Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years (28 page)

Coltrin raged on about the decadence of Southern California until
Diana forcibly changed the subject.

"I suppose you guys have been so locked up with automobile racing that you haven't been paying any attention to what's going on in
the rest of the world. Like maybe the movies?"

"The last one I saw was Birth of a Nation," grumped Coltrin.

"That's what I thought. But maybe I can give you a scoop.
There's this young actor my father says is going to set the world on
fire. A super-talent. His first movie opened in March. The
Steinbeck novel East of Eden directed by Elia Kazan. Then he shot
a picture for Warner's called Rebel Without a Cause and after that
he's in an adaptation of Edna Ferber's Giant. Then Rocky Graziano
bio-pic Somebody Up There Likes Me. His name is James Dean.
Remember that."

"Another flash-in-the-pan movie hero. Who cares?" sniffed Coltrin.

"You'll care because he's also a major racing talent. When he got
to Hollywood from Broadway, he bought an MG, then a Porsche
Speedster, and won his first race at Palm Springs. He ran very
quickly again at Bakersfield and then at Santa Barbara over the
Memorial Day weekend. He just finished Rebel and now he's in
Marfa, Texas, with Liz Taylor and Rock Hudson shooting Giant.
The studio has made him stop racing until production finishes in
September, but everybody says he's a terrific talent on the racetrack."

"Seems like he'll have run to more than three amateur sports car
races before anyone would recognize it," I said.

"Bill Hickman, his pal and the stunt driver on Rebel, says Jimmy is a natural. He grew up in a little Indiana town. Loved the Indy 500. It's
in his blood," she replied.

"Yeah, Diana, I've seen a million of these playboy racers come and
go," said Coltrin. "They buy a fast car, run against some wankers in a
few minor races, and when they get with the big boys they fade like
watercolors in the noonday sun." Said Coltrin.

"OK but they say he's the master of Mulholland. Nobody beats
him there," she snapped.

Mulholland. Coltrin's head jerked up at the word. Mulholland
Drive was a legendary serpentine road that ran along the rim of the
Santa Monica Mountains connecting Laurel Canyon in Hollywood to
Topanga Canyon in Woodland Hills. Nineteen miles of endless tight
corners and switchbacks that demanded maximum skill to negotiate
at speed. "He's quick there?" Coltrin asked.

"The best, they say. Unbeatable. So he's got to have talent."

"We'll see. You can run like a raped ape on the public roads and
still be a back-marker."

"Remember that name. James Dean," Diana said firmly.

"OK, OK," said Coltrin. "I'm installing his name in my memory
bank right now. The future world champion, Mr. James Dean."
Smiling, he pointed his index finger at his frontal lobe with a screwing motion and knocked back another glass of wine.

After I had doled out a wad of inflation-bloated lire for dinner, we
drifted back to the Albergo Real bar, where a crowd had gathered
around Enzo Ferrari. He was nearly a head taller than his admirers,
instantly identifiable with his shock of white hair and huge aquiline
nose. He spoke in grand gestures in a Modenese dialect that might as
well have been Swahili to me. Finishing off a glass of Lambrusco, he
yelled "andiamof' and headed for the front door.

"It's race time," said Diana. "This will be fun."

"The Biella Club is going to have a race," said Coltrin.

"The Biella Club?"

"A little social group of Ferrari and his cronies. Members of the
Scuderia. Tavoni, Ugolini, Amarotti, Giberti. They eat, drink, and
whore around together."

The little crowd burst onto the street, where a stack of bicycles
leaned against the Hotel Fascia. Ferrari was the first to haul his huge
frame aboard.

"Get on!" yelled Diana over the din, kicking off her high heels.
"Five laps around the square," she said, pedaling into the swarm.

Not having ridden a bicycle since my college days, I threw a leg
over and fell in near the back of the riders, now numbering nearly
thirty. I had read that Italians were mad for cycling and that several of
their greatest race drivers, including the immortal Tazio Nuvolari and
Giuseppe Campari, had begun their competition careers on bicycles.

Pedaling hard, I swept into the first corner around the square.
Traffic was mercifully light. A few bystanders began cheering as the
field huffed and puffed down the wide avenue. Breathing hard, my
stomach full of pasta, my bladder bulging with wine, I tried to keep
up. After two laps I saw Diana glide to a stop in front of the hotel. Up
front, half a lap ahead, Ferrari and a few lean young men pedaled
mightily for the lead. I could see Coltrin, his skinny frame leaning
into the handlebars, flailing to keep up.

As we slanted around a corner, Coltrin's bike clipped the curb and
he took a wild tumble onto the hard, lumpy bricks of the Via Amelia.
Taking advantage of his accident as an excuse to stop before my heart
failed completely, I jerked up beside him. He lay groaning and holding his left ankle. "Damn, I think it's broken!" he howled.

A cursory examination by myself and several interested pedestrians indicated otherwise. A bad sprain, but no breakage. Coltrin hobbled back to the bar, where he downed two tumblers of Scotch and
claimed to feel better.

The race completed, Ferrari and his crowd carried on a celebration at
the bar. In the middle of the melee I spotted Diana, leaning on the arm of a rotund, balding man I did not recognize. The party went on, with
me a silent bystander, until Ferrari and a small group of men broke away
and headed for the grand staircase leading to the mezzanine.

Diana suddenly appeared and grabbed my hand. "This will be
fun," she said, hauling me toward the stairs.

"More racing?" I laughed.

"Better yet;" she said. "There's a guy in town named Alessandro
deTomaso. Argentinian. Wild man. Escaped to Italy when he and
some other revolutionary nuts apparently tried to bomb Peron's
palace with a stolen airliner. Now he's here with his girlfriend,
Elizabeth Haskell. Ford family. Big money. Everyone thinks he's got
her on the line to back him in the car business. He and Enzo don't get
along, as you might expect."

"So what's going on?"

"More Italian messing about." The group, numbering perhaps ten,
including Diana and myself bringing up the rear, climbed more stairs
to the second floor, where Ferrari made a gesture for silence. Skulking
down a darkened hall, he stopped in front of room 202 and silently
signaled to a small man behind him. He was handed a wad of newspapers, which he carefully stuffed under the door.

"Oh my God, he's going to light them," whispered Diana in horror.

Ferrari scratched a large kitchen match and set the papers on fire.
Stepping back from the little inferno, a wide smile on his angular
face, Ferrari waited in silence with his co-conspirators until the
inevitable screams began issuing from inside the room.

The sound of furious stomping and the shrill voice of a woman
ended with the door bursting open. A naked man in his thirties, wellmuscled, his face stiff with rage, kicked the smoldering papers toward
Ferrari. Behind him, frantically draping herself in a bed sheet, was
Miss Haskell. DeTomaso made a move toward Ferrari, his fists
clenched and in prize-fighter's stance, until he realized he was completely naked in front of an audience now bent over with laughter.

"Bastard! Bastard!" DeTomaso yelled hysterically, followed by
curse words in a jumble of Italian and Spanish drowned out in the
hilarity of his tormentors. Realizing that the confrontation was hopeless, deTomaso slammed the door.

Easing toward the stairs, Diana said, "Now you can see that the
great Commendatore isn't quite the regal `pope of the north' that
some people envision." She stopped and, before I could say a word,
pecked me on the cheek and said, "Now it's past my bedtime. Early
day tomorrow at the Autodrome. Sleep tight."

She swept away down the darkened hallway, taking with her any
fantasies I might have harbored about being asked to follow.

My room was small and airless. I thought of my lodgings in Le
Mans, along with the sound and fury of the crash and the hysterical
cries of the wounded. But they were soon overwhelmed by more
pleasant thoughts of the beautiful woman who had brought me here.
Images of Diana Logan would not leave me as I tried futilely to sleep
and put an end to the erotic dreams about what might have been.

The next morning, as I finished a customary Italian breakfast of
hard bread rolls and coffee strong enough to power a locomotive over
the Alps, Coltrin hobbled in, employing a small cane to support his
swollen ankle.

"You look like you just spent two years on the Russian front," I
joked.

"Make it that and the Gulag and you'd be right," he said, lighting a
cigarette. "Where's Diana?"

"Haven't seen her. Maybe she left early."

"No score last night?"

"Niente."

"She's a hard one to figure."

"What's Castellotti doing here? I thought he was driving for
Lancia," I said, changing the subject, but still wondering if he had
been with her last night.

"Weird things going on. He was Ascari's teammate at Lancia, but
now there's word that the company is in deep shit financially and,
with the death of Ascari, the owner, Gianni Lancia, is rumored to be
quitting racing. Rumor has it he'll turn over the race cars and equipment to Enzo. That would be a godsend, because his current cars
aren't worth a shit against the Germans."

"I thought all the Ferraris were world-beaters. That's what you
hear in America."

"His Grand Prix cars are rejiggered versions of a four-year-old
design. And Mercedes-Benz is cleaning the table. Enzo is in a panic.
Worse yet, he's about to lose his long-term tire contract with Pirelli. I
think Castellotti is coming back with the Lancia deal. That could save
his ass."

There was a guttural rumble outside the window, and a carbinari
began waving traffic to the side of the street as he tooted frantically
on his whistle.

"Here it comes, the big parade," said Coltrin.

"An Italian holiday?" I asked.

"Hell, no. Ferrari is headed for some testing at the Autodrome.
They're driving the car to the track."

"A race car on the street?"

"No problem here. They paint a prova number on the tail, meaning it's an experimental car, and drive the damn thing in the middle
of traffic. Like right now."

Snarling like a leashed tiger was a squat, long-nosed, single-seat
racing car, its wire wheels glistening in the morning sunlight.

"The new Tipo five-five-five Super Squalo Grand Prix car, out for
another test run," said Coltrin as the outrageous shape rolled up in
front of the hotel, its engine howling at high revs to keep its spark
plugs from fouling.

"Who's that driving?" I asked, spotting a gray-haired man with a
blue beret tucked over his ears.

"Bazzi. Luigi Bazzi. Ferrari's longtime shop chief. His best friend
and confidant. The only really steady hand in the whole operation.
He'll drive the car to the track, but somebody else-maybe
Castellotti-will actually drive it at speed."

Directly behind the Ferrari race car idled a large Fiat four-door
sedan. In the passenger's seat was the unmistakable profile of Enzo
Ferrari.

"That's Ferrari. But who's driving?"

"His chauffeur, Pepino Verdelli. Been with him for thirty years.
Knows all his secrets. Ferrari seldom drives himself. After all, why
should a man of his stature go anyplace without a chauffeur?" Coltrin
asked, his voice thick with irony.

Behind the race car and the sedan came a ragged fleet of honking
automobiles. Among them I spotted what seemed to be Diana's
Mexico.

"That mob scene behind them. They must all be going to the
track," I said. "Is that Diana's coupe?"

"Yeah, all the press and the mechanics are headed out there, too.
That's Diana all right. She wouldn't miss a show like this. We'll
head out there in a while. They won't start any serious running for
another hour."

The Mexico drew up parallel with the window. Seated beside
Diana was Eugenio Castellotti. I stared in shock, trying to deny my
senses.

"Little Gino got himself a ride," chuckled Coltrin. "And you were
wondering what happened last night?"

My stomach churning, I tried to make light of the scene. "Well, I
guess he had to get to the track somehow. Better than taking a bus."

"A lot better."

Suddenly my interest in going to the Modena Autodrome disintegrated. It was the last place on earth I wanted to be. "I've changed my
mind. I don't think I'll go to the track. There's a ten o'clock train to Milan. If I catch it I can get a late-night flight to London. I'm wasting
too much time here," I said weakly.

Coltrin looked at me, his eyes squinted knowingly. With a crooked
smile he said, "So, of Gino's got himself a beautiful babe's Ferrari and
the best you can do is a coach seat on an Italian train. But you're
probably lucky. The more beautiful they are, the more trouble they
are. You can quote me on that."

As I checked out of the Albergo Real, I couldn't resist leaving my
business card. "Would you mind delivering this to Miss Diana
Logan's room?" I asked the concierge. And then Coltrin drove me to
the station and I headed back to California and an attempted re-entry
into the real world.