Fastback Beach (4 page)

Suddenly everyone's outside. Larry and Greg hold Spider back as he lunges at me. “You're dead, kid, know what I mean?” Spider says through a fattening lip.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and turn to Kenny. “Let's get out of here.”

In the semi-darkness of the lawn I spot
the glitter of steel. I bend and pick up the knife. It's his switchblade. One quick push on a button in the handle and the blade flies out, thin, sharp, deadly. I hold it in my hand so Kenny can't see, then close and slip it into my jacket pocket.

I take Kenny's hand and we walk across the lawn onto the street. I'll pay for decking Spider, but I still hold a couple of aces. I know who stole the Mustang. I know whose garage likely holds a big stock of hot parts and tools. I don't want to rat, but this is gonna get dirty.

Kenny and I stroll along the sidewalk. As we cross the bridge over Stony Creek I toss the switchblade. I hear it plunk into the dark, fast-running water.

Ned Barnier has given me a box of his old magazines. One of my favorite rods is
Lightnin' Bug
, a “T” pickup with the body channeled — lowered six inches over the frame. It's powered by a '52 Cad engine and turned a hundred in the quarter mile. Pretty hot for 1954! This car was in almost all the scenes of
77 Sunset Strip
, an old television show starring Kookie Burns.

I want to build one of these old-style rods!

I've been working for Ned for two hours a night after school and six hours on Saturday. He lines up all sorts of work for me — landscaping around the community hall, painting interior walls, and yesterday he had me check and oil the bearings on their furnace. He's impressed with how quickly I figure things out.

“When I had my stroke, they took my license,” he tells me, “but I'm in therapy. I'll get it back soon.”

“Maybe you'll make a rod run this summer yet,” Mrs. B adds.

“A rod run?” My ears perk up.

Mrs. B smiles. “Ned, I think it's time.”

He pauses for a moment. “All right. After lunch we'll take the wraps off the coupe.”

It's the coolest machine I've ever seen. All I can do is stare. The bright red paint and the body lines are beautiful. It sits just right.

He opens the driver's door and I look inside. The upholstery is red and white pleated leather. The dash is full of high-end gauges and a Sun Super tachometer. My mind flashes back to Larry's comment about there being lots of good racing parts. I feel a pain in my gut and decide that the Lark will know nothing about this car.

Millie goes over to the garage wall and takes down a sign covered in plastic. “These are the specs of the car, Miles. We put this sign up beside it at car shows.”

I scan the list: “1937 Ford coupe, '58 Corvette 283-cubic-inch engine, 270 horsepower.” I turn to look at Ned and grin. “Dual quad carbs, Borg-Warner T-10 four-speed, Hurst synchro-loc shifter.” This is a
thoroughbred
. “'57 Olds rear end, 3.70 to 1 ratio; '56 Ford F-100 front brakes, steering column and steering box.”

“The front axle is dropped four inches for a nice rake,” Ned explains.

It sits butt in the air like a greyhound at the starting line.

“Does it run?” I ask.

“I haven't run it for over a year. I want to pull the heads and freshen them up first. That's what I was talking to you about. Maybe you and I could do it together.”

“Sure,” I say.

“I'll pay you by the hour, myself,” Ned says. “Your community work is for the association. But this will be our project. You with me?”

“How fast will it do a quarter mile?” I ask.

“It'd probably do something around thirteen seconds,” Ned explains, “although this is a street machine, not a racer.”

“I'd love to own a rod,” I say, “but I don't have the money.”

“It doesn't take much money to get started, but it takes some scrounging,” Ned says. “I could help you scout around for a car. Do it like in the old days, build it while you drive it. You could even leave it stock, just lower it a bit and give it some cool paint. Later build an engine as a school shop project.
You could do some of the work here.”

I see a vision of me starring in an update of
American Graffiti
.

“Let's pull those heads!” I say.

I can't remember the last time I felt this happy, except for the time I spend with Kenny.

When I get home I'm going to replace the fridge bulb and fix our toaster.

Sunday brunch. Mom and Jeff still haven't got around to telling me their big news.

We eat mainly in silence. After dessert I slide back my chair. “Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” Mom asks.

“Out.” I head towards the door.

I hear Jeff's footsteps so I hurry down the front steps. “Miles, for your mother's sake …” He stands, hands on hips.

Mom comes to stand beside him at the door.

“Hey, Mom, I don't need a new dad.”

Then I'm down the driveway, running. I don't stop until I'm at the Dairy Queen three blocks away. I phone Larry, still panting.

“What's up?”

“Hey, bro. Where ya been?”

“Can you come and get me?”

“Yeah, sure. Where are you?”

I tell him and go inside to order a Blizzard.

The Lark pulls into the parking lot. I hear his tires chirp on the pavement as he brakes in front. The waitresses and customers all stare as Larry flings open the door of the restaurant and enters, grinning. He nods to the customers as if he's a visiting rock star or something and slides into my booth. “Hey, you look down, man! You lose your job or something? That old dude fire you?”

“Naw, I'm just sick from watching Mom with her new boyfriend.”

“Wanna scare him? We could do a little number on his car.”

“No! Aw, he's okay I guess. I just don't like to see some guy making Mom happy.” That sounds dumb. “Let's get out of here,” I say. We spin out of the parking lot, laying rubber.

It's a great day so we drive out to Fastback Beach. The place is named for the high sand ridges covered with clumps of dry grass that ripple from the hills down towards the beach. All our friends come here, while families go to Main Beach to pad around and build their sand castles. But today Fastback doesn't have much appeal. Too many bad memories of my last trip here.

“Nothing doing here today,” Larry says in a downer voice. “No one around.”

It's been like that a lot lately. I don't know what's happening. Fewer parties, fewer kids hanging out. Most have after-school jobs and are saving money for college.

“What're you doing this summer?” Larry asks.

“I guess I'll do some work for Ned.”

“Aren't your hundred hours almost up?”

“Yeah, but he's asked me to do some stuff on his car. He'll pay me.”

“What kinda car?”

And suddenly I'm telling Larry about the coupe. I'm partway through describing it before I remember I wasn't going to say a word about the rod to anyone. Larry looks real interested, though, so I go on to describe all the cool engine parts. “Ned wants to re-do the heads and get the rod ready for the Show and Shine,” I say.

I finally wind down. Larry throws his cigarette out the window. He hasn't said a word.

“What are
you
doing this summer?” I finally ask.

Larry gives me a foxy look. “I'm going to be attending a few Show and Shines,” he says evenly. “You can tell me all about the rods, who the owners are, where they live. Then at night you can come with me to scout garages. Should be able to bag some whizzy
parts. Thanks, pal. You've just given me my summer job.”

My breath catches. I glare at him, hard. “Anyone tries to lift parts off Ned's car or from the other hot rods and I'll turn them in.”

Larry's eyes burn. “Get out!”

I have lots of time to think as I walk back to the highway and stick out my thumb for a ride to town.

On Saturday morning I show up at the Barniers', on time, to find Ms. Kirkpatrick sitting in their kitchen.

“Hello, Miles,” she says. She smiles and holds out some papers. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Huh?

“Your hundred hours are up! And you've done very well. Mr. and Mrs. Barnier
give you all As for your performance.”

“You were marking my performance?” I look from one to the other.

Ned laughs. “Not on paper.”

I sit at the table wondering what will come next. Suddenly I recall something odd — I didn't see the Mercedes outside.

“Where's your car?” I ask.

A sad look comes over her face. “It was stolen yesterday from the parking lot at the mall,” she says. “And the thing is, it wasn't just an ordinary car. It was my father's. He left it to me when he died last year.”

I sit frozen, even though my hands are clutched tightly around the hot coffee cup.
That emblem would make a great belt buckle
, I hear the Lark say.

“Do the police have any idea where it might have gone?” Ned asks.

“They said it's likely in a big container being shipped to Russia or Central America.” Her voice chokes.

Voices sound in my ears …
good belt buckle … got a Slim-Jim … let's go!

Ms. Kirkpatrick blows her nose, snuffles a bit and takes a sip of coffee. “The police said that my job makes me a good target for something like this. I deal daily with people who … well, who know the ropes, the who and how of thievery.”

“And their friends sometimes aren't so quick to learn right from wrong,” Ned interjects.

I know my face must be burning. I can barely see the coffee cup in my hand. My eyes blur with the heat from my face, my ears ring and I can feel my blood racing, hear my heart pounding, and of course my feet are itching like crazy. I've got to get out of here.

I hear Dad giving me his version of fatherly advice.
On the short track it's every man for himself. You've got to understand the whole picture
. And Spider's words:
You're dead, kid, know what I mean? A slow learner
.

“Yes, sometimes friends aren't so quick to learn.” Ms. Kirkpatrick interrupts the whirl of words zinging through my head. I feel like she is looking knowingly at me.

“Are you feeling ill?” Mrs. Barnier asks me, care showing on her face.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Can we give you a ride home?”

“Sure. I'll make up my last few hours tomorrow or next week, whenever.”

“No problem.”

Ms. Kirkpatrick gets up to leave. “I'm driving a department vehicle,” she says. “No passengers.”

Fine with me.

I get into the backseat of the Olds and rest my head on the knitted seat covers. Mr. and Mrs. B take forever to get in and belted up. On the way home I close my eyes. I don't want to see the Lark or anybody.

We arrive at my house. I get out, thank them and go around to the back so they won't see me using my key, realize no one's home and feel they should stay with me. I want to be alone to think this through.

The house is cool and quiet. I go straight to the couch and flop.

When I wake up it's noon.

I go to the fridge, drink a half liter of juice and sit down at the kitchen table with the carton still in my hand. I need Kenny.

Sunday morning I show up at the Barniers', on time. After inquiring about my health, Mr. Barnier smiles. “A surprise today, Miles. After today your hours of community service will be completed. We'll be on our own time.”

I follow him out to the garage where he unrolls the cover from the rod, like a sculptor unveiling his masterpiece. The paint glows.

Ned lifts the hood. His sudden yell
makes me jump. He points, gasping. A mouse has made a nest on the intake manifold!

It takes a moment for Ned to regain his voice. I smother a laugh.

He turns and gives me my first order as his hot-rod mechanic. “Get that thing out of there!”

I do and we proceed.

“Okay, Miles, the first thing to remember is
Primum non nocere
. That's Latin. It means
First, do no harm
. Always keep that in mind when you're working on a rod. We'll remove the hood and lay these mats over the fenders so we don't scratch the paint. That's a $1,500 paint job!”

“Where do we start?”

“Our job today is simple. First, grab a pan and we'll drain the coolant.” I follow his orders. “Stick that drain pan underneath the rad and open the petcock. Undo the cap so it drains quicker. Disconnect the upper hose.”

Ned explains the engine parts, the modifications he made and the shape it's in after sitting a year, since his stroke.

I get totally involved. It's a privilege to work with so many handcrafted parts made just for this engine. I pull the machine screws and remove the valve covers. Then we take out the distributor.

“We'll pull the manifold with the carbs on,” Ned says. “Just disconnect the lines and linkage. This engine has less than 20,000 miles on it, but I think it has a leaking valve.”

“How would that happen?”

“Today's gas has no lead in it. The cast-iron valve seats won't survive the un-leaded gas.”

“How do we fix that?”

“The best fix is to install Stellite seats they use in the propane conversions. They're expensive, but they'll last forever.”

Next we drop the headers. We undo the bolts and they lay back.

“Now we'll remove the cylinder heads. You can do that. It's a little heavy for me.”

Before I know it, Mrs. Barnier is calling us in to lunch. We clean our hands and head into the kitchen.

“The Show and Shine is in two weeks,” Ned says. “The club expects to see about fifty cars there. It's going to be in the parking lot of the Mallory Mall. The crowds love these cars. You'll see a few thousand people turn up.”