Reed Peter

The Thunder Road [story]

Peter Reed

The Thunder Road

Rex had been riding high on the outside on the north curve that day, way back in April of last year. It was the thirty-seventh lap of the Florida Cup, and Will Karnery, his buddy, had hit the oil slick just as he straightened out.

Will’s wagon had twisted and hurtled up at Rex Dorman. Rex had yanked down toward the inside rail and Will had cleared by inches, smashed through the high outside rail. For one horror-filled moment his car, his body, were separate against the pale sky, soaring out to fire and death.

Rex went into a flat spin that ended against the inside rail at a dead stop. Fourteen thousand spectators saw him climb out, throw down helmet and gloves and walk steadily across the infield toward the gate.

And if he’d kept going he might have won. He would certainly have placed.

Steve, my red-headed daughter, stood beside me at Will’s funeral. We saw Rex there. He looked right through us. And some of Steve’s tears weren’t for Will. They were for what had happened to Rex.

He didn’t even say goodbye to her. He just walked out. Later on, in other meets, we picked up track gossip. How he’d flunked out of stock car competition in Georgia. How he’d yellowed out of a midge race up in Bridgeport. And then nothing.

I couldn’t forgive him for what he’d done to Steve. What he did to himself was all right with me, but it didn’t seem fair that Steve should have to take it on the chin.

One minute she had been a happy gal, quick with a gag, known to all the racing stables and tracks. She had been dating Will and Rex, but it was obvious that she had favored Rex. I hadn’t wanted her falling in love with a racing driver, but what can you do? After I’d had her away at school for six long years, she had come back, as full of love of the game as ever. She tested out some of the wagons, and she knew what went on under the hoods in those big power plants. Always laughing.

And then, when Rex left, she was different. After Rex left, she didn’t even like to watch the races.

She became very quiet and her color wasn’t as good.

I knew that she needed a change. Badly. So it was a break when R. K. wired me to come into the main offices. That’s my boss — R. K. Henderson. Henderson Motors. I’m in charge of the stable of drivers and mechanics and the iron we drag around to every track in the country.

He grinned, shook hands, and with loving care, took a wooden model of a car out of the case on the floor and set it on his desk.

“What is it, Joe?” he asked me.

“Basic airflow is for the track. But it looks like you could use it on the highway too. Sports car?”

“The Henderson Special, Joe. Foreign sports cars are grabbing sales here that we could get. This kid will develop five hundred horse with a twelve cylinder, twin, supercharged, overhead cams. It will purr at twenty, or at two hundred and twenty.”

“So what has it got to do with me?”

“Good question. Two of these will be out of the shop in a week, stripped for the track. Two and two spare power plants. You’re going to take them to Italy.”

My mouth sagged open. “To Italy!”

“Yes. With two good drivers and good mechanics, and we’re going to enter ourselves in the Sanzi Cup Race and we’re going to win it and grab ourselves a large hunk of international publicity.”

“Some of our boys tried those crosscountry races before the war, R. K. And they didn’t make out so good. Maybe I should hire drivers over there.”

“Nonsense. We have drivers who have cleaned up all over the country. Pick any two from our stable. But the time is short. You’ll sail from New York in three weeks.”

“How about Steve?”

“I’ll pay the shot on her, too. I know you’re no good without her around to keep yammering at you about your ulcer.” He leaned back in his chair. He said softly, to himself, “Buy a Henderson Special. You can own a sports car like the one which won the Sanzi Cup.”

His dream was too pretty to disturb. I tiptoed out.

We sailed in three weeks on the Napoli, with the two beautiful cars, finished off in gunmetal and bronze, nestling side by side in the hold. As drivers I took Billy Husk and Razor Ingle. Neither of them had ever raced in foreign competition on a cross-country route. I knew some drivers who had tried it. When I approached them, they gave me the cold eye and changed the subject.

I didn’t see much of Steve the first day out. Whenever I did see her, she had a funny glazed look in her eye, and a secret smile on her lips. Which, if you know Steve, is pretty ominous.

I caught her in our cabin and said, “Just exactly what goes on?”

“Does it show that much?”

“Of course it shows. Give, baby.”

She sighed. “You’ll have to know sometime,” she said. “Come on.”

She led me down to the third-class deck and over to a deck chair. “Here he is,” she said simply.

And there he was. The Rex Dorman I knew was a big husky kid with good shoulders, wrists like a coal heaver and laughter in his eyes. This was a thin guy, with pouches under his eyes, cheekbones that looked about to punch through his skin, and hands that trembled as he tried to light a cigarette.

He stood up and shook hands. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.

Rex shrugged. “Ask her.”

He sat down again as Steve pulled me over to the rail, out of earshot. She said, “I had the boys looking for him. They found him in Jersey City and he was stinko. They helped me. I arranged about his passport, bought him his ticket and had him brought aboard.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe something will happen to either Razor or Billy. And then he can drive one of the cars.”

“In the first place, Steve, we can only enter one. I’ll eliminate either Razor or Billy. In the second place I wouldn’t let him drive a kiddy-car across my bedroom rug.”

“Once upon a time you wouldn’t have said that.”

“Once upon a time isn’t now. It was your money. You wasted it. But when we get off this hulk, he can head on back to the gin mills.”

She got her hands tangled somehow in the front of my coat and she looked up at me, and her blue eyes were full of tears. “All right,” she said. “It was stupid. But don’t hurt him again. Let him come along. Pretend you might use him. Please. Oh, please!”

Butter in the sun, that’s me.

Naples was our base. We got the garage space, then, armed with a map, went out in an old rented touring car to drive around the sixteen-mile lap. I drove the touring car, with Steve in the front beside me, Razor, Billy and Rex in the back. Rex puzzled me. He had gained weight on the boat, as well as better color. He was apparently on the wagon. At least, the shakes were gone and his eyes had cleared up. But he seemed absolutely and completely indifferent to everything, including Steve. The mark of his indifference was showing on her. I wanted to beat his head in for him.

When I had tried to tell him that maybe we could use him, he had said softly, “Oh, sure.”

Steve had the map in her lap. She said, in a voice too bright and gay, “Here’s the kickoff, boys. Starting line here. Right down this road. Four miles of four-lane straightaway. Just like glass.”

Razor said, “I’ve always wanted to let one big iron all the way out.”

We went, along with the rest of the traffic, down the stretch. “Boy, oh boy!” Billy Husk said softly. Rex yawned.

I swallowed hard, turned to the left, leaving the blue sea behind, turning onto a two-lane asphalt road that wound up into the mountains.

“We climb for two thousand feet,” she said.

“It hardly seems enough,” Razor muttered.

At the top was a right-hand turn, followed by a hairpin. Billy groaned audibly. We doubled back along the crest of the hills, went through three villages that boasted of pitted cobblestone main drags, and then turned back down the slope. The road was a continual succession of curves.

“And ahead is the finish line again. Sixteen miles around,” Steve said weakly.

“I don’t even want to watch anybody driving that killer,” Razor said.

“Ten times around?” Billy asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

“Ten times,” I said, trying to make my voice cheery. “Race day, they block off the road and every person entering gets two trial laps for starting position. Both you boys can go two laps the morning of the race, and I’ll decide who goes in.”

“Maybe I’ll oversleep that day,” Billy said.

“The guy who won last year driving something called a Cisitalia averaged one hundred and four miles per hour,” Steve said. “I looked it up.”

“Is be entered this time?” Razor asked.

“He’s dead,” I said. I turned to look at Rex. Rex was staring sleepily out at the blue sea.

We got the two wagons out there an hour after dawn on race day. Even so, we weren’t the first. A big blue Bugatti roared by, followed by a dull black Auto-Union, a gray Pengeot and a cream-colored British Alta.

I told the timer that we weren’t ready for the trial laps. Rex sat on the running-board of the old sedan, yawning from time to time. Billy and Razor had an argument about who’d lead off. Billy won. They were pale as they adjusted crash helmets, pulled on their gloves. The big cars were both purring, a low note of power sounding from the triple tail pipes.

Steve leaned into each car and kissed them.

They took off, sounding like a squadron of light planes. They dwindled to nothing, going down the wide straight stretch.

Steve turned from watching them, her face taut. I had clicked my own watch on them. We could expect them in ten minutes.

She walked over to Rex. “Nice wagons, aren’t they?” she said.

He stood up and stretched. “Sure.” He walked away down the shoulder of the road. Steve stood looking after him for a moment, a small girl out of whose hand somebody had just knocked an ice-cream cone. Her shoulders slumped. She turned and gave me a weary smile.

“Samaritan down for the count,” she said.

More cars appeared and shoved off, some for official timing. I saw a Mercedes-Benz, a Maserati and an Alfa-Romeo. Also one of Ferrari’s Cisitalias.

The dead slow minutes ticked by. Nine, ten, eleven. Then twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Steve and I stopped glancing at each other.

I picked out the distinctive motor roar as one of ours came down the hill. My heart sank as I saw that both Razor and Billy were in it. I had my hand on the door cowl before the car was completely stopped.

Billy said flatly, “The second village. Little kid came creeping out. I swerved and the cobblestones kept the brakes from catching right. I piled it into the side of a stone church.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Shook up. Nothing else. They’ve wrastled it off the road. It’s out of this race, Joe. Frame out, cooling system smashed, right front suspension tangled all to hell.”

They got out of our remaining wagon. Other cars came pounding wildly down the mountain, swerving and screaming onto the straightaway, straightening out to slam off into the morning haze.

I got a look at Billy’s right hand. I grabbed it before he could twist away. He said sullenly, “I sort of stabbed my fingers against the dash when she hit. Sprained ’em a little.”

“Too much to race with. So it’s your baby, Razor. Sorry, Billy.”

Razor looked at me. His mouth was set in a stubborn line. He kicked the front tire of the Henderson.

“You think I got no guts, Joe?” he asked.

“Did I say that?”

“I know the ovals, Joe. Dirt, asphalt and brick. I know the guys I race against. I know what they’ll do. On that hairpin up there, a big blue job barreled through, inside me and outside Billy. He hung on the edge of that drop before he got it under control. These people are nuts, Joe. My national rating is high enough so that I can get in another good stable. You tell Henderson what he can do with his Special. Mr. Razor Ingle isn’t taking it across country with a bunch of maniacs.”

I said soothingly, “These people race all out, Razor. I know that. But a smart driver like you can stay out of trouble.”

“On an oval, he can stay out of trouble.”

I looked at his set face and knew it was useless. To make matters worse, Billy said, “You weren’t on that hairpin, Joe. You didn’t see it. Razor’s got something.”

Steve said, her voice almost shrill, “Mr. Henderson left the selection of the drivers up to Joe. And now you’re letting him down. What’ll happen to Joe’s job?”

Razor grinned. “Joe can hand-lap more speed into a tricycle than most men could get out of a skyrocket. Don’t make me cry, Stevie.”

I growled, “Okay, so I drive it myself. At least it has to be in the race.”

Steve grabbed my arm. “No, Dad. No! It would kill you!” her words tumbled over each other as the idea hit her. “Why not me, Dad? Think of how many laps I’ve gone.”

“But not in competition.”

“I’ve seen the road. And it would be good publicity, Dad. I’ll stay safe. I’ll play it that way.”

I glanced over toward Rex Dorman. He stood over at the side, his face expressionless.

Rex would never race again. I couldn’t let my daughter try to drive on that killer road. I turned to Billy. “Give me the helmet and gloves,” I said wearily. “I’ll go around once and then try for time.”

As the Special was built as a sports car, it had a neutral gear. The motor idled softly.

I pulled on the gloves, went back to take a look at the rear rubber. As I bent to touch a place that looked ragged, the tire spun violently. I jumped back.

The flame of her hair was vivid as the car roared down the straight stretch.

“Stop her!” I yelled.

“With what, Joe?” Razor said softly.

But for his backing out, she wouldn’t have stolen the car from under our noses. I planted my fist on the point of Razor’s jaw. He sat down in the dust, looked up at me without animosity. He picked himself up and walked back to the aged sedan.

Rex Dorman stood beside me and stared out to where the Special had disappeared. He had not changed expression, but there was a little hard lump of muscle protruding at the corner of his jaw. Then he relaxed, said softly, “Crazy kid.” He went back to sit beside Razor. Our truck, with the fuel, the hand pump and the new rubber, was off in the field.

As we waited and the tension thickened around us, a little red Alta came down out of the hills, a big German Auto-Union so close behind it that the two cars almost touched. The Alta swung wide and the Auto-Union came up on the inside. The Alta, faintly off balance on the wide swing, cut back. There was a tiny thudding metallic sound as the two cars nudged. Then the Auto-Union was alone. The Alta swung, tipped, bounced, jumped a good twenty feet into the air, throwing the driver out at the peak of the leap. It threw him like a stone on the end of a string. He shot out ahead of the car.

We saw him land full length on the hard-packed soil off the road, saw him stir weakly just as the bulk of the car landed on him, bounced again, rolled to a flaming stop. I looked away quickly.

Rex was swallowing hard and his face was the stone gray of death itself.

Then that familiar motor song, and her red hair in the breeze and she pulled up, triumphant.

Then she saw the flaming hulk of the Alta, the thing that had been a man, and her mouth trembled.

Rex shouldered me roughly aside. “Get out of that iron!” he said horsely.

“But I can—”

“Get out!”

Her eyes widened as she saw him snap the crash-helmet strap under his jaw. She said, “You can’t—”

“Shut up, Steve. Shut up!”

He turned and yelled for time as he got under the wheel. The man came up with his watch, clicking it smartly as Rex hit the black starting line. Behind us the useless sirens wailed a song of mourning.

At one o’clock the new rubber was on the car. It was in the starting lineup, and the throb of the power plants was heavy as a blanket around us. The crowd was heavy and the Italian sun was hot and direct.

His place in the lineup was poor and his time had been so bad on the morning run that I hadn’t wanted to leave the car in. But when I spoke of withdrawing, be had given me just one long look and I had shut up.

The flag dropped and they roared by the starting line. Steve’s fingers sank into my arm as we watched Rex yank hard to the right, take the special out onto the rough shoulder, gun it out ahead of two cars, forcing his way further ahead in the formation.

One hundred minutes of pure torture. Thirty-six curves in each lap, one hundred places to shift gears in each lap.

The first car around was the black AutoUnion, the green Maserati tagging it closely. And Rex was fighting the Cisitalia for third place. They came out onto the wide pavement in a screaming power slide, side by side, wheels turned away from the direction of the curve, steering with the throttle.

The driver of the Cisitalia made the mistake of correcting the backwhip at the end of the slide with his wheel. Rex straightened with a power thrust, opening up daylight between his deck and the Cisitalia. It was crazy, reckless driving, but he was not alone in that.

On the second lap and the third and fourth, he still dung to third place, the Cisitalia dogging him closely.

From where we stood we could see two hundred feet up the narrow downgrade, to the last curve they had to make coming down the mountain. A minute or so after Rex had gone by in the fifth lap, nosing up to the green Maserati, we saw the blue car blow its head on the downgrade, saw it spew the sleek deadly oil onto the asphalt and out onto the curve.

The crowd, race-wise, began to scatter away from that curve.

The race was so spread out that it was impossible to get the cars out of the way. The black Auto-Union roared around the upper curve and down the hill. He used a lot of brakes on the dry pavement before he hit the oil. He went into a power glide that took him out onto the rough shoulder. He bounced high, and fought it back onto the straightaway. Rex, nose and nose with Maserati, hit the oil with sickening speed. Oil spray rose high as they slid. The Maserati bounded, end over end, out across the wide field and Rex straightened slightly, turned to hit the wide shallow ditch at a better angle. The Special bounded high, landed on all four wheels, still under power. He swung it in a long rough curve back through the ditch and up onto the highway. The front right corner sagged from the broken suspension, but the car still ran.

It was then that Steve fainted.

As it turned out later, the broken suspension cut Rex’s speed on the curves. In the remaining four laps the Auto-Union stayed well ahead. If the race had been two miles longer, the Cisitalia would have nosed out Rex, forcing him back into third place. As it was, he took second.

He climbed out of the Special, his legs shaking. We had to cut the gloves off his hands because his pulped flesh clung to the glove linings.

And while we did that, he stood and grinned at Steve.

He told us at dinner, as he ate gingerly with his bandaged hands. His words didn’t mean a lot. Something about seeing her in the car. Something about feeling dead inside ever since Will had taken the fence. And he said that after the cross-country race, ovals would be tame, that is, if I’d take him back on.

I looked at Steve’s face, at the softness of her lips, at the answer in her eyes as she looked at Rex.

I sighed with heavy resignation and wound up another fork-load of spaghetti.

Content

Reed Peter The Thunder Road [story]

Peter Reed The Thunder Road