and then they heard the passing roar of a State Police cruiser. It was a distinct sound that had Shells cringing, but it kept on going.

  "Maybe we should camp out here for a while," Sam said.

  "Yeah. I'm cool with that."

  Chapter 5

  "So you beat him good?" Morton asked.

  "Yup. Twice," Sam said with a satisfied smile.

  "Twice? Why'd you have to race him twice?"

  "Because he's an idiot and an asshole," Sam said.

  Morton didn't disagree with her.

  "Either way, here's your money back, and here's half of the winnings," Sam said.

  "You keep the winnings. I just want my parts back. Pull that thing in here and let's see how bad you cooked it."

  Morton let out a slow whistle when he got the hood up. "You weren't easy on her, were you?"

  "I didn't tear anything up, did I?" Sam asked, hoping she hadn't damaged any of the borrowed parts. She knew some of them had sentimental value from Morton's racing days.

  "You warmed it all up pretty good, and you were pushing oil, but it doesn't look too bad. I rebuilt your carburetor and cleaned up the manifold. When we put it back together it should run good. Go get some valve cover gaskets and we'll fix that while we're at it. Oh, and I have a present for you." Morton said, and he held out in his shaking hand a solenoid with a hand-made heat shield attached to it. "That's made of the same stuff they use on the space shuttle."

  "Thanks, Morton," Sam said. "I really do appreciate all of your help."

  "You're gonna do most of the work. I'm just going to stand here and orchestrate. Got it?"

  "Got it," Sam said, and Shells nodded firmly.

  * * *

  There was something about the feeling of grease under her nails, and the power of knowing that she could fix this roaring beast. She could have swapped the parts without Morton's guidance, but she always managed to learn something from him. Shells just soaked it all in, still a gearhead in training.

  "So now what?" Morton asked after checking the exhaust for leaks. Sam noted how nice it was to see her car start with the key, though she planned to keep the screwdriver under her seat, just in case the heat shield wasn't enough to keep the solenoid from getting cooked by the headers.

  Sam knew he was asking more than casually. Her future was a complete mystery; she had no idea where she would go after North Carolina, but she was fairly certain she wouldn't be coming back here. "Not sure," she admitted. "We're gonna go see Aunt Julie and drop off most of my stuff, and then it's off to North Carolina."

  "And what about after that," Morton asked, not one to be put off. "What happens when your vacation is over and reality kicks back in with full force? What are you gonna do then?"

  "I don't know."

  "Yes you do, you dummy. Now what are you gonna do?"

  "I'm gonna call you and say, 'Morton, I need your help?'"

  "Damn straight. Now give me a hug, and go easy on that old girl; she's had a rough life."

  "Yeah. I know. I haven't been easy on her," Sam said, ru
bbing the warm fender with fondness.

  "Neither was the fool who had her before you," Morton said, and he slammed the hood shut.

  "Thanks, Morton," Sam said, a tear threatening to come to her eye.

  "Go on, now. Have a good time on your vacation. You deserve it."

  It felt strange starting the car with the key, and the Camaro sounded odd to her ear without the ping of the exhaust leak. It felt good when she hit the accelerator though, even if she did keep it under 25mph in the terraces. Once out of town and headed toward Woodstown, though, she opened the Camaro up, and Shells rooted her on from the passenger seat.

  "Five-O," she said, and Sam saw the State Trooper at the same time. Looking down at the speedometer, she saw that she was still doing 75mph. Slowing quickly, her front tires still vibrated, and Sam knew she needed to do more work on the car, but there was only so much money. A speeding ticket wouldn't help.

  The trooper rushed by in a woosh, and Sam guessed that he was doing over 80mph. At least he was already engaged and not turning around, she thought.

  "Turn right up here and go by the old Rathbone farm. That way we can hit the WaWa on the way in. I need to grab some cash and I'm thirsty."

  It was out of the way and took her back to the scene of the crime, since the WaWa was directly across from The Corner Bar. Sam supposed it didn't matter since they were going to Cowtown to find her aunt, and that was directly across from the NJ State Police Barracks, Troop A. There was no getting around it.

  As she turned, she looked up the hill to where fenced pastures led to solid looking barns surrounding a stately white house with green shutters. There were no horses in the fields, and no signs of the hive of activity it once was. Sam remembered baling hay and riding horses and motorcycles, and time spent in the hay maw. Sam even blushed a little thinking about it.

  Rolling to the WaWa entrance, Sam dropped the Camaro into neutral and poked the throttle, waiting for the pops and backfires, but it remained quiet. After parking, she shut it down, and it immediately went silent.

  "No way," Shells said. "Morton finally got the timing right on this thing? Bitchen."