Authors: Matt Christopher
He started up again, listened to the droning sound, and gradually the smell of the oil disappeared. He shoved the lever into
first gear, touched the gas pedal, and felt no response.
He pressed down harder on the gas. Still no response. A flash of irritation shot through him and he struck the steering wheel
hard with the palm of his hand. He was no expert on cars, a situation he had to change as time passed. But he knew the trouble
he had now. The clutch was shot.
A feeling of desperation took hold of him as he looked at the small crowd of racing fans standing around the pit stops, most
of whom were friends of the drivers. The others had just come to see the trials. Now their attention was diverted to him and
his little red car, and he felt hot and embarrassed.
He heard the sound of a car, looked in his rear-view mirror, and saw the speedway’s brown station wagon drive up behind him.
The driver got out, ran forward, and wanted to know what the trouble was. Ken told him.
“Sit still,” the driver said. “I’ll get in front of you, hitch up a rope, and pull you to the pits.”
In less than ten minutes the little red Chevy was sitting next to the trailer in the pit stop, a sick piece of machinery that
needed a top-notch doctor to get her back in running order.
Ken felt hopelessly stranded. There was nothing he could do but get Li’l Red on the trailer, haul her over to Dusty’s garage,
and just hope that Dusty would let Rooster put in a new clutch. There was no other way. If Dusty didn’t go along with that,
Ken was sunk. He could get a new clutch put in eventually, but when? It took money.
He looked up toward the timing tower that lay
against a backdrop of cotton-white clouds and thought of calling up Dusty to break the bad news to him. He hoped that Dusty’d
have Rooster drive over with the pickup and winch and haul Li’l Red to the garage.
Someone’s face was up there in the window, shadowy eyes peering down at him.
Ken looked away, his feet like lead weights, and started toward the building. Just then he heard running footsteps behind
him and, as he turned, a voice said, “Hey! Need some help?”
“Dana!” he exclaimed, surprised at the sight of his brother. “What are
you
doing here?”
“Came to see you drive. What do you think?”
Ken smiled, perplexed. He still couldn’t believe that Dana would ever go out of his way to see him drive the Chevy.
“What happened?” Dana asked again, peering through amber sunglasses.
Ken told him.
“Oh-oh. What were you going to do? Call Dusty?”
“Yes. What else?”
“Don’t,” said Dana. “He might start to lose faith in you and the car and drop you. As a matter of fact, he’ll find out anyway
about your car breaking. I saw Dottie in the stands.”
Ken sighed. He turned slowly, let his gaze sweep over the grandstand seats on the west side of the field, and saw some fifty
spectators sitting there.
“Never mind,” Dana said. “She’s hard to see, even in that small crowd. But she’s there.”
“I guess she’s interested to see what Li’l Red can do,” said Ken.
“Don’t be modest, brother,” Dana said, grinning. “She’s here to see what
you
can do. Look, I know just the guy to fix this baby—if I can get him to break away. He might want to bring some parts and
tools with him and will have to know what kind of car he’s going to work on. Got a pencil and paper?”
“In the glove compartment,” said Ken. “Just a second.”
He found a pencil and pad and began to jot down certain features of the car that he felt would help Dana’s friend—or whoever
he was—to bring what he needed to fix the car.
He tore off the top sheet and handed it to Dana. Dana read it over quickly, then looked at Ken. “This should do it. Stick
around. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He took off on a slow run, heading for the timing tower.
Ken remembered another time when Dana had gotten a friend of his, at his father’s suggestion, to check out the brakes on the
little red racer. But that friend—Scott “Rat” Taggart—was no friend anymore.
Who else did he know who could fix a clutch?
Dana was back in less than ten minutes, saying that he had gotten the guy and that the information Ken had written down for
him seemed to be all that he needed to have in order to fix the damaged clutch, or put in a new one, depending.
“Who
is
this guy who’s supposed to be such a genius?” Ken asked. “I thought Rooster, Dusty’s mechanic, was the only car genius in
town.”
Dana smiled. “Phil Bettix, head mechanic at Troy’s Garage. But he can’t come so he’s sending one of his better men, an Otto
Dirkson.” He frowned. “Be glad he’s sending somebody. I wasn’t sure he would.”
“What do you mean?”
Dana pushed the sunglasses up slightly on the bridge of his nose. “I met him through Nick. Now don’t worry,” he went on quickly
as Ken’s eyes narrowed at the sound of Nick’s name. “Phil’s okay. He’s got a mind of his own and he plays a mean game of pool.
I know. I played him one night and he trimmed the pants off of me.”
Ken didn’t press him. He had no alternative now, anyway, but to go along with Dana.
About twenty minutes later a grimy white pickup truck pulled up behind the pit stop, came to a shuddering stop on the cracked
asphalt, and a guy in a pair of oil-smeared coveralls hopped out of it.
He looked at the red car, then at Ken and Dana.
“That the car with the clutch trouble?”
“Right,” Ken said.
The man nodded, then lifted a hydraulic jack off the back of the truck and immediately went to work jacking up the front end
of the car. He lifted a creeper off his truck, set it on the asphalt, grabbed a handful of tools, then lay on his back on
the creeper and rolled it under the car.
Ken looked at Dana. I wonder how long this is going to take? his eyes asked.
An hour and a half later Otto Dirkson, finished with the installation of a brand-new clutch, crawled out from underneath the
car, released the jack, then got in the car and started it. He shifted the lever into the various gears and each time the
car responded quickly and smoothly.
Without cracking the remotest smile he said, “There you are. Guaranteed to put you up front.”
Ken smiled, pleased with his assurance.
“Tell Phil I’ll square it with him,” Dana said. He took a bill out of his pocket. “Here. This is for you.”
Otto looked at the money, a ten spot. He started to reach for it, then withdrew his hand. “No, thanks. I—”
Dana pushed it into his hand. “Come on. Shyness will get you nowhere.”
The mechanic took it, and the face that Ken thought didn’t have a smile wrinkle in it, flashed a grateful grin.
“Thanks, mister,” he said. Then he turned to Ken. “That’s a new LK-ten clutch you’ve got in there, kid. It’s got six clutch
fingers made of forged steel, a cover made of ten-gauge steel, and a twelve-bolt pressure plate. It all spells great performance.
I know. I put one in my sixty-eight sports car.”
“Do you race it?” Ken asked.
“Used to, but now I’m just a Sunday driver.”
Ken and Dana helped him reload the jack and his other equipment onto the pickup, then waved to him as he drove off.
“Take care, you hear?” he shouted back at them.
“Will do!” Ken answered. He turned and
looked at Dana. Their eyes met and for a moment an electric silence came between them. Ken wanted to say something. Just
a thank-you seemed hardly adequate. But he didn’t know what else to say.
He put out his hand and Dana took it. “Thanks, Dana.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Otto.” Dana laughed, then took his hand from Ken’s and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on.
Get in that little red baby of yours and show these jocks around here what you can do.”
Ken watched his brother’s back a minute as Dana walked away, suddenly realizing that he certainly owed him something now.
Shaking his head, he approached the Chevy, got in, started it, and drove to the staging lanes.
Once again he was thrilled that Li’l Red was fixed and running—and within time to let him get in a few more passes.
He took his turn and blazed the tires down the 1320-foot lane, but he clocked in at only 14.59 seconds and 91.07 miles per
hour.
It was a very disappointing run.
Heading back toward the staging lanes he tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. Had he
favored the new clutch? Babied it because he was afraid it might blow, too?
He got back in line facing number two lane, knowing he had to do much better or kiss Saturday’s race good-bye.
K
EN RAN
a couple of more passes, doing better each time by fractions of a second. He wasn’t fully satisfied, but he decided to call
it quits for today. He felt exhausted and ready for a good, cool shower.
He was about to drive the Chevy up on the trailer when he received a visitor.
“Hi,” said a familiar voice.
“Dottie! Hi! I didn’t think you enjoyed drags that much.”
A light breeze fanned her hair. She was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans that hinted at her nice figure. “I love them,”
she said. “What happened to the Chev?”
“The clutch blew. Had a new one put in.”
She frowned. “Who did the job? I know it wasn’t Rooster.”
“No. A mechanic who works for a friend of
Dana’s did. I was going to call your dad but Dana thought I’d better not.”
“Why? Afraid Dad might let you go?” Dottie said, hitting Dana’s presumption right on the head.
Ken shrugged. “Dana was.”
“And you?”
“I thought of it, but I had no other choice at the time. I was going to call your father when Dana showed up.”
“Well, I can see where you and Dana might think that Daddy could possibly want to drop you, but I don’t think he would,” she
said. She flashed a smile. “He likes you.”
He laughed. Asking her if she liked him, too, was at the tip of his tongue. But he restrained himself, then drove the Chevy
up on the trailer and secured it.
She came up to him and showed him a couple of theater tickets.
He stared at them and then at her. “What are those for?” he asked.
“Daddy bought them for tonight’s play at Logan’s Dinner Theater,” she said cheerfully. “Something’s come up and he can’t make
it. Would you care to go with me?”
“I’d love to. What’s the show?”
“The Sound of Music.
Have you seen it?”
“Never.”
“Good. Can you pick me up at six-thirty?”
He thought a moment. “All I’ve got is this pickup and Li’l Red, you know,” he told her. “And I just use Li’l Red for racing.
Hey, I’ll borrow my mom’s Mustang.”
Her eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong with the pickup?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. I just thought—”
“That I might be too high class to ride in it to a dinner theater?” She laughed. “I get enough high class rides in that sports
car of mine. A ride in a pickup will be a welcome change.”
He grinned. “See you at six-thirty,” he said.
He picked her up almost on the minute. They arrived early at the dinner theater, ate, then watched the play, which Dottie
later confessed she had already seen four times.
After the show Ken drove her home. He couldn’t think of when he had had a nicer evening.
He ran more passes on Saturday morning. His best clocking time was 11.87 seconds and 115.97 miles an hour. It qualified him
easily for the afternoon’s Eliminator race, but he doubted that such a time was fast enough to win it.
Nevertheless, that afternoon, in front of a jam
packed crowd of enthusiastic drag-strip fans, he won the first two runs—beating a Dodge and an Oldsmobile. The Olds had broken
about a hundred feet from the starting line. Then he red-bulbed to a Camaro and came in third-round loser.
He could hardly sleep that night thinking about the loss. The red light was the bugaboo for all racers. Step on the gas a
fraction of a second too soon and the devil would pop its big red eye.
On the following Saturday he was fourth-round loser, one round from being runner-up. His prize was a trophy and a check for
five hundred dollars. Dusty shared Ken’s jubilation over Ken’s driving and the little red car’s great performance.
“I knew you could do it, kid,” Dusty praised him, perspiring as if he had driven the car himself. “One of these days you’ll
come out on top and it won’t be long, either.” He walked around the Chevy, examining its tires. “Take the car to the garage
on Monday. I’ll have Rooster groom it with four brand-new tires. These look pretty sick.”
Ken showed him the five-hundred-dollar check he had won. “Here’s my first big prize money, Mr. Hill. Shall we go to the bank
so I can give you your forty percent?”
“Keep it,” said Dusty, waving the check away.
“I’ll start taking my share out of your next winnings.”
Ken’s respect and liking for the man who had gotten to trust him increased tenfold. “Thanks, Mr. Hill,” he said cheerfully.
On Monday he trailered the Chevy to Dusty’s garage and Rooster put on four new tires. Then he took the car to the speedway
to begin another week of trial runs and saw a new competitor: someone he hadn’t seen nor heard from since the theft of the
engine from Dusty Hill’s store. Scott “Rat” Taggart was driving a sky-blue Hemi Volare with his name emblazoned on all four
fenders and another name painted in huge fire-red script on the sides. Ken looked twice to make sure he was seeing right:
Nick Evans.
He never dreamed that Nick would ever sponsor a driver. But, somehow, he wasn’t surprised that the driver he now sponsored
turned out to be Scott “Rat” Taggart. Birds of a feather, he thought. He hated to think that Dana belonged to that clan. Maybe
his brother would see the light someday and leave Nick Evans’s company for good.
He ran a few passes before he and Taggart could no longer avoid getting within waving distance of each other. At first their
eyes met and
Ken wondered whether Taggart would wave or speak to him. Without pausing too long he waved first. Taggart nodded in acknowledgment,
then turned away.