Lucky Seven (7 page)

They scored no runs in the ninth, but neither did Berkshire. The game was over.

In the dressing room Perc said, ‘‘What did I tell you, Coach?”

The coach smiled happily. “I wasn’t sure about him after he missed practice yesterday, and I was kind of worried about next
year since you’re graduating,” he said. Then he grinned at Durwin. “But since I’ve still got one Ackroyd left on my club,
I’m not worried anymore!”

“YOU going in?”

“Why not?” Chick Grover eyed his friend Butch Slade as if he were surprised Butch could even think of such a question. “Maybe
Mort’s forgotten.”

“Mort never forgets,” replied Butch, turning to look through the large plate glass window of
Mort’s Pit Stop. “
He’s like an elephant.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Chick. “In more ways than one. Anyway, I’ll try. Maybe he won’t see me in that crowd.”

He saw the usual Saturday afternoon slot car fans huddled in front of the track. Racers were zooming down the straightaways,
blast
ing around the S-curve and sweeper at speeds so fast his eyes swam trying to keep up with them.

Chick recognized Jack Harmon. It was Jack’s fault that Chick had been booted out of
Mort’s Pit Stop
last Friday evening during the Semi-Main event. Chick’s Lotus Formula 1 was on its twenty-seventh lap, two behind Jack’s
Lola T-70, when Jack met his bomb on the S-curve and nerfed the Lotus clear off the track. It had landed on the floor with
a crash that destroyed the motor and part of the chassis, and chipped a piece off the hand-some, sleek, ocean-green body.

Chick knew as sure as anything that Jack Harmon had done it on purpose, even though Jack said he hadn’t. He had lit into Jack
with fists flying, knocking him against a corner of the slot car race track hard enough to jar the track and deslot half of
the cars racing.

So what did that elephant-sized Mort Yates do? Blamed the whole shebang on Chick, that’s what. Told him to get out and stay
out.
If that wasn’t the unfairest deal a guy could pull, Chick didn’t know what was.

“Well, you coming or aren’t you?”

Chick saw that Butch had already opened the door. “I told you I was, didn’t I?”

He realized his grumpiness and apologized. “Sorry, Butch.”

He used to think that he got some satisfaction from being grumpy, that it gave him a feeling of being better than the next
guy. Then there were times when grumpiness made him feel lousy. Just as lousy as one can get. And that was when he became
ashamed of himself.

“I’ll hide in the crowd while you get your controller,” Chick suggested.

Butch headed for the counter where Mort Yates was adjusting a motor on a slot car for a kid.

Six of the eight lanes were taken. The two not taken were on the outside. The two unoccupied drivers’ seats were at the far
right. Chick pressed up behind the last one and settled down to watch the race.

Jack Harmon’s blue Lola T-70 carried a yellow dot and was on Lane 7, the yellow lane, second from the inside. It was a classy
bomb. Jack had won more ribbons and trophies with it than any other slot car driver in Chesterton.

Chick was secretly jealous of Jack because of it. He sometimes thought that he disliked Jack because he was better than anyone
else in almost everything he did. And Jack picked on him a lot, too.

Ken Jason was there, using his own pistol-grip controller. His car was a Ford GTP, a two-toned, black and yellow model that
had twice won the Concours d’Elégance, an event for the best-looking car model. It was racing on the blue Number 4 lane.

Ken and Jack, sitting side by side, had their eyes glued to their cars. Turn marshals were stationed at the four sharp curves.

Butch Slade shouldered through the crowd, sat beside Ken, and plugged in his controller. A green dot was on the hood of his
black Porsche. He opened his oil of wintergreen pad,
ran the rear wheels back and forth across it to goop up the tires, then placed the car on the green Number 2 lane.

Ken shot a quick glance at Butch. “Hi, Butch.”

“Hi, Ken.”

Jack Harmon looked over at Butch and spoke, too. Then he looked at Chick and surprise replaced the calm expression on his
face.

“Chick!” You could’ve heard him in the next county. “Thought you weren’t supposed to come in here anymore.”

“Why don’t you fall into a volcano?” snapped Chick sourly.

The Lola was on the upper level of the track. Jack whizzed it around the sweeper, the steep, wide bank at the right side of
the track, stopped it in front of himself, picked it up, fiddled with the brushes a second, then rose from his chair and headed
for the counter.
Oh-oh,
thought Chick.
That sneak. Pretending somethings wrong with his car when all
he wants to do is squeal on me. And what am I doing? Nothing but watching.

Seconds later Jack returned and continued racing his Lola. Mort didn’t come. Maybe Jack hadn’t squealed, after all. Maybe
he was as honest as he always pretended to be.

Then a hand rested on Chick’s shoulder. A strong, heavy hand. Chick looked around and there stood Mort Yates, all six-foot-one
of him, staring down as if he had caught Chick robbing the First National Bank.

“Out, Chick.”

“Why? What did I do? I haven’t done anything.”

“I want to make sure you don’t,” said Mort curtly. “Come on.”

The people opened up a hole and Chick ambled through, ashamed and hurt. Mort opened the door and Chick walked out, hands stuck
stiffly into his pockets.

I haven’t done a thing!
he thought bitterly.
Not a thing!

“Hey, Chick!” yelled Butch Slade. “Wait for me! I’ll be out as soon as I finish!”

Chick trembled and got as close to crying as he had in a long time. He suddenly felt empty and alone.

Louse! That’s what Mort Yates was. A big, dumb louse who just loved to show how tough he was.

After a while Jack Harmon and Ken Jason came out of the building, carrying metal boxes which held their slot cars and accessories.

“You squealer!” snarled Chick. “You snitched on me!”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I did not snitch,” he said.

“Liar!” Chick sailed into him, fists doubled up. Just as he was about to land a blow Jack lifted his metal box. It stopped
Chick’s blow and sent a sharp pain up his arm that jarred him all the way down to his heels.

“I told you I didn’t snitch on you!” shouted Jack angrily. “You’re making it up!”

“Coward!” yelled Chick, rubbing his aching bruised fist.

“Hey, you kids! Stop that fighting!” a loud, authoritative voice rang out from up the street.

Heavy feet pounded on the sidewalk and a moment later Police Officer Tom Duffy was beside them. “All right now, Chick. Just
control yourself and tell me what it’s all about.”

Chick.
It was always
Chick.

Chick explained to Officer Duffy what it was all about. Jack didn’t speak up until Chick had finished his explanation.

“That isn’t so, Mr. Duffy. I didn’t nerf his car on purpose. Ken can tell you that, too.”

“Keep me out of it,” said Ken.

“Okay, okay,” said Tom Duffy. “You two guys go on your way. I want to talk with Chick alone.”

Jack and Ken left and Tom Duffy looked at Chick. “Chick, whether you’re right or not -”

“But I
am
right!”

“Look, I’ve known Jack since he was a little boy, Chick. I’ve never known him to tell a lie that would get a person in trouble.”

“But this time was diff—”

“Now, just a minute. Let me finish. Just suppose Jack did do on purpose what you said he’s done. Did you have to fly into
him after what happened to you last Friday night? You’re just piling up demerits till you’ll have a reputation that’ll stretch
from here to San Francisco. And you won’t have to wonder what friends you’ll have either. You won’t have any. You’ll be as
lonesome as a polecat.” Tom Duffy paused and smiled. “And that’s really lonesome. You want to be like that?”

Chick tried to keep from smiling back, but he couldn’t. “No, I guess not, Mr. Duffy,” he said quietly.

“Well, then?”

Chick shrugged. “I’ll try not to pop off the next time.”

Tom Duffy laughed and ruffled Chick’s
hair. “That a boy, Chick. By the way, how are your daddy and mom?”

“Oh, fine, I guess.”

The door of
Mort’s Pit Stop
opened and Butch Slade came out. “Hi, Mr. Duffy,” he greeted.

“Hi, Butch. How’d you do?”

“Came in third in a Wildcat race. Of course, there were only four of us racing.”

Tom Duffy chuckled, said goodbye with a salute and a final remember-what-I-said look at Chick, and walked away.

“What did he have to say?” asked Butch.

“Plenty,” replied Chick.

They walked along silently for a while, Chick trying to scratch Tom Duffy’s words out of his mind but with no success. No
matter what Tom Duffy or anybody said, Jack Harmon was to blame for all the trouble he’d been getting into. And fistfighting
with Jack wasn’t settling matters one bit. It just made them worse.

There was only one place their feud could
be settled, and that was on a slot car racing track.

But how could he race without a car?

“I’d like to build a car, but where could I race it, Butch? Think Ken will let me race it on his track?”

“Ask him,” said Butch.

They walked to Ken’s house and Chick knocked on the door. “Ken here, Mrs. Jason?” he asked as Ken’s mother opened the door.

“Hello, Chick. Yes, just a second. Ken! Someone to see you!”

In a moment Ken appeared.

“Hi, guys.”

“Hi. Ken, if I build a scratch kit racer would you let me run it on your track? Mort won’t let me set foot in his place any
more.”

“I don’t know,” said Ken. “I’ll have to ask my father.”

Chick stared at him. “What?”

“Well, it belongs to both of us.”

“Oh—well, forget it, Ken. Maybe I can’t buy a scratch kit, anyway.”

“If you do, then come back, Chick. I’m sure my dad won’t mind. Really.”

“Okay. Thanks, Ken. See ya.”

A father owning a model car racing track with his son was all right, Chick supposed. But did the son
have
to ask him if it were all right for some other kid to race a car on it?

Well—if you invited a kid who didn’t care. A kid who messed around and popped off at other people. In that case, yes. You
had to go along with his father then.

That evening, after supper, Chick mustered all the nerve he could and asked his father for six dollars and forty-nine cents,
the cost of a cheap slot car kit at
Mort’s Pit Stop
(providing Mort would let him buy it—and why shouldn’t he?).

Dad’s answer was no surprise.

“Can’t right now, Chick. It’s the end of the month. Bill paying time.”

Just what Chick had thought. It was the same every time, whether it was at the end of
the month, the middle, or the beginning. He just had no chance.

He picked up Whitey, the fluffy white cat, put him on his lap and stroked him. One thing about cats: they never had problems.