Drag-Strip Racer (8 page)

He parked the pickup in a vacant spot large enough to accommodate it and the trailer, then got out, lifted out his crutches,
and headed toward the coffee shop. His mind was so preoccupied with Dottie Hill that he’d gone twenty feet before he remembered
his sisters.

He turned, his face brick red, and motioned for them to come with him.

“You sure you want us to?” Janet called back to him, giving him a grin that embarrassed him even more.

“Sure, I’m sure,” he said, smiling. “Come on.”

Dottie was already in the coffee shop, sitting at a booth near the door. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of him and she moved
farther in to make room for one of the girls.

Greetings were exchanged as Janet slid into the seat beside her. Lori got in on the opposite side, and Ken beside her.

The air-conditioned room felt cool and com
fortable. Almost instantly, Ken began to feel the sweat drying on his body. But his leg—the one inside the plaster cast—began
to itch like crazy, and the only thing he could do was to move the muscles in the leg to help relieve it.

A waitress came and began to hand them menus.

“Just coffee for me, Jean,” Dottie told her.

“And a Coke for me,” said Ken.

His sisters ordered Cokes, too.

The waitress scribbled down their orders, took the menus, and left.

Dottie wanted to know if they were returning from Candlewyck Speedway.

“In a way, yes,” Ken replied, then explained what had happened there, and subsequently what had happened at the abandoned
airport. She laughed over the episode about the two old men, then apologized, saying that it did sound funny to her.

Ken and the girls laughed, too. But he laughed less as he thought back to that scene—one old man shaking a finger at him while
the other aimed his shotgun on the little red racer, threatening to “puncture it with holes.” He could have been shot by one
of those crazies.

The coffee and Cokes came, and the atmos
phere calmed a little as Dottie looked seriously across the table at Ken and apologized for her bad behavior at her father’s
store the other day.

“Apologize? For what?” he said.

“Don’t be naive,” she told him. “You know what I’m talking about.”

He did, but he thought he’d like to be subtle about it.

“I couldn’t believe what Daddy had said about Scott,” Dottie explained. “Later on, when he told me all about it, I was so
angry I couldn’t speak to anyone. I thought about calling you on the phone and apologizing to you, but I couldn’t get myself
to do it. I did plan on doing it sometime. I’m glad I saw you on the street,” she added, smiling.

He grinned. “Me, too.”

“You know, it was just two days before he stole that engine that he had asked Daddy to sponsor him? Doesn’t that amaze you?”

“Sure it does. Scott must have had that robbery all planned, figuring he would never be suspected if he had your father sponsoring
him.”

“Right. And if your brother hadn’t been near there at the right time he might still be driving with Daddy as his sponsor.”

“My brother?” Ken frowned. “What’s he got to do with it?”

Her eyes focused on him. “Dana’s the one who saw Scott’s pickup truck driving toward Daddy’s automobile parts store that morning.
Then he sneaked over to Scott’s place and saw the engine in their garage. Didn’t Dana, or Daddy, tell you that?”

He hesitated. “No,” he answered finally, dumbfounded at the news. His hands trembled. He set the glass of Coke down and clenched
his fists.

Dottie looked at him gravely. “Ken, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He relaxed his fists. “Sorry.” He forced a grin. “I guess I’ve been a little touchy since I broke my foot.”

He put the glass to his lips and took a couple of swallows.

Ask Dusty Hill for it,
Dana had said.
I’m sure he’ll give it to you.
No wonder he was sure that Dusty would put up the bail money for him. He felt that Dusty owed him for having told him who
had swiped his engine.

“How was Dana sure it was Scott who had stolen the engine?” Ken asked.

“He was coming home late from Nick’s place that night and saw Scott’s truck drive into the lane heading toward the rear of
Wade Mall,” Dottie
explained. “Only he didn’t realize it was Scott’s truck at the time. Scott had a sign on the side of it advertising Daddy’s
store. But he saw the first three letters on Scott’s license plate.”

“R stands for Rat,” Ken said.

“Right. Rat, his nickname.” She shook her head and looked away for a minute. “What an actor. He could be so charming! Ugh!”
She turned back to him. “Anyway, when Dana found out that an engine was stolen from Daddy’s store—”

“I told him,” Ken cut in.

Her eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, he sort of added two and two, drove up to Scott’s place, and saw the engine in Scott’s father’s garage.”

“And got away without being seen?” Ken shook his head, incredulous. “You know, that brother of mine has a lot of guts, too.”

“But he
was
seen,” said Dottie. “By Scott’s father.”

Ken and his sisters listened avidly to her as she went on to explain about the threat Mr. Taggart had made against Dana, and
Dana’s promise not to inform the police on them if Scott returned the engine to the store.

“Wonder why he promised that?” Ken muttered.

Dottie laughed. “Maybe to save his life,” she said. “Scott’s father had a shotgun on him.”

“A shotgun?” Ken gulped. Then he winced as he visualized the scene in his mind and compared it with the experience he had
had not too long ago with the two old men. Both he and Dana could look back sometime and thank their stars they hadn’t been
shot.

But, suddenly, Ken’s mood changed. Dana had seemed so distant since Ken inherited the car; why the change now? Did Dana want
to become better friends, or did he want something else? Ken couldn’t help being suspicious.

He tried to hide his emotions as they talked a bit more. Then he glanced at his watch and saw that it was close to one o’clock.

“No wonder my stomach’s been talking back to me,” he said. “It’s past lunchtime. I’ve got to get home.”

“I’m glad we could get together for a minute, Ken,” Dottie said, scooping up the check. She smiled. “This is on me.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He thought about asking her to go to a movie
with him sometime, but decided he could call her on the telephone later in the week.

He slid out of the booth, picked up his crutches, and hobbled out of the place, his sisters flanking him like bodyguards.

In the truck the girls started to bring up the subject of Dana’s connection with Scott Taggart’s theft of the engine, but
Ken cut them short. He said he didn’t want to hear another word about it.

He didn’t, but their mention of it aroused his suspicions again. Did Dana use his information about the engine to get Dusty
to sponsor his brother? Ken tried to think of a way to tell Dana that it was fine for him to tell Dusty who had stolen the
engine, but he didn’t like the idea of Dana using it to
bribe
Dusty into sponsoring him.

Dana wasn’t home when Ken and the girls got back. Their father, sitting on a high-backed rocking chair on the rear porch,
said he had gone to work. “Well, did you have fun?” he wanted to know, turning his head slightly to gaze at the little red
car on the trailer.

“No, Dad, I didn’t,” Ken said, and explained briefly the trouble he had had at Candlewyck, and with the two men at the abandoned
airfield.

“Maybe it’s just as well,” his father murmured. He leaned forward and spat over the edge of the
porch. “One of these days an ambulance will be driving you to a hospital again, and maybe the next time it’ll be for something
worse than your leg.”

Ken smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be all right, Dad. Don’t worry.”

He hobbled into the house, had a drink of ice-cold tea from the refrigerator, then sat down and tried to think of where else
he could take the Chevy to run passes. He knew of several macadam roads some fifty or sixty miles south of Wade, where a contractor
had started a development and had his plans go awry. But Ken discarded the idea, figuring it was too far to drive.

Dana pulled in on his Kawasaki at twenty after three. Ken heard the motorcycle as he stood in the living room, doing stretching
exercises. He continued to do them for a few more minutes, quitting when he heard the kitchen door open and Dana come in.

He stood there in the room without his crutches, his stomach tightening as he waited for Dana. Soon Dana came into the room,
holding his helmet under his arm. He smiled as he greeted Ken, then the smile faded as he saw the strange look on Ken’s face.

“Hey, what’s up?” he said. “You look upset.”

“I
am
upset,” Ken snapped. “I just found out why Dusty decided to sponsor me instead of Taggart.”

Dana frowned. “Did he tell you?”

“No. Dottie told me about your part in recovering the engine, and I put two and two together. She thought I knew. Look, I
agree it was real good of you to do what you did in finding out who had stolen Dusty’s engine, but I want to know why you’re
so anxious all of a sudden for me to drive for Dusty. You haven’t seemed to want to be friendly lately; so if this is some
way to get your hands on Li’l Red, you—”

“Wait a minute, Ken. You—”

“—can just forget it!” Ken cut in sharply.

Dana stared at his brother. “Why, you little twerp! You think I’m so anxious to get my hands on that car? I wouldn’t give
you the satisfaction now of telling you why I asked Dusty to let you drive! But why don’t
you
try to figure out the right answer,
brother?”
And Dana whirled and marched out of the room.

D
ANA STORMED OUT
of the house, leaving by the front door to avoid being seen by his father.

He put on his helmet, buckled it, and got on his motorcycle. He kicked the starter and took off, dirt bursting from the spinning
rear tire and clattering up against the fender.

He tore down the street, breaking the speed limit by ten miles an hour for almost two blocks before he throttled back. But
he still kept it a couple of miles over the legal speed limit.

Who in heck did Ken think he was by talking to him like that, anyway?

Then he thought, darn it, what’s gone wrong with us? How can my own brother be so suspicious of me? Maybe I
was
jealous about the car, but I’d never do anything that would harm Ken!

He might as well have said he’s disowned me. What’s the sense of being a brother if you can’t help out one another sometimes?

He drove block after block, not knowing or caring where he was going. Then he thought of Sally—Sally Biemen—and made a right-hand
turn at the next intersection.

Sally was a six-foot, interesting-looking brunette he had met at a motorcycle slalom some eight months ago. She had her own
bike, a 125CC Honda that she drove back and forth to work. Somehow they had gotten to like each other and had gone out a couple
of times a month. She lived alone in a one-room apartment on Casey Street.

He arrived there shortly, left his bike in the driveway, and walked into the apartment building and up the stairs to the second
floor. He knocked on her door, tap-tippy-taptap, a sound that had become their signal.

A few seconds later the door opened and she was there, staring at him, her blue eyes shining.

“Dana!” she said. “What a surprise!”

“Yeah, I imagine it is,” he murmured. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, silly.”

He entered and tossed his helmet on the couch.
Then he sat down and sprawled his long legs out in front of him.

She closed the door. “What happened? You look as if someone’s put you through the wringer.”

“You’re right. My brother.”

“Ken?”

“Yes. Ken. Got any beer?”

She didn’t drink the stuff, but she kept a few cans of it in the refrigerator for the times when friends dropped by.

“There’s some left. I’ll get it for you.”

“Never mind. I’ll get it.”

He rose, went to the refrigerator, and took out a can. He cracked it open, carried it back to the couch, and held it until
Sally placed a coaster on the coffee table. He set the can on it and looked with disinterest at the moisture that was forming
on it.

Sally sat down on an easy chair across from him. She was wearing a white blouse and blue slacks with tiny anchors down near
the bottom of each pant leg. A Saint Christopher medal hung on a slim chain around her neck.

“Want to tell me about it?” she said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just had to get away,
and this is the best place I thought of getting away to.”

She didn’t press him. She just kept looking at him as if in hopes that if she looked long enough she could figure out why
he needed to be there.

He liked that about her. She was no gabby-mouth, nor was she inquisitive.

She reached over to the coffee table, opened a silver-plated case that was on it, and took out a cigarette. Then she picked
up a small, plastic replica of a Civil War cannon, flicked the back end of the barrel with a finger, and lit the cigarette
with the flame that burst forth from the front end of it.

She took a drag on the cigarette, then handed it to him. He took it and automatically placed it between his lips.

“Would you like to stay for supper?” she asked quietly.

He shrugged. “You sure you want me to?”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t, would I?” she said.

He smiled, took a long drag on the cigarette, held the smoke in his mouth for a while, then blew it out. It hit the coffee
table, then began a slow, lazy ascent toward the ceiling.

There was the sound of a car outside. Dana’s
preoccupied mind caught a familiar, subtle
ping
in the sound of the motor, but he dismissed it.

He leaned over, picked up the can of beer, and took a slug of it. How many cans of beer had Ken drunk in his life? he thought.
Not many, I bet. Heck, by the time I was sixteen…