Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories (23 page)

BLOOD BROTHER

by Charles Beaumont

"Now then," said the psychiatrist, looking up from his note pad, "when did you first discover that you were dead?"
"Not dead," said the pale man in the dark suit. "Undead."
"I'm sorry."
"Just try to keep it straight. If I were dead, I'd be in great shape. That's the trouble, though. I can't die."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not alive."
"I see." The psychiatrist made a rapid notation. "Now, Mr. Smith, I'd like you to start at the beginning, and tell me the whole story."
The pale man shook his head. "At twenty-five dollars an hour," he said, "are you kidding? I can barely afford to have my cape cleaned once a month."
"I've been meaning to ask you about that. Why do you wear it?"
"You ever hear of a vampire without a cape? It's part of the whole schmear, that's all. I don't know why!"
"Calm yourself."
"Calm myself! I wish I could. I tell you, Doctor, I'm going right straight out of my skull. Look at this!" The man who called himself Smith put out his hands. They were a tremblous blur of white. "And look at this!" He pulled down the flaps beneath his eyes, revealing an intricate red lacework of veins. "Believe me," he said, flinging himself upon the couch, "another few days of this and I'll be ready for the funny farm!"
The psychiatrist picked a mahogany letter opener off his desk and tapped his palm. "I would appreciate it," he said, "if you would make an effort to avoid those particular terms."
"All right," said the pale man. "But you try living on blood for a year, and see how polite you are. I mean-"
"The beginning, Mr. Smith."
"Well, I met this girl, Dorcas, and she bit me."
"Yes?"
"That's all. It doesn't take much, you know."
The psychiatrist removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "As I understand it," he said, "you think you're a vampire."
"No," said Smith. "I think I'm a human being, but I am a vampire. That's the hell of it. I can't seem to adjust."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, the hours for instance. I used to have very regular habits. Work from nine to five, home, a little TV, maybe, into bed by ten, up at six-thirty. Now-" He shook his head violently from side to side. "You know how it is with vampires."
"Let's pretend I don't," said the psychiatrist, soothingly. "Tell me. How is it?"
"Like I say, the hours. Everything's upside-down. That's why I made this appointment with you so late. See, you're supposed to sleep during the day and work at night."
"Why?"
"Boy, you've got me. I asked Dorcas, that's the girl bit me, and she said she'd try and find out, but nobody seems to be real sure about it."
"Dorcas," said the psychiatrist, pursing his lips. "That's an unusual name."
"Dorcas Schultz is an unusual girl, I'll tell you. A real nut. She's on that late-late TV show, you know? The one that runs all those crummy old horror movies?" Smith scraped a stain from his cloak with his fingernail. "Maybe you know her. She recommended you."
"It's possible. But let's get back to you. You were speaking of the hours."
Smith wrung his hands. "They're murdering me," he said. "Eight fly-by-night jobs I've had-eight!-and lost every one!"
"Would you care to explain that?"
"Nothing to explain. I just can't stay awake, that's all. I mean, every night-I mean every day-I toss and turn for hours and then when I finally do doze off, boom, it's nightfall and I've got to get out of the coffin."
"The coffin?"
"Yeah. That's another sweet wrinkle. The minute you go bat, you're supposed to give up beds and take a casket. Which is not only sick, but expensive as hell." Smith shook his head angrily. "First you got to buy the damn thing. Do you know the cost of the average casket?"
"Well-" began the psychiatrist.
"Astronomical! Completely out of proportion. I'm telling you, it's a racket! For anything even halfway decent you're going to drop five bills, easy. But that's just the initial outlay. Then there's the cartage and the cleaning bills."
"I don't-"
"Seventy-five to a hundred every month, month in, month out."
"I'm afraid I-"
"The grave dirt, man! Sacking out in a coffin isn't bad enough, no, you've got to line it with soil from the family plot. I ask you, who's got a family plot these days? Have you?"
"No, but-"
"Right. So what do you do? You go out and buy one. Then you bring home a couple pounds of dirt and spread it around in the coffin. Wake up at night and you're covered with it." Smith clicked his tongue exasperatedly. "If you could just wear pajamas-but no, the rules say the full bit. Ever hear of anything so crazy? You can't even take off your shoes, for cry eye!" He began to pace. "Then there's the bloodstains."
The psychiatrist lowered his pad, replaced his glasses, and regarded his patient with a not incurious eye.
"I must go through twenty white shirts a month," continued Smith. "Even at two-fifty a shirt, that's a lot of dough. You're probably thinking, Why isn't he more careful? Well, listen, I try to be. But it isn't like eating a bowl of tomato soup, you know." A shudder, or something like a shudder, passed over the pale man. "That's another thing. The diet. I mean, I always used to like my steaks rare, but this is ridiculous! Blood for breakfast, blood for lunch, blood for dinner. Uch-just the thought of it makes me queasy to the stomach!" Smith flung himself back onto the couch and closed his eyes. "It's the monotony that gets you," he said, "although there's plenty else to complain about. You know what I mean?"
"Well," said the psychiatrist, clearing his throat, "I-"
"Filthy stuff! And the routines I have to go through to get it! What if you had to rob somebody every time you wanted a hamburger-I mean, just supposing. That's the way it is with me. I tried stocking up on plasma, but that's death warmed over. A few nights of it and you've got to go after the real thing, it doesn't matter how many promises you've made to yourself."
"The real thing?"
"I don't like to talk about it," said Smith, turning his head to the wall. "I'm actually a very sensitive person, know what I mean? Gentle. Kind. Never could stand violence, not even as a kid. Now…"    He sobbed wrackingly, leaped to his feet, and resumed pacing. "Do you think I enjoy biting people? Do you think I don't know how disgusting it is? But, I tell you, I can't help it! Every few nights I get this terrible urge…"
"Yes?"
"You'll hate me."
"No, Mr. Smith."
"Yes you will. Everybody does. Everybody hates a vampire." The pale man withdrew a large silk hankerchief from his pocket and daubed at sudden tears. "It isn't fair," he choked. "After all, we didn't ask to become what we are, did we? Nobody ever thinks of that."
"You feel, then, that you are being persecuted?"
"Damn right," said Smith. "And you know why? I'll tell you why. Because I am being persecuted. That's why. Have you ever heard a nice thing said about a vampire? Ever in your whole life? No. Why? Because people hate us. But I'll tell you something even sillier. They fear us, too!" The pale man laughed a wild, mirthless laugh. "Us," he said. "The most helpless creatures on the face of the Earth! Why, it doesn't take anything to knock us over. If we don't cut our throats trying to shave- you know the mirror bit: no reflection-we stand a chance to land flat on our back because the neighbor downstairs is cooking garlic. Or bring us a little running water, see what happens. We flip our lids. Or silver bullets. Daylight, for crying out loud! If I'm not back in that stupid coffin by dawn, zow, I'm out like a light. So I'm out late, and time sort of gets away from me, and I look at my watch and I've got ten minutes. What do I do? Any other vampire in his right mind, he changes into a bat and flies. Not me. You know why?"
The psychiatrist shook his head.
"Because I can't stand the ugly things. They make me sick just to look at, let alone be. And then there's all the hassle of taking off your clothes and all. So I grab a cab and just pray there isn't any traffic. Boy. Or take these." He smiled for the first time, revealing two large pointed incisors. "What do you imagine happens to us when our choppers start to go? I've had this one on the left filled it must be haifa dozen times. The dentist says if I was smart I'd have 'em all yanked out and a nice denture put in. Sure. Can't you just see me trying to rip out somebody's throat with a pair of false teeth? Or take the routine with the wooden stake. It used to be that was kind of a secret. Now with all these lousy movies, the whole world is in on the gag. I ask you, Doctor, how are you supposed to be able to sleep when you know that everybody in the block is just itching to find you so they can drive a piece of wood into your heart? Huh? Man, you talk about sick! Those people are in really bad shape!" He shuddered again. "I'll tell you about the jazz with crosses, but frankly, even thinking about it makes me jumpy. You know what? I have to walk three blocks out of my way to avoid the church I used to go to every Sunday. But don't get the idea it's just churches. No; it's anything. Cross your fingers and I'll start sweating. Lay a fork over a knife and I'll probably jump right out the window. So then what happens? I splatter myself all over the sidewalk, right? But do I die? Oh, hell, no. Doc, listen! You've got to help me! If you don't, I'm going to go off my gourd, I know it!"
The psychiatrist folded his note pad and smiled. "Mr. Smith," he said, "you may be surprised to learn that yours is a relatively simple problem… with a relatively simple cure."
"Really?" asked the pale man.
"To be sure," said the psychiatrist. "Just lie down on the couch there. That's it. Close your eyes. Relax. Good." The psychiatrist rose from his chair and walked to his desk. "While it is true that this syndrome is something of a rarity," he said, "I do not forsee any great difficulty." He picked something off the top of the desk and returned. "It is primarily a matter of adjustment and of right thinking. Are you quite relaxed?"
Smith said that he was.
"Good," said the psychiatrist. "Now we begin the cure." With which comment he raised his arm high in the air, held it there for a moment, then plunged it down, burying the mahogany letter opener to its hilt in Mr. Smith's heart.
Seconds later, he was dialing a telephone number.
"Is Dorcas there?" he asked, idly scratching the two circular marks on his neck. "Tell her it's her fiancé."

Introduction to

A DEATH IN THE COUNTRY
by William F. Nolan

For eight years, from the mid 1950s into the early 1960s, Chuck Beaumont and I shared a feverish passion for auto racing. I owned and raced British Austin-Healeys; he owned and raced German Porsches. We co-edited two fat books of motor racing material, Omnibus of Speed and When Engines Roar. We attended (and reported on) dozens of road races from Pebble Beach to Sebring to Nassau in the Bahamas. We watched James Dean race his white Porsche Speedster at Palm Springs and Steve Mc Queen power to victory in his silver Lotus at Santa Barbara. We flew to Europe in 1960, to glory in the Monaco Grand Prix-full-throttle Formula One machines blasting through the streets of Monte Carlo! We knew all the top drivers, drank with them, rapped with them, anguished over their losses, celebrated their victories. And we wrote numerous articles and stories about the sport we loved. Among these: "A Death In the Country."
Although Chuck and I were almost totally into sports car and Grand Prix racing, the "stockers" also fascinated us. "A Death in the Country" reflects that fascination. It's a study of true grit, and had Ernest Hemingway turned his attention to the racing stockers, this is the kind of tale he would have written.
Professional stock-car racing can be glamourous and financially rewarding. But there is a second, darker side to the coin. On the small dirt ovals, in numerous "tank towns" scattered across country, the big stockers lose their shine. Here the crowds are impatient and bloodthirsty, the purses small, the duels hard-fought and bitter. In the choking Sunday afternoon dust of the fender-to-fender conflict, fair play is a seldom indulged luxury; victory does not always belong to the swift, but more often to the savage. In this brilliantly-etched character study, Beaumont tells us about Buck Larsen, a scarred track warrior of the old school, who could not afford to lose.
When I read this story I remember long afternoons of blazing sun, the smells of oil and hot metal, the snarling sound of unmuffled engines at full battle cry. I remember the tension, the heart-in-the-throat excitement as a downswept flag releases the pack, the sudden roar of the crowd… and I remember Chuck Beaumont, the finest, dearest friend a man could ever have. My racing days are many years behind me. I miss them. But, most of all, I miss ole Chuck, God bless him.
I miss him very much.

A DEATH IN THE COUNTRY

by Charles Beaumont

He had been driving for 11 hours and he was hungry and hot and tired, but he couldn't stop, he couldn't pull over to the side of the road and stop under one of those giant pines and rest a little while; no. Because, he thought, if you do that, you'll fall asleep. And you'll sleep all night, you know that, Buck, and you'll get into town late, maybe too late to race, and then what will you do?
So he kept on driving, holding a steady 70 down the long straights, and through the sweeping turns that cut through the fat green mountains. He could climb to 80 and stay there and shorten the agony, except that it had begun to rain; and it was the bad kind that is light, like mist, and puts a slick film on the road. At 80 he would have to work. Besides, you have got to take it easy now. He thought, you have got a pretty old mill under the hood, and she's cranky and just about ready to sour out, but she'd better not sour out tomorrow. If she does, you're in a hell of a shape. You know that all right. So let her loaf.
Buck Larsen rolled the window down another three inches and sucked the cool, sharp air into his lungs. It was clean stuff, with a wet pine smell, and it killed the heat some and cleared his head, but he hated it, because rain made it that way. And rain was no good. Sure, it was OK sometimes; it made things grow, and all that; and probably people were saying, by God, that's wonderful, that's great-rain! But they would feel different if they had to race on it, by Christ. It would be another story then. All of a sudden they would look up at the sky and see some dark clouds and their hearts would start pounding then and they'd be scared, you can bet your sweet ass; they'd start praying to God to hold it off just a little while, just a few hours, please. But it would come, anyway. It would come. And that nice dirt track would turn to mush and maybe you're lucky and you don't total your car out, and maybe this is not one of your lucky days and the money is gone and you don't have a goddamn thing except your car and you make a bid, only the rain has softened the track and somebody has dug a hole where there wasn't any hole a lap ago, and you hit it, and the wheel whips out of your hands and you try to hold it, but it's too late, way too late, you're going over. You know that. And nothing can stop you, either, not all the lousy prayers in the world, not all the promises; so you hit the cellar fast and hope that the roll bar will hold, hope the doors won't fly open, hope the yoyos in back won't plow into you-only they will, they always do. And when it's all over, and maybe you have a broken arm or a cracked melon, then you begin to wonder what's next, because the car is totaled, and they'll insure a blind airplane pilot before they'll insure you. And you can't blame them much, either. You're not much of a risk.
He shook his head hard, and tried to relax. It was another 60 miles to Grange. Sixty little miles. Nothing. You can do it standing up, you have before; plenty of times. (But you were younger then, remember that. You're 48 now. You're an old bastard, and you're tired and scared of the rain. That's right. You're scared.)
The hell!
Buck Larsen looked up at the slate-colored sky and frowned; then he peered through the misted windshield. A bend was approaching. He planted his foot on the accelerator and entered the curve at 97 miles per hour. The back end of the car began to slide gently to the left. He eased off the throttle, straightened, and fed full power to the wheels. They stuck.
Yeah, he said.
The speedometer needle slipped back to 70 and did not move. It was fine, you're OK, he thought, and you'll put those country fair farmers in your back pocket. You'd better, anyway. Maybe not for a first, but a second; third at worst. Third money ought to be around three hundred. But, he thought, what if the rain spoils the gate? Never mind, it won't. These yokels are wild for blood. A little rain won't stop them.
A sign read: GRANGE-41 MILES.
Buck snapped on his headlights. Traffic was beginning to clutter up the road, and he was glad of it, in a way; you don't get so worried when there are people around you. He just wished they wouldn't look at him that way, like they'd come to the funeral too early. You sons of bitches, he thought. You don't know me, I'm a stranger to you, but you all want to see me get killed tomorrow. That's what you want, that's why you'll go to the race. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I really am. That's why I ain't popular: I stayed alive too long. (And then he thought, no, that isn't why. The reason you're not popular is because you don't go very good. Come on, Larsen, admit it. Face it. You're old and you're getting slow. You're getting cautious. That's why you don't run in the big events no more, because in those you're a tail-ender; maybe not dead last, but back in the back. Nobody sees you. Nobody pays you. And you work just as hard. So you make the jumps out here, in the sticks, running with the local boys, because you used to be pretty good, you used to be, and you've got a hell of a lot of experience behind you, and you can count on finishing in the money. But you're losing it. The coordination's on the way out; you don't think fast any more, you don't move fast; you don't drive fast.)
A big Lincoln, dipping with the ruts, rolled by. The driver stared. I'm sorry, Buck told him. I'd like to die for you, Buddy, but I just ain't up to it; I been kind of sick, you know how it goes. But come to the track anyway; I mean, you never can tell. Maybe I'll go on my head, maybe I'll fall out and the stinking car will roll over the top of me and they'll have to get me up with a rake. It could happen.
Buck steadied the wheel with his elbows and lit the stump of his cigar. It could happen, OK, he thought. But not to me. Not to Buck Larsen. He clamped his teeth down hard on the cigar, and thought, yeah, that's what Carl Beecham always said: you got to believe it'll never happen to you. Except, Carl was wrong; he found that out-what was it?-four years ago at Bonelli, when he hit the wall and bounced off and went over.
He tightened his thick, square fingers on the taped wheel. He pulled down the shutters, fast. Whenever he'd find himself thinking about Carl, or Sandy, or Chick Snyder, or Jim Lonnergan, or any of the others, he would just pull a cord and giant shutters would come down in his mind and he would stop thinking about them. They had all been friends of his. Now they were dead, or retired and in business for themselves, and he didn't have anyone to go out and have a beer with, or maybe play cards or just fool around; he was alone; and you don't want to make a thing like that worse, do you?
So I'm alone. Lots of people are alone. Lots of people don't even have jobs not even lousy ones like this.
He told himself that he was in plenty good shape, and did not wonder-as he had once wondered-why, since he hated it, he had ever become a race driver. It was no great mystery. There'd been a dirt track in the town where he grew up. He'd started hanging around the pits, because he liked to watch the cars and listen to the noise. And he was young, but he was a pretty good mechanic anyway so he helped the drivers work on their machines. Then, he couldn't recall who it was, somebody got sick and asked him to drive. It was a thrill, and he hadn't had many thrills before. So he tried it again.
And that was it. He'd been driving ever since; it was the only thing he knew how to do, for Christ's sake. (No, that wasn't true, either. He could make a living as a mechanic.)
So why don't I? I will. I'll take a few firsts and salt the dough away and start a garage and let the other bastards risk their necks. The hell with it.
The rain grew suddenly fierce, and he rolled up the window angrily. For almost an hour he thought of nothing but the car, mentally checking each part and making sure it was right. God knew he was handicapped enough as it was with a two-year-old engine; it took his know-how to find those extra horses, and still he was short. The other boys would be in new jobs, most of them. More torque. More top end. He'd have to fight some.
Buck slowed to 45, then to 25, and pulled up in front of a gas station. He went to the bathroom, splashed cold water over his face, wiped away some of the grime.
He went to a restaurant and spent one of his remaining six dollars on supper.
Then he took the Chevy to a hotel called The Plantation and locked it up. The rain gleamed on its wrinkled hide, wrinkled from the many battles it had waged, and made it look a little less ugly. But it was ugly, anyhow. It had a tough, weathered appearance, an appearance of great and disreputable age; and though it bore a certain resemblance to ordinary passenger cars, it was nothing of the kind. It was a stripped-down, tight-sprung, lowered, finely-tuned, balanced savage, a wild beast with a fighter's heart and a fighter's instincts. On the highway, it was a wolf among lambs; and it was only on the track that it felt free and happy and at home.
The Chevy was like Buck Larsen himself, and Buck sensed this. The two of them had been through a lot together. They had come too close too many times. But they were alive, somehow, both of them, now, and they were together, and maybe they were ugly and old and not as fast as the new jobs, but they knew some things, by God, they knew some tricks the hot-dogs would never find out.
Buck glanced at the tires, nodded, and went into the hotel. He left a call for 5:30. the old man at the desk said he wouldn't fail. Buck went to his room, which was small and hot but only cost him three dollars, and what can you expect for that?
He listened to the rain and told it, Look, I'll find second or third tomorrow, you can't stop me, I'm sorry. A man's got to eat.
He switched off the light and fell into a dark black sleep.
When he awoke, he went to the window and saw that the rain had stopped; but it had stopped within the hour, and so it didn't matter. He went out and found a place that was open and ate a light breakfast of toast and coffee.
Then he drove the Chevy the 13 miles out of town to the Soltan track. It sat in the middle of a field that would normally have been dusty but now was like a river bank, the surface slimy with black mud. The track itself was like most others: a fence of gray, rotting boards; a creaking round of hard, spintery benches; a heavy wooden crash wall; and a narrow oval of wet dirt. A big roller was busily tamping it down, but this would do no good. A few hot qualifying laps and the mud would loosen. One short heat and it would be a lake again.
Dawn had just broken, and the gray light washed over the sky. It was quiet, the roller making no sound on the dirt, the man behind the roller silent and tired. It was cold, too, but Buck stripped off his cloth jacket. He got his tools out of the trunk and laid them on the ground. He removed the car's muffler's first; then, methodically, jacked up the rear end, took off the hack left tire and examined it. He checked it for pressure, fitted it back onto the wheel and did the same with the other tires. Then he checked the wheels. Then the brakes.
Soon more cars arrived, and in a while the pits were full. When Buck finished with the Chevy, when he was sure as he could ever be that it was right and ready to go, he wiped his big hands on an oily rag and took a look at the competition.
It was going to be rougher than he'd thought. There were two brand new supercharged Fords, a 1957 fuel-injection Chevrolet, three Dodge D-500s, and a hotlooking Plymouth Fury. The remaining automobiles were more standard, several of them crash jobs, almost jalopies, the sides and top pounded out crudely.
Nineteen, in all.
And I've got to beat at least 17 of them, Buck thought. He walked over to a new Pontiac and looked inside. It was a meek job, real meek. But you can't tell. He examined the name printed on the side of the car: Tommy Linden.
Nobody. Buck put the rag away, returned to the Chevy. Several hours had passed, and soon it would be 12 o'clock, qualifying time. He'd better get some rest.
He lay down on a canvas tarpaulin and was about to close his eyes, when he saw a young man walking up to the Pontiac. They apparently hadn't heard of the No Females Allowed rule in Soltan, for a girl was with him. She was young, too; maybe 2], 22. And not hard and mannish, like most of them, but soft and light and clean. Some girls always stay clean, Buck thought. No matter what they do, where they are. If Anna-Lee had been more that way (or even a little) maybe he'd of stuck with her. But she was a dog. Why the hell do you marry a damn sloppy broad like that in the first place? God. He looked at the girl and thought of his ex-wife, then focused on the kid. Twenty-five. Handsome, brawny: he thinks he's got a lot, that one. You can usually tell. Look at his eyes.
Buck half-dozed until a loudspeaker announced time for qualifying; he sat up then and listened to the order of the numbers. Twenty-two, first. Ninety-one, second. Seven, third.
He was ninth.
People started running around in the pits; customers drifted up into the grandstands; the speaker blared; then number 22, a yellow Ford, rolled up to the line.
It roared away at the drop of the flag.
Others followed.
When he was called, Buck patted the Chevy, listened to it, and grunted. The track was getting chewed up, but it was still possible to get around quickest time. He eased off the mark slowly as the flag dropped, got up some steam on the backstretch and came thundering across the line with his foot planted. He grazed the south wall slightly on his second try, but it was nothing, only a scratch.

He went to the pits and removed his helmet in time to hear the announcer's voice: "Car number six, driven by Buck Larsen-26:15."
The crowd murmured approval. Buck decided it would be a decent gate and settled down again. The Fury went through at something over 26:15.
Then it was the Pontiac's turn.
"Car number 14, driven by Tommy Linden, up."
The gray car's pipes growled savagely as it rolled out. The track was bad, now. Really bad. Buck felt better: he had second starting position sewed up. No one could drop a hell of a lot off of 26:15 in this soup.
The Pontiac accelerated so hard at take-off that the rear almost slewed around. Easy, 14, Buck thought. Easy. It'll impress the little girl but your ass'll be at the end of the pack.
Number 14 came through the last turn almost sideways, straightened, and screamed across the line. It stuck high on the track, near the wall, at every curve. Buck saw the kid's face as he went by. It was unsmiling. The eyes were fixed straight ahead.
Then it was over, and the loudspeaker roared: "Tommy Linden, number 14, turns it in 26:13!"
Buck frowned. The other supercharged Ford would probably make it under 26. Sure it would, with that torque.
The kid crawled out of the Pontiac but before he could get his helmet off, the girl in the pink dress jumped from the stack of tires and began to pull awkwardly at the strap. The kid grinned. "Come on, leave it go," he said, and pushed the girl gently aside. Already his face was dirty, no longer quite so young. He looked at his tires and walked over to Buck. "Hey," he said, "I had somebody fooling with my hat, I didn't get the time. You remember what I turned?"
"26:13," Buck said.
"Not too bad, huh?" the kid said, happily. Then, he spit out his gum. "What'd you turn?"
"26:15."
The kid appraised Buck, looked at his age and the worry in his face. "That's all right," he said, "hell, nothing wrong with that. You been around Soltan before?"
"Not for a while," Buck said.
"Well, like, sometimes I steal a little practice; you know?" He paused. "I'm Tommy Linden, live over to Pinetop."
Buck did not put out his hand. "Larsen," he said.
The young man took another piece of gum from his pocket, unwrapped it, folded it, put it into his mouth. "I'll tell you something," he said. "See, like I told you, I practice here once in a while. I got Andy Gammon's garage backing me-they're in Pinetop?-see, and the thing is, I'm kind of after 36. You know? The blown Ford?"
"Yeah."
"So, what I mean is, if you can pass me, what the hell, go on, know what I mean? But, uh-if you can't, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out of my way." The kid's eyes looked hard and angry. "I mean I really want me that Ford."
Buck lit his cigar, carefully. "I'll do what I can," he said.
"Thanks a lot," the kid said. Then he winked. "I got the chick along, see. She thinks I'm pretty good. I don't want to let her down; you know?" He slapped Buck's arm and walked back to his own car, walked lightly, on the balls of his feet. His jeans were tight and low on his waist and the bottoms were stuffed into a pair of dark boots. He doesn't have a worry, Buck thought. He may be a little scared, but he's not worried. It's better that way.
The sun began to throb and the heat soaked into Buck's clothes and he began to feel the old impatience, the agony of waiting. Why the hell did they always take so damn long? he wondered. No reason for it.
He started to walk across the track, but the plate in his leg was acting up-it did that whenever it rained-and he sat down instead. His face was wet; dirt caked into the shiny scar tissue behind his ear, and perspiration beaded the tips of the black hairs that protruded from his nostrils. He looked over and saw Tommy Linden and the girl in the pink dress. She was whispering something into the kid's ear; he was laughing.
Damn the heat! He wiped his face, turned from Tommy Linden and the girl and rechecked his tires. Then he checked them again. Then it was time for the first race, a five-lap trophy dash. It didn't count for anything.
The race started; the two Fords shot ahead at once, Buck gunned the Chevy and took after them. Number 14 spent too much time spinning its wheels and had to drop behind. But it stayed there, weaving to the right, then to the left, pushing hard. Buck knew he could hold his position-anyone could in a five lapper-but he decided not to take any chances; it didn't mean a goddamn. So he swung wide and let the Pontiac rush past on the inside. It fishtailed violently with the effort, but remained on the track.
Within a couple of minutes it was over, and Buck's Chevy was the only car that had been passed: he'd had no trouble holding off the Mercs, and they kept daylight between themselves and the Fury.
But of course it meant nothing. The short heats were just to fill up time for the crowd; nobody took them seriously.
A bunch of motorcycles went around for 10 laps, softening up the dirt even more; there were two more dashes; and then it was time for the big one-for the 150 lap Main Event.
Once again Buck pulled into line; it was to be an inverted start. Fast cars to the rear, slow cars in front.
He slipped carefully into the shoulder harness, cinched the safety belt tight across his lap, checked the doors, and put on his helmet. It was hot, but he might as well get used to it; he'd have the damn thing on for a long time.
Number 14 skidded slightly beside him, its engine howling. Tommy Linden fitted his helmet on and stretched theatrically. His eyes met Buck's and held.
"You know what?" Linden yelled. "I don't think them two Fords is exactly stock, you know what I mean?"
Buck smiled. The kid's OK, he thought. A pretty nice kid. "Well, are you?" he shouted.
"Hell, no!" Linden roared with amusement.
"Me either."
"What?"
The loudspeaker crackled. "Red Norris will now introduce the drivers!"
Up ahead, the track was like a rained-on mountain trail; great clots of mud and sticky pools of black surfaced it all the way around; there wasn't a clear hard spot anywhere.
Buck glanced over at number 14 and saw Tommy Linden waving up at the grandstand. A middle-aged man waved back. Buck turned away.
"Gonna let me get him?" The kid was pointing at number 36.
"Don't ask me! Ask him!"
"Yeah, why don't I do that!"
After the introductions, the official starter walked up with a green flag, furled. The drivers all buckled their helmets. The silence lasted a moment, then was torn by the successive explosions that trembled out of the 19 racing stock cars.
Buck stopped smiling; he stopped thinking of Tommy Linden, of any other human being. He thought only of the moments to come. I'll follow 36 he decided, let it break trail; then I'll hang on. That's all I have to do. Just don't get too damn close to the wall. You don't want to spend time pounding out a door. Be smooth. Hang on to 36 and you're in hardward.
The cars roared like wounded lions for almost a full minute, and some sounded healthy while others coughed enough to show that they were not so healthy; then the man with the flag waved them off, in a bunch, for the rolling start. Buck could see the Pontiac straining at the leash, inching forward, and he kept level. They circulated slowly around, the starter judged them, he judged they were all right, and gave them the flag.
It was a race.
Buck immediately cut his wheel for a quick nip inside the Pontiac, but the kid was quicker; he'd anticipated the move and edged to the right to hold Buck off. At the first turn, number 14 threw its rear around viciously, and Buck knew he'd have to kiss the wall and bull through or drop back. He dropped back. There was plenty of time.
He followed the Pontiac closely, but he found that it was not so easy after all. The car cowboyed through every turn, scaring off the tail-enders, and it was everything he could do to hang on. Ahead, the Fords were threading their way through traffic with great ease, leaving a wake of thick mud.
He relaxed some and allowed the long years of his experience to guide the car. Gradually the Pontiac was picking off the stragglers; within 15 minutes it had passed the sixth place Mercury, and was drawing up on five.
You better not try it, Buck said. Those boys aren't working too hard. They can go a lot faster. I hope you know that.
But the Pontiac didn't settle down, it didn't slacken its pace any, and Buck knew that he would have to revise his strategy. He'd planned to wait for number 14 to realize that it couldn't hope for better than a third; then he was going to bluff him. You can bluff them when the fever's passed, when they're not all out and driving hard.
But he could see that he wasn't going to be able to bluff the Pontiac.
He could only outdrive him, nerf him a little, maybe, shake him up, cause him to bobble that one time, and then streak by.
Once the decision was made, Buck moved well back in the seat. They were about halfway through now. Give it seven more laps; then make the bid.
He swung past a beat-up Dodge on the north turn and was about to correct when the driver lost it. The Dodge went into a frenzied spin, skimmed across the muddy track and bounded off the wall. Buck yanked his tape-covered wheel violently to the left, then to the right, and managed to avoid the car. Damn! Now number 14 was four up and going like the wind. Well. Buck put his bumper next to the Merc in front of him and stabbed the accelerator. The Merc wavered, moved; Buck went by. It worked on the second car, too; and he was in position to catch 14 as it was passing a Ford on the short straight. -
He waited another three laps, until they were out of the traffic somewhat, and began to ride the Pontiac's tail. They both hit a deep rut and both fishtailed, but no more than three inches of daylight showed between them.
Buck tried to pass on the west turn by swinging left and going in a little deeper, but the Pontiac saw him and went just as deep; both missed the wall by less than a foot.
Perspiration began to course down Buck's forehead, and when he tried nerfing 14, and found that it wouldn't work, that 14 wasn't going to scare, the thought suddenly brushed his mind that perhaps he would not finish third after all. But if he didn't then he wouldn't be able to pay for gas to the next town or for a hotel, even, or anything.
His shoulders hunched forward, and Buck Larsen began to drive; not the way he had been driving for the past two years, but as he used to, when he was young and worried about very little, when he had friends and women.
You want to impress your girlfriend, he said to the Pontiac.
I just want to go on eating.
He made five more passes during the following six laps, and twice he almost made it, but the track was just a little too short, a little too narrow, and he was forced to drop behind each time.
When he was almost certain that the race was nearing its finish, he realized that other tactics would have to be used. He clung to 14's bumper through traffic on the straight; then, as they dived into the south turn, he hung back for a fraction of a second-long enough to put a bit of space between them. Then he pulled down onto the inside and pushed the accelerator flat. The Chevy jumped forward; in a moment it was nearly even with the Pontiac.
Buck considered nothing whatever except keeping his car in control; he knew that the two of them were at that spot, right there, where one would have to give, but he didn't consider any of this.
The two cars entered the turn together, and the crowd screamed and some of the people got to their feet and some closed their eyes. Because neither car was letting off.
Neither car was slowing.
Buck did not move his foot on the pedal; he did not look at the driver to his right; he plunged deeper, and deeper, up to the point where he knew that he would lose control, even under the best of conditions; the edge, the final thin edge of destruction.
He stared straight ahead and fought the wheel through the turn, whipping it back and forth, correcting, correcting.
Then, it was all over.
He was through the turn; and he was through first.
He didn't see much of the accident: only a glimpse, in his rear view mirror, a brief flash of the Pontiac swerving to miss the wall, losing control, going up high on its nose and teetering there…
A flag stopped the race. The other cars had crashed into the Pontiac, and number 14 was on fire. It wasn't really a bad fire, but the automobile had landed on its right side, and the left side was bolted and there were bars on the window, so they had to get it cooled off before they could pull the driver out.
He hadn't broken any bones. But something had happened to the fuel line and the hood had snapped open and the windshield had collapsed and some gasoline had splashed onto Tommy Linden's shirt. The fumes had caught and he'd burned long enough.
He was dead before they got him into the ambulance.
Buck Larsen looked at the girl in the pink dress and tried to think of something to say, but there wasn't anything to say, there never was.
He collected his money for third place-it amounted to $350-and put the mufflers back on the Chevy and drove away from the race track, out onto the long highway.
The wind was hot on his face, and soon he was tired and hungry again; but he didn't stop, because if he stopped he'd sleep, and he didn't want to sleep, not yet. He thought one time of number 14, then he lowered the shutters and didn't think any more.
He drove at a steady 70 miles per hour and listened to the whine of the engine. She would be all right for another couple of runs, he could tell, but then he would have to tear her down.