Fastback Beach (5 page)

“Do they ever do damage to the cars, like twist off an aerial or scratch the paint?”

“We haven't had any of that kind of trouble. I think people really respect these old cars and try to be careful, but we keep a close eye on our vehicles.”

I'm on the crew! Just like being on the Duke's Team.

“My dad's car was a Chevy Nova,” I inform Ned. “The Team modified it into a hot racing stock car. It was painted bright purple with yellow lettering. It was called
The Purple People Eater
, after a song.”

“Miles, I know you're going to become a real hot-rodder,” Ned says. “Poor lad. It will keep you broke, and working day and night, your whole life!” But he smiles when he says it.

By midafternoon the heads are off. We've got two weeks to get the car running.

“I'm sure the guides are good,” he says. “We'll have to replace the seals and we'll check the push-rods and rockers. Did you talk to your shop teacher about grinding the valves?”

“Sure did. No problem as long as I work on them after school under his supervision.”

As we pull the valves Ned asks, “Any plans for this summer?”

“I'm hoping to score a job of some kind. My girlfriend, Kenny — Mackenzie Mo-rash — has a job waitressing at Pelican Beach Resort at the lake. Maybe I can work at the marina keeping the rental boats running.”

“Your girlfriend is Ace Morash's daughter?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

Ned laughs. “Since he was a hot-rod kid — but he's a solid businessman now.”

“Yeah, and still a good guy.”

Ned laughs. “What do you plan on doing when you graduate next year, Miles?”

“I'm not sure,” I reply. “But I hope that fast cars are in my future, same as in my past.”

I can still hear the roar of the crowds, cheering The Team to the finish line. The checkered flag waved. The Team had won. Our pit was suddenly overflowing with people. Everyone wanted to get The Team's autographs and pictures.

“Here's the real hero,” Duke said, holding me by the shoulders in front of him as flashbulbs popped. “Miles, my son, our mascot, he brings us good luck.” A blonde-haired lady leaned down and gave me a peck on the cheek. “For continued good luck,” she said.

My picture was in the paper next day, standing with Dad's hands on my shoulders. The blonde lady was kissing me, and another beautiful lady was kissing Dad. Mom opened the front page of the Sports section … and Dad left a week later.

“Hey, man, let's go!” Larry calls from his car.

Kenny and I are sitting on the curb in front of the school, waiting for Ned.

“Can't tonight, Lark.”

“It's your call, man.”

Larry's car has an automatic transmission and his big trick is to apply the brake and gas at the same time. This makes the engine roar and the car kind of twists up. I hear
some kids laugh as they watch, half-hanging out classroom windows.

Megan grabs my arm as she rushes past. “Come on! There's room for you and Kenny in the back!” She attempts to pull us along.

“Sorry, we've got some work to do in the shop.”

Four others in the car groan and jeer. “Trying to make the honor roll?”

“No, we've got some extra mechanical work to do,” Kenny says.

“Yeah? What?”

“We have to grind some heads,” she says before I can stop her.

Larry tells his passengers to shut up and leans out the window with a sudden look of interest on his face. “You're doing the heads for the
rod?
Catch you later then.” Larry blasts off.

When Ned arrives I introduce him to Kenny.

Ned shakes her hand. “Hello, I'm Ned Barnier.”

“Hi. My dad has talked about you.”

“He has?” Ned looks pleased.

Kenny nods. “Sure. You're one of the original hot-rodders around here.”

“Are you like your grandfather—born with a wrench in your hand?”

Kenny grins.

We go back to the shop to meet our instructor, Mr. Santonio.

“Well, Ned Barnier! It's a privilege,” Mr. Santonio says.

“You know each other?” I ask.

“Everyone on the hot-rod scene knows Ned Barnier. We watched him run at the Shepard drag strip in the '60s. And I've seen that little '37 coupe of Ned's at events.”

We get to work.

“While we have these heads apart let's measure valve-stem clearance,” Ned says to his two eager students.

We use a micrometer to check the valve-stem wear on every valve by measuring a worn and unworn section.

“One-thousandth wear is okay, “Mr. Santonio says. “Two thou' is borderline.”

They're fine. Now we set each head up on a machine to mill out the seats.

We become so involved that nobody notices the shop door open. Suddenly Larry's head is joining ours over the bench. Mr. San-tonio glances up at him. “Hmm, the cat came back. Thinking of registering for classes again, Larry?”

Larry grins. “You never know. This kind of stuff might inspire me.”

He watches as I carefully cut out the valve seats.

“Good work,” Ned says.

I feel like a surgeon.

Mr. Santonio introduces Larry to Ned. Larry almost falls over himself saying how honored he is to meet him. Ned appears wary.

“Larry, you want to see the new Stellite seats?” Mr. Santonio asks quickly. “They're going to fit right into the holes that Miles is cutting. Hard to believe these cost $150.”

“Gee, a little box of metal rings costs that much? That motor must be worth a few grand!”

“Yeah, you can easily spend $3,000 or $4,000 on an engine.”

I don't like the glint in Larry's eyes.

Our next job will be to press in the new valve seats, but we've done enough for tonight. We make arrangements for the next session.

“Wow,” Larry says as we leave the school. “Cool engine. Bet it'll really wail!” Larry climbs into the New Yorker and peels out.

Kenny and I walk to my place.

Mom really likes Kenny, and I'm glad. Mom and I have been depending on each other for a long time, six years to be exact, from the day Duke pulled out.

Winning that stock-car race was the beginning of The Team going professional, and the end of my family. We trailered the car back to the shop and by then I'd had enough. I'd been in the sun all day and was burnt and tired and hungry, but The Team had to celebrate. Carloads of people arrived with lots of noise
and booze. There were bags of chips and I drank some pop intended for mixed drinks — but it was no place for a kid.

About 9:00 that night I was asleep on an old car seat at the side of the shop, a coat thrown over me for a blanket, when Mom's voice woke me. She'd come to get me and found Dad and his friends all partying.

“Don't let me spoil your party, Mr. Big Time, but our son has to go to school in the morning.”

I got up and stumbled across the shop floor. When we got home I showered and fell into bed, but awoke at dawn to screaming. I was ten years old, tough and didn't cry much, but I knew my dad was leaving and I lost it. I soaked the pillow.

Duke tried to explain when he left that it would only be for a little while, until he and Mom sorted things out. I stood there noticing his black boots were shined up and his suitcase packed and ready to go. He reached out and shook my hand.

“So long, kid. See you soon.”

I had nothing to say.

I tell Kenny all about this. She's cool, encouraging me by listening. I finally run out of words.

Kenny lays her head on my shoulder. “I love you, Miles.”

I stroke her hair and we stay that way for a while. Then she says, “What about you and Larry? How did you and Larry get to be friends?”

“Larry has been my friend since first grade,” I say.

Larry was a fun kid in school. The Lark, we called him. He'd whistle and hum songs, and the teachers were always telling him to be quiet, but he couldn't quit. It was a riot.

He and I shared lots of stuff including the fact that his home was breaking up too. But it was Larry's mom who left with his little sister, and he just had his dad. We sometimes joked about our two left-behind parents getting together, but we both knew
that wouldn't work. Larry's dad was laid off from the chemical plant more than he was employed, but he was a union member and wouldn't take anything else, so things weren't too rich over there. That's when Larry went looking for some action.

The first time Larry stole something and “fenced it,” he shared the news with me.

“Miles, it's easy! Spider lives across the alley and he showed me how. Car parts, that's the best gig. Can't be traced and people always want them.”

“Car parts? From where?”

“Stores. Parts places. Cars parked on the street. He's even getting a tow truck so he can haul away any car that he wants. Nobody stops a tow truck! Spider knows. So I get the things Spider lists and he pays me cash.”

“He probably pockets most of it.”

“So?” Larry's eyes narrowed. “He has the
important
job. He's the one who'll get in trouble if he sells parts to an undercover cop or something. He's the one who takes the risk.”

Man, I thought to myself, does Spider ever have the Lark in his web.

Larry stopped singing when he started hanging around with Spider. He became secretive and distrustful. His marks dropped and he quit school. The Spider won.

The Lark doesn't show up at the shop the next night, a bad omen.

“Larry seemed to be quite interested,” Mr. Santonio says. “You know, that boy showed real talent for bodywork and paint. He turned in some nice class projects before he dropped out.”

Over the next few nights we install the seats, grind them and then Kenny and I share the work of fine-grinding to fit the valves into the seats. She has definitely inherited Ace's skills, and Ned admires the care and attention we give to this exacting work.

It's great working with Ned. He never loses his patience, and he takes the time to explain details. He gives me books on rebuilding
small-block Chevy engines and tells us about older engines he's worked on. I'm surprised a person can remember that long ago and I say so.

“The 1950s and '60s were wild times for cars,” he says. “Then interest in hot-rod-ding seemed to fade away a bit in our group. We had to concentrate on practical things like mortgages and families.” He laughs. “But when we got our ‘homework' done, the old dreams came alive again.”

Great for me. And Kenny.

On the morning of the Show and Shine I'm wide awake.

Mom starts the coffeemaker while I toast Pop-Tarts. The toaster works perfectly.

“We've worked our butts off to get the car running and looking great,” I tell Mom. “Wait 'til you see it! Ned's got his license back and he's picking me up in the rod!”

“That's nice. Miles, I think Jeff should
enter his car in the Show and Shine. He has a nice new Volvo and he waxes it every weekend.”

“I know.”

“What's wrong with that? He loves his car, too.”

“Mom, if you or Jeff don't know the difference between a cool red '37 Ford hot rod and a brown Volvo …” I hear a car outside. “Ned's here!”

I race out the door and Mom follows. But instead of Ned in the driver's seat of his red Ford, he's in the back of a police car.

What's going on?

Mom and I stand on the porch, speechless and staring, as two policemen get out of the car. Ned stays inside.

“Miles Derkach?”

“Yeah,” I answer cautiously.

“We would like to ask you some questions about the theft of a vehicle last night or early this morning. Can we come inside?”

Mom steps up. “I'm Miles's mother. He was home all evening!”

I can barely speak past the lump in my throat. “What car?”

“Mr. Barnier's 1937 Ford coupe,” the policeman says.

I lose it. I run to the police car. My suddenly blurred vision makes it hard to find the door handle, but I do and yank open the door. “Ned! This can't be happening!”

Ned won't meet my eyes. “It's gone, Miles.”

We go inside and Mom makes coffee while we learn what happened. Ned heard some noises late last night, but his medication makes him groggy and he didn't get up to investigate. When he went out to the garage at 7:00 this morning the hot rod was gone.

“And you think Miles had something to do with it?” Mom asks softly, looking at Ned.

“I don't want to believe it, Mrs. Derkach,” Ned says. “It's just that the people he's friends with … I thought he might be involved or know something.”

“I swear I don't know anything about
it.” I'm shaking all over, making what I just said sound pretty feeble.

“Have you any ideas who we might contact?” the policeman says.

Larry the Lark. He's got to be involved. I know he's jealous of the time I've spent working on the rod.

“I don't,” I say. “But I swear I'll find that car.”

“If you're involved you will have violated your probation. A
very
serious matter.” The officer lets that sink in. Then he adds, “We'll be contacting your probation officer, Ms. Kirkpatrick, whose car was
also
stolen recently. Interesting coincidence.”

“What's going to happen?” Mom is near tears.

“First we'll take Miles to the station for a written statement. Then we'll put an APB out for the missing vehicle. It shouldn't be hard to spot!” the cop replies. And that's it.

We leave the house. Ned and I get in the backseat but don't look at each other. I've never felt so terrible.

At the station I compose the best essay I've ever written. I explain how we worked on the car, how important it was to both of us. I write down everything except my last conversation with Larry. I don't mention any friends at all.