CHAPTER
25 – ONCE IN A LIFETIME
Scarne’s
rebuilt gearbox handled the Pocono Mountain roads smoothly, alternately purring
and roaring through his frequent up and down shifts. He wondered if the stock
car folks would let him give the car a spin on the track’s 2.5-mile oval.
He
pulled into the raceway complex and after mentioning Arachne’s name was
directed to a private lot next to the infield. He drove past a line of garishly
colored stock cars that dwarfed his little two-seater.
“Don’t
be intimidated,” he said aloud to the MGB. “You’d smoke these guys on a
mountain road.”
It
was just 11. A helicopter clattered overhead and landed in the infield. As he
walked over, he spotted Arachne climbing out. The two men shook and then
Arachne gave him a quick tour of the central pit areas. A car buff, Scarne was
fascinated, and said so.
“I’m
a Formula One fan myself,” Arachne said. “Do a little driving when I can. But
it’s hard not to appreciate the skill and daring of NASCAR drivers.”
A
stock car roared past at what to Scarne was warp speed. He whistled.
“At
ground level, you get a real idea of how fast they go,” Arachne said.
“Television distorts it.”
“That’s
damn fast,” Scarne said appreciatively.
“Only
a demonstration car, Jake. Probably going at 60% of its top speed. Did you
notice that there were two people sitting in front.”
Scarne
hadn’t
“They
let civilians pay for the privilege of having the crap scared out of them.
Great PR, and it’s perfectly safe. There’s a real NASCAR driver at the wheel.
For him it’s like a Sunday drive.”
The
car had made its loop and was noticeably slowing. It pulled into a nearby pit
and Scarne watched a potbellied man awkwardly clamber out the passenger side
window, with considerable help from some track workers. He staggered a bit and
then joined the driver and other crew who slapped him on the back.
“That
fellow got his money’s worth,” Arachne said, laughing. “How would you like to
try it, Jake?”
“Love,
too,” Scarne replied.
“Great.
I’ll set it up for you.”
“I
couldn’t let you do that, Ari.”
“Nonsense.
If you’re worried about the cost, don’t be. They do it as an accommodation for
me all the time.”
Scarne
couldn’t pass it up. Hemingway had said that there were only three “real”
sports: mountain climbing, bullfighting and auto racing; avocations during
which participants ran the very real possibility of not surviving the day.
Scarne thought Hemingway was stretching. Falling a thousand feet off the Eiger,
being eviscerated by a snorting half-ton bovine or broiling alive in a racecar
was less about defying the odds and more about defying the gods. Most people,
Scarne suspected, would rather take their chances with 230-pound linebackers
and 90-mile-an-hour fastballs. But such pursuits apparently weren’t enough for
Ernest. Scarne believed that was why, in 1961, when life offered no more
challenges, he inhaled a shotgun. But the man could write.
“Well,
if that’s the case.”
“A
once-in-a-lifetime experience, Jake. Come on. Let’s get to the track office and
I’ll introduce you to Honker, then we’ll get you a car and driver.”
They
met Michael Honker in the track administrative office, a brightly lit room
lined with photos of stock cars and drivers and various oversized sponsor
decals. There was a large glass case containing dozens of what looked like
Matchbox miniatures of race cars. Just about every desk had both a small
checkered flag and an American flag.
“Jake,
this is Mike Honker. Retired F.B.I.”
The
NASCAR security man greeted Scarne with a perfunctory handshake. Scarne could
sympathize with the man, up to a point. He was an interloper and had been
mentally filed in a “pain in the ass” folder.
“Well,
I’ll leave you two alone for a while,” Arachne said. “I’ve got some calls to
make, and I’m going to see about setting Jake up with a demo ride. Then maybe
we can all grab some lunch.”
“So,
Mr. Scarne,” Honker said after Arachne left, “what can I do for you?”
Scarne
was prepared. Without mentioning the Pearsall girl’s murder, he told Honker
that Arachne was concerned about rumors that there was underworld involvement
in the NASCAR project on Staten Island.
“There
is also the possibility that certain politicians may have been paid off to
facilitate the deal.”
The
security man looked indignant and Scarne decided to ease off a bit.
“We
don’t think NASCAR would countenance anything like this, but we are realists
about how things are done in New York City, as I am sure you are. Some of the
folks you have to deal with across the country probably aren’t boy scouts. We understand.
Accommodations have to be made or nothing would ever be built. But we want to
be aware of anything out of the ordinary. No surprises.”
“You
have anything specific?”
Just
a few murders, Scarne thought.
“No,
just talk.”
Honker
relaxed. He recognized a fishing expedition when he saw it.
“Talk
is cheap, Scarne. But I guess I can keep my eye out for anything suspicious.
Got any names?”
“Nathan
Bimm.”
“Never
heard of him.”
“Real
estate guy on Staten Island. Supposed to be deeply involved in the track plan.”
“Doesn’t
ring a bell.”
“Salvatore
Lacuna.”
“Doesn’t
ring a bell.”
“Wit
Banaszak.”
“Doesn’t
ring a bell.”
“Quasimodo.”
“Doesn’t
ring .…” Honker caught himself. “You’re a wiseass, aren’t you, Scarne?”
“Only
when I’m awake.”
They
sparred for another half hour. Scarne was soon convinced the trip was a waste.
He wondered why Arachne thought Honker would be useful. The security man’s
phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver and listened.
“Your
demonstration ride is ready, Hot Shot,” he said, hanging up. “Maybe we can pick
this up after lunch?”
Well,
maybe the day wasn’t a total waste, Scarne thought. He was itching to get in a
stock car.
“Sure.”
“Follow
me.”
They
walked down a corridor to a smaller office. A gangly string bean of a man at
least six inches taller than Scarne rose from his desk as they entered.
“This
is Chuck Graebe,” Honker said. “He runs our guest passenger program, or
whatever they call it. I’ll leave you in his capable hands. I have work to do.
See you at lunch, Scarne. They’ll tell you where to go.”
He
walked out without another word.
“Glad
to meet you Mr. Scarne,” Graebe, putting out a hand.
“Jake
will be fine.”
“Let’s
hope so,” Graebe said with a grin as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a
manila folder, from which he extracted a document. He handed it to Scarne.
“It’s a standard release. You can read it if you want, but basically it says
that if we injure or kill you, there’s nothing you or your heirs can do about
it, even if they find the pieces.”
“Sounds
eminently fair to me,” Scarne said, signing the last page of the three-page
document. He assumed Graebe’s morbid sense of humor was part of the act
designed to hype the upcoming milk run.
“Great,
let’s get you suited up.”
Scarne
followed him to a locker room, where an attendant instructed Scarne to strip to
his underwear and then helped him put on a fire-proof suit, gloves and boots.
The blue suit was constrictive and Scarne immediately began to sweat.
“It’s
our latest. Made primarily of Nomex, but we added a layer of Carbon X, which
increases its fire protective qualities but reduces breathability,” the man
said. “So it tends to keep heat in as well as out. Try not to move around too
much and you’ll be all right. Some of the drivers lose 10 pounds over a
three-hour race. But you’ll only be out on the track a half hour, if that. Now
let’s get a helmet that fits.”
Five
minutes later, Scarne and Graebe walked out on the track, feeling like he
should be looking for moon rocks.
“That’s
your ride over there,” Graebe said, pointing to a red-and-blue stock car
emblazoned with decals. “It’s specially fitted out to take a passenger, but in
all other respects it’s a race-quality stock car. And you’re going out with one
of our top drivers.”
“You
ever take one of these rides?”
“Me?
Nah. They’d have to cut a hole in the roof for my head.”
CHAPTER
26 – SOUTH PACIFIC
Graebe
walked Scarne over to the stock car. A blond-haired man dressed in a red racing
suit was leaning languidly against the rear fender. A helmet lay on the trunk
next to him. He had a broad, pleasant face and smiled when he saw them.
“Howdy,
Chuckster,” the man said.
“Hey,
Crash, how’s it hanging? This here’s the condemned man. Jake Scarne, this is
Crash Crane.”
“Crash?”
“Actually,
it’s Lex Crane.” The driver stuck out his hand. “The boys have been bustin’ my
balls over a little accident I had last time out.”
“Crash
has been off the circuit for a couple of weeks. They’re working on his car and
his double vision is clearing up, the docs say. Mishap wasn’t his fault. Some
rookie cut him off and he fishtailed into a wall.”
More
chatter to give the paying customer the impression of danger. Arachne had
mentioned that demo cars ran at about 60% of their capability. Scarne knew what
a “real” stock car could do in the right hands. He doubted whether he’d get up
to 120 miles an hour today. Fast, surely, but with the car’s suspension and
safety features, not to mention the banked turns on the track, probably less
risky than a Manhattan cab ride.
“Hey,
it happens,” Crane said magnanimously. “Was a rook myself once. Only way to
learn is to make some bonehead mistakes. Kid was real sorry. Apologized up my
tailpipe. Come on, Jake. Let’s get you in the car.”
Scarne’s
astronaut feeling continued when, with help from some of the pit crew, he
wedged himself through the open passenger-side window and sat. One of the crew
leaned in and adjusted his safety harnesses, explaining the releases as he did
so. He made Scarne test the releases twice before securely strapping him in.
Then he attached a restraining device from the back of his seat to his helmet.
Scarne practiced the helmet release and nodded to the crewman.
“Ok,
you’re all set,” the pit man said cheerily. “If something happens, just unhook
and get out through the window and get as far away from the car as you can.
Leave your personal belongings and carry-on luggage behind.” He then attached
the net that takes the place of glass on both sides of a stock car.
Crane
slid effortlessly into the driver’s seat and was quickly buckled up. Scarne was
startled to note that there was no steering wheel!
“Haven’t
you forgotten something, Crash?”
“What?”
He laughed. “Oh, that. Don’t need it. We’ll only be going a little bit over a
hundred. These things can steer themselves at that speed.”
Scarne
was at a complete loss for words, but just then a technician reached in with
the small steering wheel and snapped it into place on the column.
Crane
laughed.
“Just
funnin’ with you, Jake. Tight quarters. Couldn’t squeeze in from the window
with the wheel in place. And we don’t start the engine until the wheel is
securely locked. All set?”
Relieved,
Scarne said he was and Crane depressed the heavy clutch and flipped a toggle
switch. The 700-horsepower engine roared to life. The astronaut feeling didn’t
seem that silly to Scarne now. Crane moved the gear shift into first.
“They
rib the civilians with the ‘condemned man’ stuff,” Crane shouted as they pulled
out.
“I
liked the double vision part,” Scarne shouted back.
“Yeah.
That’s a new one. Best was when I borrowed a friend’s seein’ eye dog and
strolled up to the car. Passenger about shit. You don’t look like the type that
gets jittery, so just sit back and enjoy. Might push it up to 140 if that’s OK
with you. In a race that’s like going through the drive-in at McDonald’s. But it’ll
give you a little feel of what it’s really like.”
“Fine
by me.”
“That’s
the spirit. Hell, 99% of all accidents are caused by cars swerving into you or
cutting you off, or by some driver pushing his ride over the limit in a turn
and losing traction. We’re gonna be the only wheels on the track.”
Crane
eased the car along pit lane for about 100 yards and then entered the main
track.
“If
this was a race, of course, I’d have left rubber back there and shot out onto
the track like a bat out of hell,” he said.
Once
on the main track, they picked up speed as Crane expertly shifted through
gears. It was getting warm in the car, but Scarne was enjoying himself. He
could feel the pent-up power of the throbbing engine. He also felt that sense
of anticipation, the rush of heightened senses that he recalled from combat
assaults of his past.
“We’ll
take it slow the first couple of times around, so’s you can get used to it.
It’ll be loud, but not so loud as when there’s 40 other cars all around, so we
should be able to hear each other.”
In
fact, except when Crane was shifting gears, the whining engine allowed for
almost normal conversation.
“Got
any questions, Jake, let ‘em fly. Be glad to try to answer them. During a real
race, of course, I’d have to concentrate like a bastard. Wouldn’t be able to
hear much over the roar of the other cars anyway, except what comes out of the
earpiece in my helmet. That’s how we get our instructions from our spotters and
the pit crew. Our heads and necks are so constricted by the safety devices we
can hardly turn them to see out the mirrors. When we pass a car or shoot for
position, it’s usually after we’re told it’s OK.” Crane tapped his helmet. “You
have a receiver in your helmet, too. You might be able to hear some chatter if
the try to reach me. But that’s not likely. We’re the only car out here. They’d
only call me if there’s an emergency. Like if they see we’re on fire, or a
wheel is about to come off. Only kidding! How are you doing?”
“Fine.
I’m a little hot, but it’s bearable.”
“It
can get up to 135 degrees in here during a race. After a couple of hours, it’s
mighty unpleasant.”
“How
do you stay hydrated?”
They
were picking up speed noticeably.
“We
drink a lot before a race, and take plenty of salt to retain water. And we can
drink out of a tube attached to a reservoir in our suits. But all that liquid
presents a problem, of course. Usually have to piss in our suits. That’s why
you see a lot of the guys pouring water in their lap when they finish a race.
Kind of dilutes things, if you get my meanin’. Won’t be a problem for me today,
or you, I’d think.”
They
entered a turn at what Scarne estimated was about 100 miles an hour. He was
pressed toward the side of the car as the wall shot past and they entered a
straightaway.
“I
wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said.
Crash
laughed.
“You
ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“I
noticed a tube coming out the top of your helmet. That’s can’t be for water.”
“No.
I didn’t even bring the water pack today. This suit has a small self-contained
air-conditioning unit. Blows cool air over my face. Comes on automatically when
temperature hits about 110. The old water-cooled suits were better, but they
needed a reservoir under the dash up against the engine. They tended to crack
open during a race and then you had a suit full of hot water. Been damn near
poached a couple of times, so I switched to the helmet system. Matter of fact,
the AC just kicked in. It costs like $6,000, so they don’t put it in the suit
we put on you civilians. Sorry about that. But you won’t need it for the short
time you’re in the car. I’m out here all day. Have nothing else on my plate, so
I’m running some of the team’s backup cars. Testing engine timing, pressures,
drag coefficients, that sort of thing.”
Scarne
noticed that when Crane was discussing the technical aspects of his job, he
dropped the good ‘ol boy routine, and spoke with the cadence of a college
professor.
“Hey,
you break the cologne bottle this morning, Jake?”
“What
do you mean?”
“Something
smells pretty good in here, and it ain’t me, that’s for sure,” Crane said,
laughing loudly. “Hell, I farted a while back there and I been waitin’ for it
to work its way up the suit. Only entertainment we get in here sometimes.”
They
were coming to another turn, and it was obvious to Scarne that the car’s speed
had increased dramatically.
“How
fast are we going now?”
Crash
didn’t answer. He was still laughing. Then he started whistling a show tune.
Scarne repeated the question, louder.
“Huh?
Oh, yeah, just passed 140.” He started singing.
“I’m gonna wash that man
right outa my hair. I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair.”
The
wall at a turn loomed up faster than Scarne would have thought possible. At
seemingly the last possible moment, Crash pulled into a tight turn and shot
around the corner. Now Scarne really felt the G-forces, particularly in his
neck and head. Crash was shouting.
“You
see
South Pacific
?’ Great fuckin’ show. Can’t get those songs out of my
head. “
Gonna have to wash them songs right out of my head, gonna have to
wash them songs right out of my head.”
Drivers
really are nuts, Scarne thought. Probably have to be. Now they were really
moving. Even in the straightaway Scarne was pressed back in his seat. He tried
to look over at Crash, but the helmet restraint limited his movements. He
strained his neck to look out his window. They seemed to be very close to the
wall. But Crash seemed calm, almost nonchalant. And he was still singing.
“I’m
as corny as Kansas in August, I’m as – shit, what’s the word. I never can get
that right. Hey, Jake, what goes with blueberry pie?”
By
this time, the last thing on Scarne’s mind was blueberry pie. Another turn was
rapidly approaching and he had visions of being smeared on it like cherry pie.
Suddenly a voice in his earphone crackled.
“Hey,
Crash, you just went by here at warp speed. You might want to dial it down a
bit.” There was laughter. “Your passenger doesn’t have a barf bag.”
But
the car didn’t seem to be slowing. It was hard to tell, but Scarne thought they
were picking up speed.
“Hey,
Crash, we hit 140 yet?” Scarne hated to ask, but that was the magic number they
were not supposed to exceed.
“Hit?
Hit?” Crash was laughing hysterically. “That’s a word we never use. Ooops.
Looks like a turn coming up.”
As
the car entered the sloping turn, Scarne was sure they would thud into the
wall. From the corner of his eye, he could see only one of the driver’s hands
on the wheel! Was it possible Crash was driving one-handed? Above the whine of
the engine and the whoosh of the air between the car and the wall, Scarne
strained to hear. Crash was singing again.
Bali Hai
. The damned musical
again. Then another sound surged into Scarne’s consciousness. The car was
scraping along the wall! He noted in horrid fascination a stream of sparks
shooting by his window.
Suddenly
it was over. They had made it. They were on a straightaway. Before he could say
anything, the earpiece in his helmet crackled.
“Crash.
We clocked you at 190! What the hell happened? You’d better bring her in.”
There was no banter or laughter now. “You hear us, Crash? Pit that sucker!”
“Sure
thing, boys,” Crash said, his tone suddenly mock serious. “Be right there.”
Then he chuckled.
Scarne
breathed a sigh of relief. He was sweating profusely, and not all of it was
from the heat. The car slowed and pulled into the innermost lane. Scarne could
see the pit area ahead. Several men were standing at its entrance. One was
waving his arms. He estimated that the car was down to, perhaps, 120 miles an
hour. He braced himself for the intense braking that would undoubtedly come
momentarily.
Except
it never did. To Scarne’s horror, Crane entered the pit area without further
reducing his speed.
“Fill
‘er up, boys,” Crane shouted, amid angry shouts and screams as the stock car
roared through the confined ramp area. Pit crewmen ran for their lives, with
some jumping clear over the railing. As fast as they were going, everything
seemed to slow down for Scarne, and his heightened senses recorded a parade of
shocked faces. Miraculously, they didn’t hit anything other than a large tool
cart which flew backwards over their car with a loud clang, spraying wrenches
and sockets in every direction. But Scarne’s elation at not slaughtering the
pit crew was short lived as the car roared back onto the track and again picked
up speed.
“That’s
what I call a fuckin’ pit stop,” Crane said, laughing maniacally. “Must have
set a record. Now, let’s see if this baby can do 200!”
They
were on a straightaway. Scarne had had enough. There was no way he would let
this lunatic hit 200. They’d go
through
a wall. Straining, he reached
over and grabbed the wheel, yelling at Crane to stop the car.
“Oh,
you want to drive, Jake?” Crane’s tone was eerily reasonable. “Be my guest.”
Then he reached onto the steering column, flipped a lever and removed the
wheel, which he blithely handed to his horrified passenger.