Pride (21 page)

“Is that what you want, Sture? I want you to be happy and I don't want you to get hurt.”

“It sounds fine to me and we could take Tuffy along in the truck. I could probably fix him a place to live in there; it's big enough. The team's getting nervous about Tuffy anyway and I hate leaving him alone all the time when I race. He's liable to break out from one of these cabins, then some idiot of a sheriff will most likely shoot him.”

“It sounds wonderful, Sture. We could go from one county fairground to the other and it wouldn't be so dangerous, would it?”

“Safer than driving on the road. I think we could have a good time all the way. There's all kinds of betting at those county fairs, and we can make more money that way, too, with you doing the betting and me doing the driving. We'd make out great. I think anybody'd be glad losing money to a pretty girl like you.”

Sture bought his Ford Model T Miller converted Fronty and a truck to pull it. He paid $5,000 for the entire rig, half of his capital. At that time, a good job paid $25 a week; $5,000 was four years' hard work.

Sture tinkered with that car for a month, making the conversions and adaptations he thought would turn it into the ideal “sprint car,” a car that could get going fast and maneuver easily. Sture knew his car wouldn't have much of a chance in big-time racing, because there's nothing more obsolete than last year's car, but it could be a winner on dirt-track sprinting.

And he was right. Cap Modig became the terror of county fairs. With his jackrabbit car he'd get off fast and hold his lead for the short runs.

The typical race would have four qualifying laps to shake out all the cars not fast enough for racing. Then there'd be a trophy dash to determine the fastest four cars. These four cars would then compete in the main event. The main event would usually be twenty-five or fifty laps on a half-mile track.

Cap won more than his share. Sally did the betting, and even at short odds would usually more than equal the prize money Cap won.

The most dangerous part for Sture was that the tracks were so short he'd have to lap some of the worst drivers before the end. Some of these cowboys wouldn't pull over to let him by. He wasn't afraid so much for himself as he was for the car: half of his capital was tied up in it.

He kept working on the car after every race, tinkering, tuning up, making minor improvements. It was a good life for the two of them. They bought a tent and they'd usually camp near the fairground, but not too near because of Tuffy.

Cap and Sally lived this roving life for three years, moving with the seasons. Tuffy was developing into a full-grown lion. He could already pull off a roar, and his mane was thickening and darkening. He was still playful and would wrestle with Cap evenings. When Cap wrestled with Tuffy, sometimes the local people would come out to where he was staying and watch. Cap could probably make as much money wrestling Tuffy as they were making on the track.

The meat bills for Tuffy were a major factor in the budget. Sally, partly out of jealousy, partly fear, and partly resentment at the cost, kept encouraging Cap to sell Tuffy or give him to a zoo.

Cap knew he'd have to do something, sooner or later, with Tuffy, before an accident happened; but he couldn't think of Tuffy in a cage all the time with no company and he knew that something of his own sense of security, his deepest joy, was invested in Tuffy. It was a fine thing for a man like Cap owning an honest-to-goodness full-maned lion, especially since Sally still didn't want to have children. She said it would be impossible being on the road all the time. She was young; they could wait till they settled down.

Cap would buy his meat for Tuffy from local butchers and sometimes at horse-slaughtering houses. Tuffy needed about ten pounds of meat a day. He used his teeth to pull the last meat off a bone, and his jaws were so strong he could crunch down and splinter a horse or cow thigh bone to get at the marrow. But his favorites were the cheapest meats: the kidneys, lungs, and intestines.

Cap loved to watch Tuffy eat. The lion's claws would actually dig into the bone as he held it to gnaw off the meat. Cap could almost understand why people were afraid of lions. Meanwhile, Sally was getting less and less comfortable around Tuffy. She told Cap it scared her when he stared at her as if he could wish her away.

One of Cap's favorite positions was lying with his head on Tuffy's chest, snuggled under his forelegs. Sometimes when Cap tried to get up, Tuffy loosened his top leg and flopped it across Cap's face without unleashing his claws. The claws were now each more than an inch long, and sharp. A vet near Kalamazoo, Michigan, one Cap took Tuffy to when he had a cold, said Tuffy should be declawed, but Cap wouldn't have it done.

Cap even liked the smell of Tuffy, especially just after he'd been brushed. He had the smell of the first sweat on a man before the air gets to it and turns it sour, not nervous sweat, but honest, hard-work sweat. But Tuffy's smell couldn't be from hard work; lions are among the laziest creatures in the world. If they're fed they'll sleep most of the time or just lie around.

In New Jersey, at a small county-fair track not far from Asbury Park, Sally and Cap are walking down the midway of a traveling carnival that has set up beside the track. Sometimes a race meeting lasts four or five days and carnivals like this take advantage of the crowds. They pitch their tents and set up equipment: small Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds, various rides, sideshows, and other acts.

It is in the evening after the last day of racing. Cap has won two races. He and Sally are walking down the midway of the carnival, late, after most of the crowds have gone.

There are booths for pitching baseballs against metal milk bottles, or popping balloons with darts, or banging a sledgehammer on a scale to ring a bell—all the sucker traps that make carnivals fun.

At the end, closing off the runway, are two interesting setups. One is a boxing ring with a really beat-up-looking pug sitting on a small ring stool. The ropes of the ring are covered with red velvet. The manager of the act, a bald-headed, middle-aged, well-pouched man, is sitting on the edge of the ring at the feet of his fighter. The fighter has heavy eye ridges from many poundings, and both ears are cauliflowered. There are thickened scars on his brows and on his cheeks. He's sitting with his back to the ring, his arms looped over the ropes, his gloves on his hands, but the laces loosened. He looks to Cap like somebody who's really been through the mill, someone, like himself, who has too many scars. The promoter yells over to Cap.

“Hey there, feller, you look tough. Why not give my boy a workout? There's nobody around to bet so it'll only cost you ten bucks; if you can stay in there with him for three rounds it's worth a hundred to you. What d'ya think, make a big impression on your pretty girlfriend there?”

It's only a half-serious proposition; he doesn't even stand up. Cap strolls over, shakes hands with the promoter, with the fighter. The fighter pulls off his glove and shakes with his bandaged hand. Cap sees the fighter is slow, standing up shakily, somewhat back on his heels, rocking above them, looking down, practically expressionless, a slight smile revealing missing teeth in front, probably has just about as many teeth left as Sture. But Cap feels this man, even fighting on instinct, would be deadly close in, past his prime but still out of any ordinary person's class, just as Cap now is as a driver.

“Nope. I wouldn't have a chance with the champ there. I drive cars, couldn't punch my way out of an empty apple box.”

The manager cocks his head, birdlike, looks closer at Cap.

“Hey, you're the guy won that race today, ain't you, the one people say has a full-grown lion with him somewhere, that right?”

“That's right.”

“Ya know, I was thinking about that lion when I heard about it. We could have him declawed and he could fight my boy here the way they do with kangaroos. It'd be an act nobody could resist; we could go big time with an act like that, a boxer fighting a lion. He don't bite or nothin', does he?”

Cap smiles, looks at Sally. Her eyes are wide open, listening, watching. She still hasn't had much experience with carny folks, their wild ideas, their dreams, impossible propositions. Cap smiles at the promoter.

“Naw, he's not for sale. And besides, even with his claws pulled, he'd knock your boy right out of the ring, probably break his neck. A full-grown lion can snap the back of a mature horse or buffalo with one swipe; they've got power in the shoulders you wouldn't believe. They make Jim Thorpe look like a marshmallow.”

“Well, just thought I'd ask. Could you tell me why you're keeping that lion anyway; going to teach him to drive a car or something like that? He must cost a fortune just to feed.”

“No, he's a friend, a pet. I bought him down in San Diego when he was a cub, in a bar there. I don't actually know what I'll do with him in the end. Maybe give him to a zoo someday. I hate to think of it.”

They talk a few minutes more then move over to another attraction next door that's been interesting Cap since they set it up. It's one of those “Wall of Death” acts. They've put up a huge wooden bowl twenty-five feet high or so, with straight wooden sides. These sides are held together by wide metal straps screwed tight on the outside of the wall. There are steps up to a catwalk around the top from which people can look down inside to see the act.

There's also a platform in front of this Wall of Death where the performers do tricks to attract crowds.

Into the platform are built rollers. The performers ride their motorcycles on those rollers.

Cap'd gone by before and seen the riders dipping and doing tricks, running the bikes on the rollers. They'd made a lot of noise and done some impressive tricks such as standing on the seats of the motorcycles. Once Cap saw one of them stand on his hands using the handles of the motorcycle. He wondered what they did on the inside, if they did any of the tricks in there they did on the rollers. It had to be like some of those high-banked fast curves at Des Moines. If you got out of your car there, you could hardly stand on the track.

Two guys are on the platform out front. They've got one of the motorcycles, an Indian, broken down and are working on it. The mechanic in Cap, as well as the driver, is fascinated. It looks as if they're trying to adjust the timing. He stops and watches; one of them looks up, smiles, then looks again. He turns to the other driver, working on the other bike.

“Hey, Jimmy. Here's the guy who drove that Ford Fronty job and won today.”

They both turn back to Cap.

“Boy, those rubes didn't know what hit them; they didn't have a chance against that machine and you really drove them into the ground. Hey, you're Cap Modig, ain't you? Holy cow! I didn't recognize you today. You've always been one of my big heroes, one of the
real
drivers, one who came out of the garage; a mechanic, not just some rich playboy.

“Gees, I thought you got killed in a crash in Atlantic City or something!”

“Not quite; just banged up some. But it finished me for big-time racing. Maybe that's why you thought I was dead. I raced a couple more times but I'd lost it.”

The two young men are standing. For them it's like looking at the ghost of Valentino or Caruso or even Frank Lockhardt. They're both young, strong, full of life, greasy-shirted, greasy-handed, nails and cuticles packed with black dirt the way it is for anyone who works all the time with machines.

They make Cap feel old. They're both under thirty and the younger one probably a long way from thirty, maybe under twenty. The younger one swings his leg up over the machine he's been working on, another Indian; he rolls it off the kick stand and pushes it over the rollers.

“Ever try one of these, Mr. Modig? It's the greatest thrill in the world, almost like flying.”

He looks over at Sally, who's leaning on Cap's arm, taking it all in, fascinated.

“Honest, Mr. Modig, you ought to try. We've got these bikes specially geared for that wall in there. You got to get up fast or you're dead; a driver like you would love it.”

He's playing to Sally. She leans tighter against Sture and he puts his hand over hers.

“I drove one of those Indians once, but I've never raced one. I only borrowed a machine and took a few short trips. That damned engine scared me, I must admit, all that power between my legs. But it's a thrill all right.”

The young one kicks his engine over and guns it a few times. The boxer and his manager look across. Then the young driver strips off his undershirt in the cool evening air. He has an eagle astride a motorcycle tattooed on the top of his left shoulder. His body is tight, muscular, a gymnast's build. He's short, not more than five feet seven, not much taller than Sally, and he's wearing high-heeled boots.

He begins by larking and dipping, his own speed keeping him up as with a gyroscope. He stands on the seat, first holding on to the handlebars then letting go. He's locked the accelerator cable so the engine keeps up its speed. He stretches out his arms, then swivels his hips so the motorcycle tips left and right, synchronized with his swivel. He smiles, bright, wild-eyed, cocky. He knows he's good and keeps his eye on Sally.