Drag-Strip Racer (7 page)

“Oberlin, I’m sorry, but you can’t run your car on the track,” came Buck Morrison’s ringing voice.

Ken stiffened. “Why not?” he shouted.

There was a pause. Then the face disappeared from the window.

His sisters stared at him. Janet looked shocked and surprised, and Lori sadly disappointed.

“Get into the truck,” Ken said, his jaw set.

They piled in. He got behind the wheel and drove up to the timing tower. His heart was pumping hard as he grabbed his crutches
and stepped out of the truck.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He entered the building at the rear of which another door led to the lanes. Inside were wind-and rain-battered signs regarding
racing dates, coils of cords and electric bulbs hung haphazardly up on the walls, and the electronic starting device—the Christmas
tree—standing on a tripod near the center of the wood floor.

Ken started up the steps that ran along the wall. A shadow moved across the wall and he glanced up to see Buck Morrison looking
down at him over the upstairs railing. Then the shadow vanished as Buck moved away.

When Ken finally reached the second floor he saw Buck sitting at his desk, reading one of the letters piled on it. Jay Wells
was on a phone at
another desk and a girl was banging on a typewriter at a third desk.

Between Buck’s and Jay’s desks were the public address system units and the console from which the Christmas tree was operated.

For almost a minute Ken stood there and no one seemed to notice him, even though Buck had seen him ascending the stairs only
moments before. The only sounds in the room were the staccato
tap-tap-tap
of the typewriter and the soft country music emanating from a portable radio.

“Excuse me,” Ken said.

Buck and Jay turned and looked at him. The girl kept pounding on the typewriter.

“Good morning, Mr. Oberlin,” Buck Morrison said.

“Morning.” Ken felt a tightening in his stomach. “Why can’t I use the track?”

Ken saw Buck flash a glance at his partner. Then he looked back at Ken. “For starters, we figured that it was best you didn’t
until you got that cast off your leg.”

“I’ve driven that car with the cast on, Mr. Morrison,” Ken said firmly. “You know I have. And the cast is on my left leg.
It doesn’t hinder me one bit.”

Buck shrugged. “We see it differently, Mr. Oberlin.”

He turned and picked up another letter from the pile in front of him.

“I don’t think you’re doing this because of the cast,” Ken said, trying to control his anger. “I think there’s some other
reason. What do you mean, ‘for starters’?”

The two partners looked at each other again, and Ken felt a message being exchanged between them. Then Buck turned back to
him and said, “We received a phone call that at least two guys won’t race if you’re going to race, too.”

Ken frowned. “Why not? What did I do?”

Buck cleared his throat, “This person swore that you’d been drinking before you got in the accident that resulted in your
breaking that leg,” he said tersely. “We just can’t take a chance that it’ll happen again, Mr. Oberlin.”

Ken stared at him. “Drinking? That’s a darn lie! My brakes blew! Who told you I was drinking?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Oberlin,” Buck said, and turned back to his work.

Ken grabbed his shoulder. Buck whirled, his eyes furious. “You heard me! I’m
sorry!
Now, will you excuse me? We’re all very busy.”

“Yeah,” Ken said, glancing at Jay Wells and the girl again. “I can see that very well.”

He bit down hard on his lower lip to keep his emotions under control, then walked back downstairs and got into the pickup.

The girls wanted to know why he couldn’t use the track and he told them only a part of what Morrison had told him; he said
it was because of the cast on his leg.

He didn’t want them to worry unduly over him.

K
EN WRACKED HIS BRAIN
trying to think of a place to practice driving his car. They were on the highway heading back toward Wade, but he didn’t
feel like returning home just yet.

Only the buzzing drone of the Ford’s engine and the hum of the tires on the road cut into the otherwise silent cab of the
pickup. They passed by fields of short-cropped grass, feathery-foliaged jacaranda trees, and tall, single-trunked palms. It
was while passing a field in which cattle grazed, placidly ignoring the white egrets that stood on their backs feasting on
bugs, that Ken thought of a place. The field just north of here, off Lychee Road. An old abandoned airport.

A smile creased his face as he stepped on the gas
and sped to the junction where Lychee Road turned off the highway. Four miles farther on they were there.

He stopped the truck in front of the gate leading onto the field, gazed at the weather-beaten hangar and the black-topped
runway, which had begun to sprout stubbles of grass, and smiled again. “Perfect!” he exclaimed. “Now if we can get permission
to use it.”

He turned the truck around and drove to a small ranch house about a mile back. The man who answered his knock was the abandoned
airport’s owner. Ken kept his mental fingers crossed as he asked for permission to drive his car on the runway. He wouldn’t
be there more than half an hour, he promised.

The man—a tall, rotund figure in overalls—glanced past Ken’s shoulder at the little red car sitting on the trailer and, without
blinking an eye, said, “Sure, you can. It’ll be the first time anything’s been on that runway in five years.”

Ken was instantly alight with excitement. “Thank you. Is the gate locked?”

“Just lift up the chain,” the man told him.

Ken thanked him again, then returned to the truck and drove back down the road to the gate.
He got out, lifted the chain from the fence post, swung the gate open on groaning, rusty hinges, and drove in.

He parked beside the old building, which he could see now had part of a damaged airplane’s fuselage inside of it. Then he
unloaded the racer, put on his firesuit, helmet, and gloves, and drove the car onto the airstrip.

Sitting behind the wheel again filled him with excitement. The sound of the motor was like an eight-piece orchestra joined
in perfect harmony, and he was the man with the baton.

He nodded to his sisters, who were standing by the pickup, watching him with eager faces.

Then he pulled back the gear lever and stepped on the gas. He pushed the pedal down only about two-thirds of the way. He didn’t
want to start off with full power just yet. Treat it kindly the first two or three times, he figured, then put the pressure
on it.

The Chevy leaped forward without a hint of hesitation, each piston responding like a musician the instant the baton signaled
the command.

Ken then pressed the accelerator to the floor and felt the car take off under him. Cracks in the runway made the ride slightly
rough.

He let up on the gas pedal and decided to pay
more attention to the surface of the road than to his driving. Hitting one bad pothole could blow a tire, buckle a suspension
rod, or damage a frame; so he wanted to take a good look at the runway before committing Li’l Red to it.

He drove the full length of the airstrip, figuring it was about three thousand feet long, and felt satisfied that it was safe
to race the Chevy on it without fear of trouble.

He slowed down, made a U-turn at the end of the runway, then raced it back.

When he started off again he pretended that the Christmas tree was there in front of him, just slightly off to the right.
He waited, mentally watching the lights flash on. Then—the green. And he stomped on the gas.

The Chevy shot forward like a sprinting colt. Its front end rose as if it were going to take off like an airplane. Then it
settled down, and the speedometer climbed…80 miles per hour…85…90…95…

The car went over the 100-mile-per-hour mark and Ken’s face glowed with pride as he felt two tons of power answering to his
command.

One hundred…105…110…. The needle jumped forward as if it had gone crazy.

Then he slowed down, turned around, and
raced back, pleased with the Chevy’s performance.

It wasn’t till he reached the other end again, and slowed down where his sisters and the pickup were, that he realized that
they had visitors. Two men were standing on the other side of the fence in front of a battered old car. They looked to be
in their sixties, wore nondescript pants and shirts, and were bearded.

One of them began waving at him. Ken smiled and waved back, although he wasn’t sure it was that kind of a wave.

He was right. The man began making other gestures, and shaking his head vigorously.

“They don’t want you to run your car here, Ken,” Janet said to him.

“What? Why not? It’s not their property. What are they beefing about?”

Ignoring them, he got back into position for another run. He stepped on the gas and again sped down the runway.

This time he saw the speedometer needle move up to the 115-mile-per-hour mark, and he was pleased. But he could only guess
at the time that it had taken to reach that speed. It could’ve been ten, eleven, or twelve seconds.

He made the U-turn, but this time drove back
slowly to the starting point. It seemed more natural now, even after only a couple of passes, to think of that end of the
runway as the place from which to start.

He got into position again and paused to catch his breath. Then he heard a cry and glanced toward the girls. Both looked panic-stricken
as they pointed behind them.

Ken looked toward the two men and stared in disbelief as he saw one of them pointing a shotgun at him. The other was pointing
a finger at him and shouting, “Get that doggone car off’n the track or we’ll puncture it with holes!”

Ken’s jaw slackened. He wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. It was like a scene out of an old silent movie.
One of those black-and-white Charlie Chaplin comedies he had seen on television that made him laugh so much.

But this was no laughing matter, he told himself. These characters were real. That gun was real.

“I got permission from the owner!” he shouted at them. “I’m not doing this illegally!”

“That ain’t the point!” the skinny one on the left shouted back. “We’re not going to stand for any more noise! That Francione
guy knows that and should’ve told you! If you start using that
field to drive your crazy, noisy car on it, the next thing we know the whole county will be using it! Why do you think we
made them other people close up their airport for?”

Ken listened as if the words, too, were coming out of a TV set. He sat and stared at the man who had done the talking, then
at the other, who had the gun trained on the car.

“Come on! Get that car out of here! We mean business, young fella, and if you don’t believe it, just make another dash down
that runway!”

Ken looked at them grimly. “I’ll get the sheriff!” he yelled. “Then we’ll see if I can use this runway or not!”

The men’s raw-boned faces creased into smiles. “Go ahead,” said the skinny one. “He’ll tell you what he told the others. We
got our rights. We’re against noise pollution and we’re the only ones who live close to this here field. So our word goes,
young fella. If you don’t believe it, go ahead. See the sheriff. But you’ll only be wasting more gas. And with the price of
it—”

Ken refused to hear any more, or become further involved with them. Their reasoning seemed crazy, but out here in the country,
who knew what rules applied?

He drove the car back on the trailer, got out,
took off his gear, and told the girls to get into the truck. Then he got in himself and drove off the field.

He gave the men a final cold glance as he got out to put the chain over the fence. They were still standing there, as if to
make sure he was really going to leave.

T
HIS TIME
Ken headed for home. Offhand II he didn’t know of another field he could run passes on, anyway.

His whole body felt as if it had been inside a sweatbox, and just removing the firesuit, gloves, and helmet didn’t make him
feel much cooler. The sun was still breathing hot air down on the land and there wasn’t enough breeze to stir a feather. What
he wanted more than anything right now was a long, cool shower.

Most of the conversation on the way home was between the girls, and all of it was about “those two old dumb guys” with the
gun. Lori said she would’ve called the sheriff, no matter what they had said.

“Isn’t it a crime to threaten someone with a gun?” she asked.

“I guess it is,” Ken agreed. “But what if they had used it? The sheriff would surely be on their necks if that guy
had
shot and filled Li’l Red with holes, but they might have shot me, too, and I wasn’t about to test their patience. I’d just
as soon stay clear of people like them. I’ll have to find another place to run Li’l Red, that’s all.”

They entered the city limits of Wade and were passing by Wade Mall when Ken recognized a familiar car coming toward him. It
was a blue Toyota with white trim.

A second or two later it swung toward the curb and the driver began waving furiously at him. It was Dottie Hill.

He glanced quickly at his sideview mirror, then at the rearview mirror, and saw no car within fifty yards of him; so he drove
to the curb on his side and stepped on the brake pedal. Rolling down his window, he called back to her, “Hi!”

“Hi!” she answered. “I’d like to see you! Can you stop at the coffee shop?”

“Sure!”

She smiled, ducked her head back into the car, and drove off. There was a driveway into the mall’s parking lot a few yards
farther down the street that she could turn into.

He checked the traffic again, found it clear, and
drove ahead till he reached the next area, where he made a left turn into the mall’s parking lot.

What does she want? he wondered. The last time he remembered seeing her was at her father’s auto parts store, when she had
walked out in a huff after learning that her father had changed his mind about sponsoring Scott Taggart.