A feeling of desperation took hold of him as he looked at the small crowd of racing fans standing around the pit stops, most of whom were friends of the drivers. The others had just come to see the trials. Now their attention was diverted to him and his little red car, and he felt hot and embarrassed.
He heard the sound of a car, looked in his rear-view mirror, and saw the speedway’s brown station wagon drive up behind him. The driver got out, ran forward, and wanted to know what the trouble was. Ken told him.
“Sit still,” the driver said. “I’ll get in front of you, hitch up a rope, and pull you to the pits.”
In less than ten minutes the little red Chevy was sitting next to the trailer in the pit stop, a sick piece of machinery that needed a top-notch doctor to get her back in running order.
Ken felt hopelessly stranded. There was nothing he could do but get Li’l Red on the trailer, haul her over to Dusty’s garage, and just hope that Dusty would let Rooster put in a new clutch. There was no other way. If Dusty didn’t go along with that, Ken was sunk. He could get a new clutch put in eventually, but when? It took money.
He looked up toward the timing tower that lay against a backdrop of cotton-white clouds and thought of calling up Dusty to break the bad news to him. He hoped that Dusty’d have Rooster drive over with the pickup and winch and haul Li’l Red to the garage.
Someone’s face was up there in the window, shadowy eyes peering down at him.
Ken looked away, his feet like lead weights, and started toward the building. Just then he heard running footsteps behind him and, as he turned, a voice said, “Hey! Need some help?”
“Dana!” he exclaimed, surprised at the sight of his brother. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to see you drive. What do you think?”
Ken smiled, perplexed. He still couldn’t believe that Dana would ever go out of his way to see him drive the Chevy.
“What happened?” Dana asked again, peering through amber sunglasses.
Ken told him.
“Oh-oh. What were you going to do? Call Dusty?”
“Yes. What else?”
“Don’t,” said Dana. “He might start to lose faith in you and the car and drop you. As a matter of fact, he’ll find out anyway about your car breaking. I saw Dottie in the stands.”
Ken sighed. He turned slowly, let his gaze sweep over the grandstand seats on the west side of the field, and saw some fifty spectators sitting there.
“Never mind,” Dana said. “She’s hard to see, even in that small crowd. But she’s there.”
“I guess she’s interested to see what Li’l Red can do,” said Ken.
“Don’t be modest, brother,” Dana said, grinning. “She’s here to see what you can do. Look, I know just the guy to fix this baby—if I can get him to break away. He might want to bring some parts and tools with him and will have to know what kind of car he’s going to work on. Got a pencil and paper?”
“In the glove compartment,” said Ken. “Just a second.”
He found a pencil and pad and began to jot down certain features of the car that he felt would help Dana’s friend—or whoever he was—to bring what he needed to fix the car.
He tore off the top sheet and handed it to Dana. Dana read it over quickly, then looked at Ken. “This should do it. Stick around. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He took off on a slow run, heading for the timing tower.
Ken remembered another time when Dana had gotten a friend of his, at his father’s suggestion, to check out the brakes on the little red racer. But that friend—Scott “Rat” Taggart—was no friend anymore.
Who else did he know who could fix a clutch?
Dana was back in less than ten minutes, saying that he had gotten the guy and that the information Ken had written down for him seemed to be all that he needed to have in order to fix the damaged clutch, or put in a new one, depending.
“Who is this guy who’s supposed to be such a genius?” Ken asked. “I thought Rooster, Dusty’s mechanic, was the only car genius in town.”
Dana smiled. “Phil Bettix, head mechanic at Troy’s Garage. But he can’t come so he’s sending one of his better men, an Otto Dirkson.” He frowned. “Be glad he’s sending somebody. I wasn’t sure he would.”
“What do you mean?”
Dana pushed the sunglasses up slightly on the bridge of his nose. “I met him through Nick. Now don’t worry,” he went on quickly as Ken’s eyes narrowed at the sound of Nick’s name. “Phil’s okay. He’s got a mind of his own and he plays a mean game of pool. I know. I played him one night and he trimmed the pants off of me.”
Ken didn’t press him. He had no alternative now, anyway, but to go along with Dana.
About twenty minutes later a grimy white pickup truck pulled up behind the pit stop, came to a shuddering stop on the cracked asphalt, and a guy in a pair of oil-smeared coveralls hopped out of it.
He looked at the red car, then at Ken and Dana.
“That the car with the clutch trouble?”
“Right,” Ken said.
The man nodded, then lifted a hydraulic jack off the back of the truck and immediately went to work jacking up the front end of the car. He lifted a creeper off his truck, set it on the asphalt, grabbed a handful of tools, then lay on his back on the creeper and rolled it under the car.
Ken looked at Dana. I wonder how long this is going to take? his eyes asked.
An hour and a half later Otto Dirkson, finished with the installation of a brand-new clutch, crawled out from underneath the car, released the jack, then got in the car and started it. He shifted the lever into the various gears and each time the car responded quickly and smoothly.
Without cracking the remotest smile he said, “There you are. Guaranteed to put you up front.”
Ken smiled, pleased with his assurance.
“Tell Phil I’ll square it with him,” Dana said. He took a bill out of his pocket. “Here. This is for you.”
Otto looked at the money, a ten spot. He started to reach for it, then withdrew his hand. “No, thanks. I—”
Dana pushed it into his hand. “Come on. Shyness will get you nowhere.”
The mechanic took it, and the face that Ken thought didn’t have a smile wrinkle in it, flashed a grateful grin.
“Thanks, mister,” he said. Then he turned to Ken. “That’s a new LK-ten clutch you’ve got in there, kid. It’s got six clutch fingers made of forged steel, a cover made of ten-gauge steel, and a twelve-bolt pressure plate. It all spells great performance. I know. I put one in my sixty-eight sports car.”
“Do you race it?” Ken asked.
“Used to, but now I’m just a Sunday driver.”
Ken and Dana helped him reload the jack and his other equipment onto the pickup, then waved to him as he drove off.
“Take care, you hear?” he shouted back at them.
“Will do!” Ken answered. He turned and looked at Dana. Their eyes met and for a moment an electric silence came between them. Ken wanted to say something. Just a thank-you seemed hardly adequate. But he didn’t know what else to say.
He put out his hand and Dana took it. “Thanks, Dana.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Otto.” Dana laughed, then took his hand from Ken’s and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on. Get in that little red baby of yours and show these jocks around here what you can do.”
Ken watched his brother’s back a minute as Dana walked away, suddenly realizing that he certainly owed him something now. Shaking his head, he approached the Chevy, got in, started it, and drove to the staging lanes.
Once again he was thrilled that Li’l Red was fixed and running—and within time to let him get in a few more passes.
He took his turn and blazed the tires down the 1320-foot lane, but he clocked in at only 14.59 seconds and 91.07 miles per hour.
It was a very disappointing run.
Heading back toward the staging lanes he tried to figure out what he’
d done wrong. Had he favored the new clutch? Babied it because he was afraid it might blow, too?
He got back in line facing number two lane, knowing he had to do much better or kiss Saturday’s race good-bye.
FOURTEEN
KEN RAN a couple of more passes, doing better each time by fractions of a second. He wasn’t fully satisfied, but he decided to call it quits for today. He felt exhausted and ready for a good, cool shower.
He was about to drive the Chevy up on the trailer when he received a visitor.
“Hi,” said a familiar voice.
“Dottie! Hi! I didn’t think you enjoyed drags that much.”
A light breeze fanned her hair. She was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans that hinted at her nice figure. “I love them,” she said. “What happened to the Chev?”
“The clutch blew. Had a new one put in.”
She frowned. “Who did the job? I know it wasn’t Rooster.”
“No. A mechanic who works for a friend of Dana’s did. I was going to call your dad but Dana thought I’d better not.”
“Why? Afraid Dad might let you go?” Dottie said, hitting Dana’s presumption right on the head.
Ken shrugged. “Dana was.”
“And you?”
“I thought of it, but I had no other choice at the time. I was going to call your father when Dana showed up.”
“Well, I can see where you and Dana might think that Daddy could possibly want to drop you, but I don’t think he would,” she said. She flashed a smile. “He likes you.”
He laughed. Asking her if she liked him, too, was at the tip of his tongue. But he restrained himself, then drove the Chevy up on the trailer and secured it.
She came up to him and showed him a couple of theater tickets.
He stared at them and then at her. “What are those for?” he asked.
“Daddy bought them for tonight’s play at Logan’s Dinner Theater,” she said cheerfully. “Something’s come up and he can’t make it. Would you care to go with me?”
“I’d love to. What’s the show?”
“The Sound of Music. Have you seen it?”
“Never.”
“Good. Can you pick me up at six-thirty?”
He thought a moment. “All I’ve got is this pickup and Li’l Red, you know,” he told her. “And I just use Li’l Red for racing. Hey, I’ll borrow my mom’s Mustang.”
Her eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong with the pickup?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. I just thought—”
“That I might be too high class to ride in it to a dinner theater?” She laughed. “I get enough high class rides in that sports car of mine. A ride in a pickup will be a welcome change.”
He grinned. “See you at six-thirty,” he said.
He picked her up almost on the minute. They arrived early at the dinner theater, ate, then watched the play, which Dottie later confessed she had already seen four times.
After the show Ken drove her home. He couldn’t think of when he had had a nicer evening.
He ran more passes on Saturday morning. His best clocking time was 11.87 seconds and 115.97 miles an hour. It qualified him easily for the afternoon’s Eliminator race, but he doubted that such a time was fast enough to win it.
Nevertheless, that afternoon, in front of a jam packed crowd of enthusiastic drag-strip fans, he won the first two runs—beating a Dodge and an Oldsmobile. The Olds had broken about a hundred feet from the starting line. Then he red-bulbed to a Camaro and came in third-round loser.
He could hardly sleep that night thinking about the loss. The red light was the bugaboo for all racers. Step on the gas a fraction of a second too soon and the devil would pop its big red eye.
On the following Saturday he was fourth-round loser, one round from being runner-up. His prize was a trophy and a check for five hundred dollars. Dusty shared Ken’s jubilation over Ken’s driving and the little red car’s great performance.
“I knew you could do it, kid,” Dusty praised him, perspiring as if he had driven the car himself. “One of these days you’ll come out on top and it won’t be long, either.” He walked around the Chevy, examining its tires. “Take the car to the garage on Monday. I’ll have Rooster groom it with four brand-new tires. These look pretty sick.”
Ken showed him the five-hundred-dollar check he had won. “Here’s my first big prize money, Mr. Hill. Shall we go to the bank so I can give you your forty percent?”
“Keep it,” said Dusty, waving the check away. “I’ll start taking my share out of your next winnings.”
Ken’s respect and liking for the man who had gotten to trust him increased tenfold. “Thanks, Mr. Hill,” he said cheerfully.
On Monday he trailered the Chevy to Dusty’s garage and Rooster put on four new tires. Then he took the car to the speedway to begin another week of trial runs and saw a new competitor: someone he hadn’t seen nor heard from since the theft of the engine from Dusty Hill’s store. Scott “Rat” Taggart was driving a sky-blue Hemi Volare with his name emblazoned on all four fenders and another name painted in huge fire-red script on the sides. Ken looked twice to make sure he was seeing right: Nick Evans.
He never dreamed that Nick would ever sponsor a driver. But, somehow, he wasn’t surprised that the driver he now sponsored turned out to be Scott “Rat” Taggart. Birds of a feather, he thought. He hated to think that Dana belonged to that clan. Maybe his brother would see the light someday and leave Nick Evans’s company for good.
He ran a few passes before he and Taggart could no longer avoid getting within waving distance of each other. At first their eyes met and Ken wondered whether Taggart would wave or speak to him. Without pausing too long he waved first. Taggart nodded in acknowledgment, then turned away.
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 wor
ld 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.
Drag Strip Racer Page 8
