and buggy!" she said. "How old do you think I am? Your grandmother
probably went on dates in a horse and buggy. I went in my car. It was a
Chrysler two-seater--one of the first they ever produced. And, young
lady, I owned it. Sometimes I used to think that your father dated me
just to drive the car. He said when we were married he'd buy me a much
better one."
"Did he?" asked Mary Jane.
"No, dear," her mother replied. "He bought me a house full of
furniture. It was much more practical. But anyway, if you're not doing
anything this evening and you want to, why don't you call up Woody?"
"Oh, Mother, I can't," said Mary Jane. "We're not speaking. Besides,
he's probably busy with his silly old hot rod."
Mrs. Jackson said nothing but went on with her ironing.
"Do you really think I ought to call him?" Mary Jane asked. "Sometimes
we used to have a lot of fun together. Though he's so boyish."
Mrs. Jackson still remained silent, and Mary Jane said, "I wonder if
he's still at the garage?" She went to the phone and dialed the number.
Woody was so surprised by the call that he could only answer Mary
Jane's seemingly very casual questions in nonsyllables. He said yes he
was feeling well, and no he hadn't been sick. He almost let Mary Jane
hang up before he recovered himself sufficiently to ask her for a date.
And when he came away from the phone, he was grinning as he hadn't
grinned since he sold the wreckage of Cindy Lou.
"Ye'll be taking yere lassie out tonight, nae doot?" said Worm.
"Yes, _sir_," said Woody all smiles.
"Nae doot ye'd like a leetle advance on yer pay," Worm went on. "Or are
ye fixed for money? I could let ye have maybe a dollar."
"Thanks," said Woody, "but I think I've got enough."
"Weel," said Worm, "dinna spend a lot on her. Them that takes yere
money aren't the housekeeping kind."
When Woody called for Mary Jane he had the whole evening planned. He'd
borrowed his father's car--a '54 Merc--and was dressed in the dark
blue suit that Mary Jane liked. He had spent half an hour cleaning the
grease from under his fingernails, and passing a drugstore, had had the
happy inspiration to buy a box of candy.
Mary Jane kept him waiting for only twenty minutes. When she appeared
she looked slimmer and more vivacious and more attractive than Woody
ever remembered. She was not an exceptionally pretty girl but had a
certain grace to her ways and walk that completely captivated Woody.
Her nose was perhaps a little too snub for perfection, but her dark
brown eyes, set wide apart, gave her a frankness of expression that was
especially appealing.
"Hi, Woody," she said as she entered. "Sorry to keep you waiting. My
hair just wouldn't stay in place this evening." Woody glanced at her
hair, thick, dark, and curly, and didn't mind the twenty minutes of
thumb twiddling in the Jackson living room.
When they were in the car, he suggested that they go to Merton's for
dinner. Unfortunately Merton's was the place to which Mary Jane had
been with Bob Peters, and she now associated it with a certain amount
of boredom.
"We could eat there and then go to the civic auditorium," he suggested.
"There's somebody giving a lecture there on something to do with
psychology. I thought you'd like to hear it." Woody had been briefed
on tactics by Steve, who knew that Mary Jane had developed a passion
recently for lectures.
"Woody Hartford," said Mary Jane. "If you mention the word 'lecture'
to me again, I won't speak to you all evening."
They went instead to the College Try, a place halfway between a soda
fountain and a restaurant. It had a juke box, and Mary Jane played all
the new swing records she could find, and they danced. Woody decided
that Steve had given him a bum steer, but he didn't mind. He was having
a wonderful time, and Mary Jane was even more vivacious and attractive
than usual. She even asked him about Cindy Lou, and Woody told her that
it had blown up and he'd sold what was left of the hot rod.
If he'd been a little more observant, he'd have noticed that there
was the tiniest expression of satisfaction and even victory on Mary
Jane's face when she got this news. But Woody went on to describe how
he'd gone to the tech inspection and seen the Black Tiger. And when he
talked about the Black Tiger, it was with such enthusiasm and devotion
that Mary Jane realized Cindy Lou had merely been replaced by another
rival.
"I don't see what you get out of all this car business," she said a
little pettishly. "It's all so boyish. You just work in grease and dirt
all day long and then you take a car to a race track and perhaps drive
it two or three miles an hour faster than anyone else. And that's all
you get for your pains."
"Oh, it's a lot more than that," said Woody. "There are things in it
that are hard to explain. There's making an engine work better. It
gives you a sense of having done something. And there's challenge to
it. And some danger. And there's a feeling of belonging to a bunch of
really good guys. It's exciting all the time. Look. Steve and I are
going to the road races at Torrey Pines near San Diego next weekend.
It's a two-day event--Saturday and Sunday. And the Black Tiger will be
racing for the first time in America. Why don't you come along? You'd
really get a kick out of it. I know you would."
"Oh, I don't think Mother and Daddy would let me," said Mary Jane.
"Worm's going," said Woody, "and he'd take care of you. Your Mother
and Dad both know him. And Randy will be there." He launched into an
enthusiastic description of Captain Randolph that made it quite clear
that the owner of the Black Tiger was now Woody's hero.
"Well, I don't know," said Mary Jane. "We'll just have to see."
Mr. Jackson was at first reluctant to let Mary Jane go to the Torrey
Pines race. But Mrs. Jackson came to her daughter's aid.
"She's almost eighteen," she said, "and you've just got to get used to
the idea that she's very nearly grown up. She isn't a child any longer."
"Young people these days haven't any sense," grunted Mr. Jackson. "I'm
just concerned about whether she'll get hurt at the races. That's all."
"Well, she could just as easily get hurt crossing the main street
here," said Mrs. Jackson.
"Oh, all right," said Mr. Jackson, who had suddenly recalled that
his grandmother came West in 1865 in a wagon train at the age of
fifteen. Secretly he realized he was rather pleased at his daughter's
enterprise. It would be something to mention casually at the club next
time Wilson mentioned his son's speedboat.
5
The Torrey Pines Road Race shaped up even better than Woody had
expected. He and Steve had proposed to pay their own admission, which
would not have allowed them to mix with the cars and their drivers in
the pits where the cars were serviced and given emergency repairs. But
on the Wednesday before the event, there was an unexpected development.
Woody was busy installing a new set of points on a V-8 on one side of
the garage when he heard the deep throbbing note of a car pulling into
the garage. It was not an engine he had heard before, and he looked up
quickly from his work. There was the Black Tiger and Randy stepping out
of the seat without going through the formality of opening the door.
Woody dropped his work on the V-8 and went right over.
"Hello," said Randy genuinely pleased to see him. "Busy?"
"Just putting some new points on that job," said Woody.
"I didn't realize you were a mechanic," said Randy. "Been working at it
long?"
"I've worked with Worm nearly two years. But I studied automotive
engineering for three years at night school."
"Hmmm," said Randy. "Say, is Worm around? I've got a problem for him."
Worm had by now come out of his office, where he was totaling up the
day's business with a stub of a pencil in a notebook whose pages were
gray with greasy thumb marks. It was an invariable practice of his.
"What's the trouble?" he asked.
"Got a job for you," said Randy. "I didn't want to bring it anywhere
else because I think you're the only mechanic in this area who can
tackle it. I've tried a couple of other places, but the Tiger is so new
I'm not quite satisfied that they can do the work. It takes the kind of
special training that you have."
"I'll do what I can," said Worm. "What's the problem?"
"Basically it's a matter of tuning," said Randy. "She's not tuned
right. We've been working on her all week, and she's sluggish at around
fifty-eight hundred rpm. That's just where I need to get real power.
What do you think?"
"I can do it," said Worm for false modesty was not one of his vices.
"But it'll take all day. I'll have tae shut doon on all me other work
tomorrow if the job's tae be done right."
"You couldn't work on it tonight, could you?" asked Randy. "I'd like
to get her tuned really fine and then try her out sometime tomorrow to
make sure everything's super. The race is the day after."
"Aye," said Worm. "We can work taenight for old time's sake. I'll close
the shop tomorrow, anyway. Woody, can ye stay and help a bit, laddie?"
Woody said he could with such enthusiasm that Randy smiled. They closed
the garage doors after driving the Black Tiger into the building,
and in the overhead electric light the car gleamed sleek, powerful,
exciting, and yet oddly menacing. The thought occurred to Woody that
here was a car it would take a real driver to master. It seemed to have
almost the spirit of a pedigreed stallion. With the right, sure touch
at the controls, it would perform obediently. But any unsureness, any
hesitation, and the car would master the driver.
Randy lifted the engine cowling in the back, and they set to work.
Woody could follow most of what the two were doing easily enough. They
checked the distributor, coil, points, spark-plug gaps, and timing.
All were in tiptop shape. Tappets, tiny as toys, were checked also and
proved to be correctly adjusted.
Then Worm did something that Woody had never seen before. He went to
his own tool kit, which he always kept locked, and brought it over.
He opened it up, and inside lay his tools, each contained in a velvet
covering and glittering like the operating instruments of a surgeon. He
took out the two top trays and laid them carefully on a cloth on the
workbench. From the bottom of the toolbox he extracted a stethoscope
such as doctors use for chest examinations. Woody nearly laughed. Worm
with the stethoscope around his neck, dressed in his soiled coveralls,
looked like a caricature of a mad doctor.
"Fire her oop," said Worm. "She's no breathing right."
Randy turned on the ignition and pressed the starter button, and the
Black Tiger purred contentedly to herself.
"Rev her oop tae five thousand," said Worm. The Black Tiger snarled
in anger and impatience as Randy pressed the accelerator down. Worm
put the stethoscope to his ears and the listening apparatus to the
carburetor intake pipe. How he could hear anything above the deep roar
of the engine Woody could not understand. But Worm was listening as
intently as any doctor to the chest of a tuberculous patient. He raised
a long finger in the air, and Randy depressed the accelerator further.
The Black Tiger's roar was now such that it seemed it must bring down
the building. Worm nodded and took off the stethoscope as the roar of
the engine died to a quiet purr again.
"It's as I thought," he said. "She's no breathing right around five
thousand eight hundred. The air's no ramming through as it should. It's
a delicate matter, and I hae me doots whether we can fix it."
"Have to change the contour of the intake and exhaust ports, huh?"
asked Randy.
"Aye," said Worm. He saw the mystified look on Woody's face and
explained. "It's a matter of using air pulsations tae shoot air through
the intake port and suck it oot of the exhaust. I've not got the time
tae explain it further. Ye'd find it in Davie if ye ever looked. But
it's controlled by the size and contour o' the intake and exhaust
ports. It's like using the air as a supercharger for itself."
Woody now began to understand what Worm had meant when he talked about
the difference between butchery and surgery in servicing automobiles.
"I'm thinking," Worm said to Randy, "that if the intake ports were
polished a bit it might do the trick."
Worm bent over to look. "Somebody installed the wrong gaskets," he
said, straightening up. "Yon gaskets are too thick. A sixteenth of an
inch will make a difference."
He took the intake manifold off and found two gaskets had been used
on them in place of one. Then he took off the exhaust headers and
found the same. When they fired up the Black Tiger once more, and Worm
listened to her breathing with his stethoscope, he smiled his approval.
"She'll do all right noo," he said.
That, however, was not the end of the evening's, or rather the night's,
work. Worm went over every detail of the engine, working slowly but
expertly, and Woody's job was mostly to listen and supply cups of hot
coffee. He had called up his mother to explain he would be home late,
but it was nearly one in the morning before Worm pronounced himself
satisfied.
"Ye can try her out tomorrow," Worm said to Randy, "and if there's
any further trouble, bring her in and we'll tickle her again tomorrow
night."
"Look," said Randy to Worm, "I don't know whether I can swing this, but
I've got a vacancy on my pit crew. One of my men is sick. In any case
I'd sooner you worked in the pit than he. Do you think you can do it
for me--as a favor for old time's sake?"
To Woody's surprise, Worm hesitated. He himself would have jumped at
the opportunity of being one of the crew of mechanics who would service
the Black Tiger during the racing. But Worm seemed loath to take the
job. Then Randy said something that surprised Woody.
"You've got to get over that, Worm," he said. "It was a long time ago.
You've got to turn round and face it, and you might as well do it with
your friends."
Worm didn't reply immediately. Woody sensed that there was a great deal
of tension in the moment, and that Worm was being asked to make some
critical decision in his life. Worm fished into the breast pocket of
his coveralls for a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it, his
hands trembling slightly.
Randy was looking at him steadily--a look between sympathy and
challenge.
"I made oop me mind fifteen years ago to hae nae more tae doo with it,"
Worm said.
"That was the wrong decision," said Randy calmly, "and you know it. The
only way you can get it straightened out is to get back into the game
again. Otherwise you'll spend the rest of your life with this thing in
the background." Both seemed to have forgotten Woody's presence.
"I won't think any less of you if you refuse," Randy said slowly. "I
could never think any less of you, Worm. You've done too many splendid
things. But let me put it this way. If you accept, then you're an even
bigger man than I thought you were."
Worm took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at Woody for the
first time during the conversation. There was a softness in his eyes,
and quite suddenly Woody felt a great warmth for both Worm and Randy.
"All right," said Worm still looking at Woody. "I'll do it."
Randy didn't say anything. He just grinned and gave Worm a firm little
punch in the chest, and Worm looked a little foolish.
Woody, Mary Jane, Steve, and Worm went down to San Diego in the Dodge,
starting early on Friday morning. In San Diego they met Randy and all
had dinner together. Mary Jane said afterward that Randy was the most
fascinating man she had ever met. Certainly he was an excellent talker,
full of wit and optimism. Perhaps in deference to Mary Jane, he didn't
limit the conversation to racing and racing cars but spoke as readily
of the different countries of Europe, with an anecdote to adorn each of
them, as a man would speak of his own home town.
He talked of sailing on Lake Geneva, in Switzerland, and of the
mistrals, or sudden winds, coming out of the mountains, which made the
sport dangerous; of the Casino at Monaco and the Tivoli gardens in
Copenhagen. All in all he enchanted everybody, so that Mary Jane wanted
to know all about him and both Steve and Woody made him number one on
their hero list.
Woody noticed when dinner was over that Randy was a little awkward in
getting out of his chair. He thought nothing of it at the time, but the
detail had not escaped Mary Jane.
When they returned to their motel and Randy had left them, Mary Jane
turned to Worm and asked, "Has Randy got something the matter with his
legs?"
"Ye're a noticing young body," said Worm. "His legs are all right, but
he's only got five toes."
"Five toes?" said Mary Jane, horrified now that she'd said anything at
all.
"Aye," said Worm. "He lost his right foot about fifteen years ago. But
it doesn't trouble his driving, and he walks without a limp. I've no
doot it took him a lot of practice. There was some talk of barring him
from racing, but he proved he's as good a driver as men wi' two feet of
their own. He has a cupboard full of trophies won all over Europe. But
this is the first time he's racing in America."
"You mean he's racing an unknown car on a course he's never seen before
and with only one foot?" cried Woody.
"Hoot, mon," said Worm, "I mind the time he climbed the Matterhorn in
the avalanche season wi' the same one foot. It comes to me that yon
Randy wouldna enjoyed himself half as much if he had both his feet.
He's a mon that likes a challenge."
6
Woody, Mary Jane, and Steve were out at the track early the following
morning after a hurried breakfast. Worm and Randy went out in the Black
Tiger together, and Woody took Worm's Dodge. They would not see each
other until the day's racing was over because Woody and Randy would be
in the pit area while they would have to stay behind the low fence of
wood slats, called a snow fence, which separated the track from the
spectators.
Woody bought a program and found a map of the track on it.
"Boy," he said, "take a gander at that."
The track looked in shape like a wire loop that had been badly
mangled. From the starting line, there was about four hundred yards of
straightaway. Then a right-angle left turn, followed after two hundred
yards by a hairpin bend to the right. There were a series of S-turns,
another right angle, and another hairpin, though not as acute as the
first. Then a straightaway of about three-quarters of a mile, followed
by two more right-angle turns, and so back to the starting position to
complete the first lap.
All the turns were numbered on the map and there were ten in all. The
track was just under three miles.
"We ought to try to get over to that first hairpin," said Steve.
"That's where we'll see the fun. Say," he said turning to a man
standing nearby, "how do you get to turn number two?"
"Butcher Bend?" said the stranger laconically. "Right over by that
clump of eucalyptus. You'd better hurry, though, if you want to get a
good place."
They had hardly got there when a loud-speaker over their heads said
in a peculiarly flat and distorted voice, "Attention all drivers and
pit crews. There'll be a drivers' meeting by the judges' stand in ten
minutes. All those competing in the first event for cars under fifteen
hundred cc.'s please have somebody there. You must get this briefing to
learn the rules of the course." The message was repeated.
"What's that for?" Mary Jane asked.
"To tell them about the flags and the rules of racing," replied Steve.
"For instance, if a flagman waves a black flag to a driver, it means
that he has to go round to the pit area and get out of the race."
"Why?" asked Mary Jane.
"Any number of reasons," said Steve. "His car might be leaking gas on
the track, which is real dangerous, or he might be driving so badly
as to be a danger to the other drivers, or he might have deliberately
fouled somebody. You can't just get into one of these cars and drive it
as fast as you want without regard for anybody else. It's a real risky
business, and even with every safety precaution that can be taken,
fellows crack up."
"I thought everybody just went as hard as they could go," said Mary
Jane.
"They do. But they've got to do it with judgment. Wild stuff is
strictly out."
The loud-speaker started to blat again:
"Today," the announcer said, "we have an event of very great importance
to West Coast racing and to road racing in the United States. A new
Italian car of revolutionary design will make its first appearance
on this track this morning. This is the first time that this car,
the Black Tiger, has ever been raced anywhere in the world. And it's
being driven by none other than the owner, Captain Jimmy Randolph, who
has competed in three of the Le Mans events in France and is one of
Europe's best drivers. Randy, how about saying a word to the folks?"
"Hush," said Mary Jane, though this was quite unnecessary, for both
Woody and Steve were standing stock-still listening.
"I'm very happy to be here," said Randy over the loud-speaker. "This is
a really sporting course, and I'm looking forward to an enjoyable day."
"What do you think of your chances in the Black Tiger?" the announcer
asked.
"We'll know more about them at the end of the race than we do now
before it's started," Randy replied. "I'm up against some hot
competition, and whatever driver wins will deserve everybody's respect.
There are eighteen other cars in the event--Jags, Ferraris, Maseratis,
and a couple of Thunderbirds--and I'm going to have to keep my eye on
every one of them."
"Any particular driver you're worried about?"
"At this point, I'm worried about them all," replied Randy. "Some of
the boys have raced against me at Le Mans. Tom Wisdom in Ferrari number
four is tops, and so is Kurt Kreuger in his Jag--I think it's number
six. But as I say, I'll have to keep my eye on everybody. They're all
tiptop men driving fine cars."
"Isn't he wonderful?" said Mary Jane, and Steve and Woody nodded their
agreement.
A few minutes later there came another announcement over the
loud-speaker. "Attention in the spectator area," the announcer said.
"Will Woody Hartford--that's W-o-o-d-y H-a-r-t-f-o-r-d--report
immediately to gate three? Woody Hartford to gate three immediately."
"That's me," said Woody in astonishment.
"That's right," said Steve. "Get moving."
"Where's gate three?" Woody asked.
"You, Woody Hartford?" a flagman who was standing on the track within
earshot asked.
"That's right."
"O.K., get over the fence and cross the track. Gate three's right over
there where all those cars are parked. By the big white building.
Hustle, because they're going to close the track in a couple of
minutes."
Woody scrambled over the fence and ran toward the white building as
fast as he could. At gate three he found Worm waiting for him and very
excited.
"Here," said Worm. "Sign this. It means that if you get hit or get
hurt, you can't sue the race track or anybody." He put a mimeographed
form before Woody. "Randy's other pit man didn't turn up," said Worm,
"and I can no handle everything meself. We've got forty minutes tae get
the Black Tiger ready, and because it's a new car, the officials are
letting ye join the pit crew. Hurry, mon. Did they never teach ye tae
sign yere name in thot silly school ye went tae?"
Woody scrawled his signature in indelible pencil on the bottom of the
form, and the two sprinted over to the pit area where Randy stood,
looking worried, beside the Black Tiger.
"Awfully glad you were able to come," he said. "Tape up my headlights
for me, like a good lad." He threw Woody a roll of adhesive tape.
Woody glanced at the headlights of the Jag in the adjoining pit. They
were covered completely with strips of adhesive tape. He guessed the
reason was to prevent them being pitted by gravel flung up by the rear
wheels of cars ahead in the race. He taped the Black Tiger's headlights
in a similar way.
"Get the fenders now," said Worm, and Woody put overlapping strips of
adhesive over the fore part of the Tiger's fenders.
"Can you help adjust these rear-vision mirrors?" said Randy when he
was finished. "Just move them the way I tell you." The Black Tiger had
three rear-vision mirrors, one on each front fender and one on the
dashboard in front of the driver. They had to be adjusted so that by
looking into them Randy could see the area around his two rear fenders
and behind him.
By this time the first race for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s had
started. But Woody was so busy with the Black Tiger that he saw very
little of it. Eventually all was done and only just in time.
"Cars for event number two, report to the starting grid," the
loud-speaker instructed.
"That's us," said Randy. "Coming?"