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.