Need for Speed (2 page)

These days, technology and the right mechanic could take a typical consumer automobile and double, or even triple, its engine's output to 500 horsepower or more. But that was just the beginning. Ultra-expensive vehicles built especially for this sort of thing—Lamborghinis, Ferraris, and Bugattis—could easily double that figure. With these cars, speeds of 200 mph or more were not unheard-of, making them blurs to people keeping to the speed limit on interstates or simply driving on city streets. The “unapproachable” speed, the holy grail of street racing, was somewhere around 250 mph. That would be traveling one mile every fifteen seconds. Like breaking the sound barrier in a jet fighter, such velocity in a car could be exhilarating. But it took only one wrong move, and the person behind the wheel would, more often than not, wind up dead.

* * *

Monarch was the perfect host for the
Underground Racing
program. There was a great mystique about him. He broadcast the show from a secret location, known only to him. His viewers could see he was in a glass booth, with a microphone and camera in front of him—but little else. The only clue to his whereabouts was the occasional sound of seagulls his followers could hear cawing in the background, off camera.

Monarch was a real man of mystery—mystery and a bad heart. It was rumored that he'd had a dalliance as a professional race car driver but his heart stopped like a watch one day, so he quit. Legend also had it that he'd sponsored a few Formula 1 teams for races at top venues like Monte Carlo. But even here he was said to be highly secretive, always campaigning under assumed names.

Beyond that, very little was known about him.

* * *

Monarch's streaming podcast was private, by invitation only, and he was very discriminating about whom he invited to his party. Still, he had a huge, if discreet, following. Little Pete was one of his biggest fans.

“He's really on fire today,” Little Pete said now, turning up the iPad's volume so the others in the garage could hear.

Suddenly, Monarch's voice was bouncing off the bay walls.

“Caller, listen, caller!” he was barking, fast-talking as always. “Did you just call me the Oracle of Delphi? The De Leon is my race and it's beautiful! And you can bet that crack in your ass that I
am
the Oracle of Delphi when it comes to who gets invited to race De Leon and who doesn't! So sew that crack cuz you're talking out of your ass and I'm not listening.”

The four members of the Marshall team laughed. Monarch was the Howard Stern of the underground racing world. And he was one seriously funny dude.

“By the way, I have some local results,” Monarch's voice crackled again. “The Flyin' Hawaiian just took down Steve Heavy Chevy in the Arizona desert. And the word is, it wasn't very pretty. Now remember that rivalry isn't over yet, you cretins. But the Flyin' Hawaiian
did
just get closer to an invitation to this year's De Leon as the wildcard. What's a cretin, you ask? If you weren't such cretins you'd know what a cretin is! De Leon is in one week, motorheads, so keep the need. Keep the motherfucking need for speed!”

The De Leon was the Super Bowl of underground racing. While the entrants were always hand-picked by Monarch himself, the participating cars were never less than the multimillion-dollar Lamborghinis, Bugattis, McLarens, and Saleens. The race was held in a different place every year, the location kept a closely guarded secret until shortly before it began. It was almost always a brutal, cutthroat competition whose winner, if there was one left standing, got to keep all of the expensive cars that managed to cross the finish line. The highly illegal race was always the bane of whatever law enforcement agency whose jurisdiction it happened to fall under, and street racing fans counted the days before the next De Leon would be run.

* * *

The Marshall Motors mechanics stayed entranced by the show even as they continued to work. All except Joe Peck. As he looked through the glass doors of the garage, something caught his attention outside.

A sixtyish-year-old man in a business suit was talking to the garage's young owner, Tobey Marshall, the boy depicted in the photographs. Tobey was in his mid-twenties now, tough-looking but handsome and in good shape. He could've been a dead ringer for actor Steve McQueen.

But right now, Joe Peck sensed he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Joe moved closer to the open bay doorway and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“I loved your dad,” he heard the older man telling Tobey. “He was a customer of our bank for thirty years, so this is very hard for me. But you're six months behind on the mortgage for this place and there's nothing more I can do to help you out. We'll have to foreclose on you if you can't come up with the payment next week.”

Tobey didn't reply. He just nodded and awkwardly shook hands with the man. Then he watched in silence as the man got in his car and drove away.

As soon as Tobey walked back into the garage, he realized Joe had been watching the conversation—and maybe listening in as well.

“Who was that guy?” Joe asked him.

“Just an old customer of my dad's,” Tobey replied quietly.

“I didn't recognize him,” Joe said.

“He may bring his car in next week,” Tobey added.

“Oh yeah? What's wrong with it?” Joe asked.

Tobey took a moment, and then replied a little testily, “It's our job to find out, right?”

Joe studied his friend for a moment. Tobey's father was the reason Joe was in this business. He was the one who'd hired him as a kid to sweep the garage, and in the process, taught him just about everything there was to know about what made cars run—and run fast.

“Is your mind on tonight's race?” Joe asked Tobey.

Tobey just shrugged.

“Well, I want to get there early,” Joe continued. “Five cars are racing—so that means the pot will be like . . .”

“Like five grand?” Tobey said, finishing the sentence for him, and then adding a bit soberly, “Believe me, I know.”

* * *

It was Tobey's car on the lift in the garage's first bay. Built in 1968, the Gran Torino fastback was a somewhat ordinary vehicle at its inception, though, like Tobey, many enthusiasts had embraced it as a platform for competing either legally or on the streets.

Tobey's Gran Torino was well-known to street racing fans in upstate New York and indeed throughout the country. He'd installed a rebuilt 5.4 liter aluminum big block engine in it with fuel injection and a supercharger. Huge headers, exhaust pipes, and twin mufflers were added to the package, along with a six-speed manual transmission and an especially heavy-duty clutch. The car sat on four radial drag-racing tires, mounted on old– school mag wheels, and had cobalt blue acrylic paint covering its body with white racing stripes added tastefully along the sides and atop the hood.

The paint scheme and the striping made the car look both unusual and elegant, but most important, it was fast. Stripped of any needless or extra weight, it could go from zero to 60 mph in under six seconds, astonishing for such an ordinary design. What's more, its suspension had been improved through the skills of Joe Peck and Finn, so that it cornered like a dream, and was also excellent at drifting—that manner of taking a turn not in the usual way, but by oversteering so that all four wheels temporarily lost traction, allowing the car to go into a turn sideways in a kind of high-speed controlled skid. In the world of underground racing, a driver's talent at drifting spoke volumes about the driver himself. Tobey was one of the best in the country at it.

That was one of the reasons Tobey was so well-known in the street racing community. All those years, from crash 'em cars to present, he had put to good use. He had an instinct about driving, almost a sixth sense. When he started his car, he felt it become a part of him, like some fighter pilots say when they climb into their airplanes.

And he'd always raced for fun. But now, after the visit from the man from the bank, he knew he might have to start racing for something more.

Two

IT WAS SATURDAY
night.

Traditionally, many of Mount Kisco's teenagers would cop some beer and head for Pride Rock for a drinking party.

But something else was going on tonight. Something somewhat secret. And it was happening at the Mount Kisco Drive-in Theater.

The sign at the drive-in's entrance was slightly misleading. It announced a car show, a ten-dollar entry fee, a BBQ, and some raffles. But something else was going to happen here. Something the cops hadn't been tipped about. People had started gathering inside the drive-in shortly after dark. Though scenes from
Bullitt
, one of the best car chase films ever made, were being projected on the drive-in's huge screen, the crowd wasn't on hand to watch movies, either.

They were there to see a real street race.

Or at least the beginning of one.

* * *

The drive-in's parking lot was jammed with spectators by the time Tobey arrived.

It was close to 11:00 p.m. and there was a drunken county fair atmosphere around the place. With everyone in good spirits, the crowd gladly parted to allow his Gran Torino to get through.

Inside his highly customized car, Tobey and his crew were tuned in to Monarch's show on Pete's iPad. They were about to get a big surprise.

The underground host had a caller on the line.

“Word is out that the De Leon is going to be held in New Hampshire this year,” the caller said. “Is that true, Monarch?”

“
You'll
never know,” Monarch snapped back at him. “Because you'd just tip off the cops—and no one wants that. No one likes a snitch! Am I right?”

The Gran Torino erupted in cheers.

“And, by the way,” Monarch continued. “The results from Austin just came in. Texas Mike has posted a win.”

Monarch took another caller. This one asked, “Why does Texas Mike have a shot at the De Leon and I don't?”

Monarch erupted. “Because Texas Mike's McLaren F1 is worth one point two million, can do 240 miles per hour, and he can drive!” he shouted. “And you and your rolling bucket of bolts can't. The Oracle has spoken!”

More cheers from the Marshall crew.

Monarch paused a moment, then went on.

“But, you know,” he said, his voice unusually subdued. “Tonight I've got my nose open on Mount Kisco, New York.”

This perked up the ears of everyone in the Gran Torino.

“You're shitting me,” Benny breathed. “Did he just say Mount Kisco?”

The others shushed him as Monarch continued.

“I'm interested in that one-horse town tonight because Tobey Marshall and Jimmy McIntosh are gonna duke it out in a field of five cars,” Monarch declared. “That's a real scrappy circuit up there, and from what I hear, Tobey Marshall is a hell of a driver. Just another Cinderella looking for a dress for the ball. But I'm serious. If Tobey ever gets a car worthy of his talents . . . he just might get an invite to the De Leon someday.”

“Well, ain't that a bitch?” Finn said to Tobey. “First Monarch gives you a shout-out. Then he shits all over your car.”

“You mean
our
car!” Peck reminded everyone.

Tobey shrugged. “That's just the way he is,” he said.

* * *

He finally found a place to park the Gran Torino, and the Marshall team climbed out.

Suddenly Little Pete stopped in his tracks, closed his eyes, and acted as if he was receiving some kind of message from the Great Beyond.

He turned to Tobey. “While Monarch was talking about you just then, I had a vision.”

“Here we go,” Finn murmured.

“Quiet,” Benny said with a laugh. “I love hearing the kid's visions.”

Little Pete began: “I saw water and the sun and—”

“. . . and your sister in a hot bikini?” Finn interjected with a laugh.

“Shut it!” Little Pete scolded him. “This is serious.”

He composed himself and continued.

“I saw Tobey in this vision,” he said. “And you know what? He's gonna win the De Leon.”

“No shit?” Finn said with good-natured sarcasm. “Tobey Marshall is gonna win the crown jewel of underground racing? Against McLarens and Bugattis and . . . Wait—is this going to happen this year?”

Finn was right. Small illegal street races happened all the time, and they almost exclusively involved cars that were customized stock cars anyone could buy, such as Camaros, Mustangs, or Gran Torinos. But again, the De Leon was at the other end of the rainbow, involving high-end foreign-built cars like Lambos and Buggs. If any American-built cars were involved, they were usually sonically priced Mustang GTs and maybe, on an odd-moon Monday, a Chevy Corvette. But that happened very rarely.

As was usually the case, it was a question of the haves and the have-nots. If Tobey had been able to recoup the sweat equity he and the others had put into his Gran Torino, its price tag might reach twenty grand or so. The cars that raced in the De Leon—their tires cost that much.

Still, Tobey appreciated Little Pete's enthusiasm.

“Thanks for your vote of confidence, Pete,” Tobey said. He'd just spotted his main competitor for the night: the driver named Jimmy McIntosh. “But I'll have my hands full just trying to beat Jimmy.”

Tobey nodded to McIntosh's tricked-out 1966 Pontiac GTO, just pulling into the lot.

It was a beautiful car. Dark blue, 383 boosted engine. Holly quad carbs, big tires, big rear gears, and an enormous exhaust system.

But Tobey's friends were looking in the other direction.

“What the hell?” Little Pete whispered.

A Mercedes SLR had driven into the parking lot. This was a very luxurious car. It was silver, low-slung, and shaped like some kind of futuristic bullet with four huge wheels attached. When seen in the company of Ford Gran Torinos and Pontiac GTOs, the SLR was doing some serious slumming. Only a limited number were built every year, and its price range was north of half a million dollars.

The car attracted a lot of attention as it pulled to a stop in the center of the crowd, not just because of its notoriety but also because of its driver.

“Shit, is that Dino Brewster?” Little Pete said, not wanting to believe his own words. “What the hell is he doing back here?”

Dino Brewster . . .

They had all known him for years; Tobey had gone to high school with him, though they'd been at different grade levels. Dino was in his late twenties now, built like a professional athlete, and handsome. He was one of those people who always had perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect car. Perfect everything.

He'd also been one of the richest kids in town. Though it was never really clear what his father did for a living, or even if his last name was really Brewster, Dino always had money, always had a new, bitchin' set of wheels, always had the best clothes.

And he always stood out. In a school where most kids wore jeans, hoodies, and T-shirts, Dino always wore black—almost like a Goth with access to an expensive wardrobe. He was always a real douche bag, too, arrogant and mouthy—but many girls just couldn't resist him.

Tobey and Dino had been at odds since the first moment they met as young kids. They were just different in many ways. Tobey was down-to-earth, working class, and reluctant to talk about his accomplishments. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty. Dino looked like he'd never done an honest day's work in his life—and was proud of it.

An interest in cars was just about the only thing they had in common; this had also led to their many disagreements.

They'd had one fistfight, though there could have been many more. The skirmish happened in the locker room after gym class and Tobey gave Dino a definite beat down. But no one else was around at the time of the battle; there were no witnesses. So Dino lied and told another story of the clash. Because of this, the exact winner of the fight was always in dispute.

Tobey had very few problems with other people around town. Townies, Goths, metalheads, nerds—he could get along with just about anyone. But what he didn't like—in fact, what he detested—were liars and braggarts, and that was Dino in a nutshell.

But Dino also had the infuriating talent of being able to convince lots of people that his version of the truth was the right one. That's what made him so devious. Even people who had been burned by him in the past could fall for it again. That's how good he was. And those suckers would usually realize what had happened only when it was too late, after Dino had gotten what he wanted from them.

Tobey had raced Dino many times over the years, during high school and beyond. And no matter what luxury car Dino was sporting at the time, Tobey always beat him—at least that was not in dispute.

But as time went on, Dino had been able to work 24/7 on his driving skills, while Tobey had to just plain work. Because of his family's wealth and his father's connections, Dino had had the opportunity to practice endlessly at driving high-end cars while other kids his age were forced to work at McDonald's.

Dipping into his father's apparently unlimited pool of money, he was also able to afford driving lessons from some of the top names in the business and get practice time on some of the largest racetracks in the Northeast.

Most important, though, Dino was able to call on his father's friends in the racing world to get him into key races. Small ones at first, then intermediate, and then finally on the senior circuit.

This was no big surprise as he fit the bill. He had movie star looks, drove very expensive cars, could afford a good support team, and had plenty of sponsors.

All this, and always with a good heaping of daddy's money, was how he got to race in the Indianapolis 500.

In the car culture in Mount Kisco, only Dino had reached that pinnacle.

For now . . .

* * *

Having Dino arrive for the night's meet was a major buzzkill for the Marshall Motors crew. It brought their lighthearted conversation to a sudden halt.

And it only got worse.

Soon after the Benz parked, its passenger's-side door opened and an attractive female stepped out.

She had long brown hair, big eyes, and a gorgeous shape. She radiated slightly as she mixed with the crowd standing around the car, standing out in the throng like a light in the dark.

This was Anita, Little Pete's sister. Around town, the adjective usually applied to her was “smoking.”

Tobey felt his heart sink on first seeing her. He and she had a past; one that didn't have a happy ending.

Anita had been Tobey's girlfriend through most of high school and for a few years afterward. They were an “it” couple—they were almost always together, and when they weren't, they were always texting each other or yapping on the phone. They'd spent so much time together that there was a time when they would finish each other's sentences, to the annoyance of their friends.

They knew each other's families well. They'd climbed Mount Kisco many times. Had eaten numerous times at Applebee's. Had drunk beer at Pride Rock. It was there that they had their first kiss and their first sex. As a couple, they had been happy, witty, and fun to be around.

But throughout their relationship, deep down, Tobey knew that they were actually different people. They wanted different things and had different dreams. His dreams resided within Mount Kisco's area code. To continue his father's business and to build it into one of the best customizing shops in the country—a hope that was fading fast. Her dreams went about forty-five miles south, to the glamour of New York City, leaving the small-town life behind.

So they broke up. She moved to Manhattan and Tobey carried on. But not a day went by when he didn't think about her, and about what might've been.

And now this. Dino and Anita . . . together.

It was the perfect storm of misery for Tobey: his ex-girlfriend showing up with his hated rival.

“I'm sorry, Tobey,” Little Pete told him. “She didn't tell me she was coming home.”

“It's okay,” Tobey said, trying to convince himself that was the case.

But it wasn't.

A crowd quickly gathered around Dino's luxurious Mercedes. Meanwhile Anita had walked a few steps away from the impressive car, and as she did, the crowd quickly closed in around Dino. Many were young motorheads who'd fallen for his charm. They all wanted to take photos with him and his car.

Strangely, with the way Anita was dressed—in a slinky, low-cut, green dress and sexy mid-calf boots—it almost seemed like she was just another of those young fans lost in the swarm—and not Dino's date for the evening.

“Do you think he's here because he wants in?” Finn asked, watching the little drama unfold. “You think he wants to race?”

“Screw him,” Benny said. “We're not letting a four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar Mercedes into this race.”

“Try six hundred thousand,” Joe Peck corrected him, painfully admiring Dino's car. “And that's
before
the modifications.”