Thunder Road (3 page)

‘Smoked him,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s about power … not just car power but guts and nuts too. That guy had the first but lacked it in the second.’

We cruised back towards the starting line, Devon with his window open, acknowledging other guys with his eyebrows or a toss of the head. I could see a slight sheen on his forehead that must have been sweat. He covered his nervousness well.

We found a slot near the start and went off hobnobbing. Devon seemed to know everybody and collected a few calls of ‘Good blast, man,’ and ‘Way to go, Dev,’ as we walked from car to car. Some time later a black Mercedes glided slowly down the course. There was a space by the start line that seemed to have been left for it. The windows were tinted so you couldn’t see who was inside.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘That’s Sloane. The Sloane Ranger. He runs the outfit.’

‘What do you mean runs it?’

‘He decides what goes down here.’

‘Who races who?’

‘Mostly who gets what.’

‘Dealing drugs?’

‘Everything, the whole caboodle. Whenever stuff changes hands Sloane’s hand is in there too. Like the tax man, taking his cut.’

‘How do you know all this stuff?’

‘From Rebel. All the deals he does have to get Sloane’s nod at some stage. The Midnight Autos ones too, I reckon.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought a guy like Rebel would follow the rule book.’

Devon smiled and patted me on the head. ‘Look, Trace, people like Rebel, this is their rule book. He understands this one. This was the one he learned all about in Rock College.’

A big Māori dude got out of the driver’s side of the black Merc and walked around to sit on the bonnet. He was huge; must have been about two metres tall and 140 kilos. A monster. You could see the front of the car go down when he sat on it. He wore a black leather coat and had face tatts.

‘Jesus, I wouldn’t mess with him,’ I said to Devon.

‘That’s Tonto. You know, trusty Indian sidekick.’

‘Is that what you call him?’

‘Shit no, I call him Sir. Actually, his name’s Mark. I’ve never spoken to him or Sloane, they’re a bit out of my league. There’s a lot of money changing hands here, Trace. Money and dope and cars and favours. Sloane’s got a network of stooges who do the deals. He stays pretty aloof.’

‘Does he ever get out of the car?’

‘I haven’t seen him. My mate Bri says he’s a stocky little shaven-headed dude with a goatee beard. A thug in a suit.’

We were interrupted by a yellow Skyline winding out some choice doughnuts right in front of our car. The smoke and noise were terrific. Devon didn’t look. He seemed to be interested in something down the strip a way.

‘Don’t look too keen, Trace, he’s just a try-hard grease
monkey
from Huapai. I smoked him a couple of weeks ago and he’s been out for revenge ever since.’

He was right. The car stopped in front of us and this
stringhaired
guy with a pock-marked face stuck his head out the driver’s window.

‘Hey Devon, show us what you’ve got.’

Devon laughed under his breath. ‘Check out the mullet Trace, he’s the real article.’ Then he yelled, ‘Hey Cal, I’m saving mine for the main event. You and me, we got this sorted.’

‘I done a bit more to the mill … I reckon you’ll be sucking in my smoke.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I’ve taken out Steve Fenton’s Torana. I’m ready to eat you for afters.’

‘When was this?’ Devon suddenly sounded interested.

‘On Wednesday night.’

‘That’s nothing … if it doesn’t happen on Thunder Road, it doesn’t happen. Forget the little boys’ drag games. Can you cook it here, on the strip?’

‘I tell ya.’

We were drowned out by two Hondas winding up through the rev range. Virtually identical. Lime green CRXs, full body kits, both cars with Asians in them.

After a slight stuttering start they spun off down the line, distracting Devon and the guy in the Skyline.

Devon turned to me. ‘Rice burners! They’re taking over.’
There was a sort of wistful tone to his voice like he was describing the end of an era. ‘Hop out Trace. I’m gonna cook this turkey, but it will be close. The car’s gotta be as light as I can get it.’

I climbed out and stretched my legs in the cold air. I was
surprised
to see that Devon had fastened his seat belt. I hadn’t seen him use one so far. Down by the start line things were hotting up. The swarming back and forth had stopped and cars were pairing off. There was an urgency as wheels were checked and engines were given their final test revs. Devon and the yellow car chugged in at the back of the line.

At the front, two identical eighties Falcons were preparing to start their run: muscle cars, the chrome super-chargers sticking up out of their bonnets like four-eyed aliens. I spotted Mark; he was leaning on the window of the black Merc talking to
someone
inside. This would be a good chance to get a squiz at the mysterious Sloane. I ran across the strip to walk up behind. It was busy out there, no time to loiter. As I got alongside, Mark straightened up and sauntered back to his position at the front. He signalled to someone with a careless nod of the head. The blacked-out electric window slid back into place.

At that same moment, the two Falcons burst on down the road. This was the big grudge match. The lights of the long line of parked cars on each side of the strip came on and followed the passing racers like a long luminescent Mexican wave. It was a close race, impossible to call from where I was positioned. All I caught was the tail ends of two cars screaming for traction before the headlong blast into the distance, matching gear changes all the way. Soon after that, two fully worked Mazda Rotarys lined up. They were followed by three motor bikes.

Then it got really busy. A pair of matched 323s, a couple of funky Starlets, a Godzilla against an Evo, an RX3 against a
Celica in full racing kit. Cars filled up behind Devon and his rival so there was no pulling out. Now, just beyond the start line, I could see two guys about my age on each side of the road; they were the starters. One had a walkie- talkie and the other used a raised torch as the start signal. After all cars in front of Devon had done their runs, there was a break as the
competitors
threaded their way back up the strip. It was easy to tell the winners this time.

When the road was cleared again it was Devon’s turn. It was all very sudden, no messing about. The lamp dropped and two cars wound up to the top of their rev range. Smoke poured up from the road, at first burying the wheel arches and then the whole back end of the cars. The first movement was slow, almost leisurely, as the tyres failed to make a good bond with the black top. Then they both found traction and danced off the mark, the distinctive round tail-lights weaving in the white smoke as they fishtailed down the track. The Skyline seemed to find power of a higher order. Even at a hundred metres it was clear that Devon was well and truly whipped. I felt a pang for him. Beaten so easily.

It was a long, tense wait before he reappeared. I shared his shame and humiliation. After about ten minutes he pulled up next to me: staring angrily ahead, hands gripping the wheel, cigarette locked in mouth. As I got in, the Skyline rolled past on the other side of the road, Cal’s triumphant fist punching the air above the car’s roof. There was nothing to say so we headed back to our space, each lurking in his own sullen, awkward, little world. We watched the racing for about another hour … cars pouring down Thunder Road in pairs, the winners and losers threading their way back, triumph or dejection visible from a hundred metres. There was no ‘hard luck’ or that sort
of bullshit. It was harsh but fair.

When all the pairings had worked themselves out the road was given over to stunts, burn-outs and wannabes doing
handbrake
slides. Some time during this circus, Sloane’s long
battlecruiser
slid off into the night. Its regal, unhurried departure made a bigger mark than most of the other stunts by drivers who were doing everything but setting themselves on fire.

Later, the cops showed up. They’d evidently had enough. The talk on the strip was of another street in Penrose, but Devon had lost interest now, so we slunk home.

Back at Mrs Jacques’ we both sat out on the front verandah smoking and staring into the night. After a while, Devon perked up. ‘It was always coming, it just came a bit earlier than I thought. I’m relieved, actually. It’s time I got something with a bit more grunt. Something not so old.’

‘I thought the Escort had lots of grunt.’

Devon leaned back and put his feet on the railing. ‘I drove this car of Rebel’s a while back, it was a Subaru rally car. A WRX. Completely stripped for racing. All hollow. It was like being tied to the back of a Jumbo jet. Your head pressing into the seat, eyeballs flattening out. Since then the old Escort has been a bit of … what did the good officer call it? …
an old lady car.
He’s right. It is.’

I tried to cheer him up. ‘I reckon it’s a cool little car, just a bit old maybe. Your carburettor is up against turbos and fuel injectors.’

Devon seemed to have made up his mind. ‘I’ve been messing about in the little league. I want something that can mix it with the big players.’

‘I guess you’re going to need big money for that.’

He looked at me and raised his finger. ‘Wrong thinking man. It’s just going to mean bigger risks.’

I couldn’t see where he was going with that and I waited for him to start into one of those big lectures, but it never came. He just stared out at the stars like he had made some sort of deal with them. Like it had been all wrapped up.

Risk didn’t seem such a big word back then. Back then I didn’t know the difference between a walk on the wild side, and living on the edge.

THE FOLLOWING morning I was up early because I was
working
. Devon was still out of it … sheet pulled over his head, a skinny brown leg sticking out across the room. I dressed quietly and slipped off to work without a shower. It felt sort of sleazy but I was too apathetic to do anything about it. I was so tired and my brain was stained with Jack Daniels and dope residue. At work, the customers seemed to be talking to me long distance: there was a delay before any message got through to me.

My tension over Richard and Jason had gone. Half the time I forgot they were even there. All my brain power went into a close reading of the names and quantities of the tints. It was easy to stuff up and once you had mis-tinted a tin you were looking at 60 bucks worth of paint that no one wanted.

Just before lunch time this street kid came in and wanted to buy some glue. He banged coins down on the counter and told Karen to get it for him. I saw it all from where I had just levered the lid off a can of paint. Karen was at the counter all by herself. She looked scared. The other two, Jason and Richard, shut up and made themselves scarce.

She pointed to a sign that said ‘No glue to minors’. At first the kid tried to be funny. ‘I just want to glue my shoe man.’ He pointed at his bare foot.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed.’

He was young but he was big. He picked up a two dollar coin and began to rap it on the steel counter.

He chanted softly, ‘Get it. Get it. Get it.’

Karen was looking around for support but Bob Bryant was out to lunch and the others pretended not to notice.

The kid walked around the counter and began to look for the glue, treating Karen as if she wasn’t there. I saw her face; she was terrified. There was nothing else to do. I sprinted down the aisle to where the kid was rooting through the boxes behind the counter. Getting a good grip on his hoodie, I dragged him clear of the serving bay. He didn’t know what was happening at first and I had him most of the way to the front door before he turned on me. Wrenching clear he then danced towards me, one fist up and the other hand low, signalling, ‘Bring it on’. One look at his dead eyes told me all I wanted to know. He was so far whacked it didn’t matter. There was nothing I could say or do; I was for it. He fixed me in his sights and came towards me, head weaving slightly. He looked like he’d been in plenty of fights before. Surely a brain with that much glue on board must give me some advantage?

We circled each other, waiting for the other’s move. When it came, it came at me out of nowhere. The king-hit that means ‘It’s all over baby … out of the ball park’. I dropped my head out of the arc and he missed my face, hitting me a glancing blow just above the ear. The unspent force left him off balance and he staggered forward into a pyramid of paint buckets. One of the tops came off and a balloon of white paint glugged out onto the polished wooden floor. As he struggled to his feet I snatched the half-filled pot and flung it in his face. He sat there blinking and coughing, trying to work out what had happened. He looked like a melting snowman. The fight was all over. He sloped off, the mess of coins still on the counter. All that remained was a painty trail out the door and down the footpath.

I stood there gasping, my heart beating like an over-revving
engine. Karen slumped down on a paint can, her face drained of colour. She looked small and vulnerable. Our eyes met. I walked over and squatted next to her, my hand on her shoulder. I could feel her shivering through the thin nylon uniform.

Slowly things returned to normal and I became aware of a small circle of people standing around us: Richard and Jason, Janice, an older woman from accounts, a few customers. They were all replaying the incident.

‘There were two of them … Māoris I reckon….’

‘It was a hold-up….’

‘He swung a knife….’

Bob Bryant showed up and took over. Janice led Karen, who was weeping quietly, out the back. The police were called. I had to give my version of the events again and again. Jason and Richard got to clean up the spilt paint – and ten litres is a lot of paint.

I didn’t have to do much that afternoon. I had this hero status. I tried to play it down – it was a bit embarrassing really – but no one would have a bit of it. I was now part of shop folklore and that was that.

At five o’clock we closed up and made to go. I had been tied up with the police and Bob Bryant most of the afternoon so I thought I must have missed the others. As I walked out the gates I heard Karen’s voice. She was in the back of Richard’s Jag. They had been waiting. I walked over. There was something in Karen’s eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps it hadn’t been there before.

‘Would you like a ride home, Trace?’

I noticed the two in the front looking straight ahead, a bit shamed maybe. I didn’t reckon that the invitation was coming from them. Also there was something about me and Devon …
I couldn’t see the two scenes coming together.

‘I’ve got … you know … a prior….’

‘You’ve got a date?’

‘No, a mate’s taking me to the street races.’

The two in the front grinned and exchanged glances; Karen seemed a bit disappointed.

‘It’s just that I’m new to the city and this guy Devon’s
showing
me around.’

She smiled. It was pretty. ‘Maybe another time.’

‘Yeah that would be cool.’

I went to walk off.

‘Trace, one other thing.’

‘What?’

‘Thanks.’

Something about that last little word – my feet hardly touched the ground all the way home.

When I got back Devon had gone. Mrs Jacques said he had gone up North for a week or so. He had mentioned that he was
writing
a piece called ‘The Rural Beat’. It was a companion to his Waikato articles. I had forgotten. I was really pissed off. I had blown my chance to make something happen with Karen, and now I was stuck here with nothing to do except hang about.

It was hell without Devon around. Everything got up my nose. Mostly the piano music banging away … the same pieces again and again. The scales were really bad. It was like someone
tapping
on your head with a stick. After an hour or so I wanted to smash the piano with a sledge-hammer.

Our evening meals were put back later because of Sergei’s routines. It must have been about this time that he discovered August, the child prodigy. Small, freckly, red-headed, but a
‘huge talent’. He could sure do things to that piano – and he did them loudly and way past the seven o’clock deadline. The pair of them would emerge from Sergei’s room, blabbing excitedly – like they were the same age. Sergei even deigned to walk out to August’s parents’ car, where he would spend ten minutes replaying the lesson.

Sergei changed too. Before he was always on about ‘klutzes with fingers like soft bananas’; now he was floating on August’s cloud of promise. He and Mrs Jacques would rabbit away at the dinner table.

‘August just played a Polonaise by Chopin. Claudio Arrau couldn’t have done it better.’

Other times August was the cue for a long story about
Sergei’s
childhood.

‘I can see myself as clearly as if it were yesterday … nine years of age … the Warsaw Conservatorium of Music … a cluster of grey-haired professors … they couldn’t believe how such small hands could span the chords ….’

I sat silently eating my mashed potato and carrots and watched the two of them: Mrs Jacques, rapt, hanging on Sergei’s every word, and Sergei, head slightly tilted back, listening to the sound of his own voice. It was like I wasn’t even there.

It didn’t take long for this to begin to get to me too. If only Devon had been back to make a few of his sarcastic remarks, everything would have been OK. But he wasn’t. It was a
nightmare
. I looked forward to going to work, just to get out of the house.

Since the incident with the street kid, Bob Bryant had regarded me with a new respect. He was doing little things that told me he had plans for me in the shop. What as, I wondered? Senior
paint tinter? I hadn’t minded the job up to that point but the thought that I might be doomed to work on there for the rest of my life was seriously scary. The guy I worked with, Dave, was good-natured but weird. I reckon he came from a country where soap hadn’t been discovered … or maybe where it had been replaced by aftershave. Man, he was strong and he was sweet. Even amongst the fumes of paint thinners he stood out. No one else seemed to notice, but I sure did. Especially when I was standing next to him as he reached for a high tin. Whoa! The other thing he did was bring out weird little phrases that cracked him up. His two favourites were ‘Mouldy old dough’ and ‘Ode to Billy-Joe’. I could never get used to that.

Most nights I stayed in my room and read. I hate TV and was trying to save money. I found myself looking forward to the weekend coming around and the weekenders coming in again. When Saturday arrived I was ready to go off to work early, way before the store was open. I had to wait for Bob to open up and then hung around inside with nothing to do. Nine o’clock came, and there was still no sign of them. Few customers too. It was nearly 45 minutes later that they arrived. Karen smiled and gave me a cheery wave. I thought Bob would sack them but he hardly said a word. It was that other principle in operation. The glass dome, different sets of rules. Even here.

When lunch time came around Karen was in the lunchroom with her book closed when I arrived back from the bakery. She was waiting.

‘How was your night, Trace?’ she asked when I walked in.

‘Eh? What night?’

‘The night on the town with your mate.’

‘Oh, it was cool.’

She listened attentively while I invented an exciting evening.
It sounded hollow and I felt stink about it, but what can you do? I didn’t want to seem like a loser, with no life. Away from the other two she came across sincere and interested. A
different
person.

‘So where are you going tonight?’

‘Well, nowhere,’ I said and explained how Devon was away and I was trying to save money.

‘What for? Varsity?’

I laughed at the thought. ‘No I want to go overseas. Aussie probably, for starters anyway. How about you?’

‘I want to get into Med School next year with Richard and Jason.’

‘What is it, a family tradition?’

She blushed. ‘Yeah I guess so. My dad’s a doctor and he’s been friends with their dads since we were all babies.’

‘And that’s what you want to do?’

‘I guess. I have to be accepted yet, which means that I have to get huge marks in Bursary.’

‘Will you get them?’

She didn’t say anything, and then changed the subject. ‘I told my dad about what you did last week. He said he’d like to meet you.’

It was one of those statements you don’t know how to react to.

‘What for?’

‘For dinner.’

‘What?’

‘You know, food, drink, conversation….’

‘Whooo….’ Images flashed through my head.

‘It’s no big deal.’

‘Really?’ I saw myself sandwiched between two old people, getting the third degree. ‘When?’

‘Well, tonight.’ Then she added. ‘If you’re not doing anything.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘That would be great.’

It seemed rude to refuse but I didn’t fancy the sound of the dinner-with-the-doctor routine: I had more visions of
interrogation
. What does your father do? What school did you go to? What are you going to do with your life?

I spent the rest of the day regretting that I’d accepted: torn between dying to see more of Karen and hating anything that sounded like a polite social gathering with its tense talk
muttered
over the broccoli….

All afternoon I was really trying not to think of the evening. Not to mentally rehearse imaginary questions and answers. Not to stress over which fork to use for dessert. When four o’clock rolled by I was still wondering what the arrangements would be. Would we all go straight back home in the Jag? Would I be ‘one of the boys’?

It turned out to be a bit different from that. A few minutes before it was time to go, Karen slipped me this piece of paper with an address and time on it. It was clear that she didn’t want the other two to know what was happening. I realised then that maybe it was tough for her too. I felt a bit selfish. She had pressures too. Just different ones.

Back at home I found Sergei in a state of high excitement. He and Mrs Jacques were sitting around the dining table while he described every tiny detail of a practice period. He’d had a ‘huge session’ with August and he was convinced that he had discovered the ‘musical equivalent of uranium in this nine year old’ … it was going to ‘put him on the map’, he reckoned. The people who wrote him off years ago … they’d have to sit up and take notice … they’d be sorry that they underestimated him
… that they never recognised his outrageous genius … they’d seem such fools.

I listened to this … well, half listened to it, while I read the paper. Sergei must have been suddenly aware of my lack of interest, as he turned his focus on me.

‘Trace! How is the colourful world of paint?’ Then he laughed loudly. Like he had cracked this really witty joke. He prattled on for a short time, pretending to be interested in something other than himself. But then it was back into yet another story that showed his brilliance.

After a while I couldn’t stand it any more, I was, as Devon used to say, ‘all Sergei-ed out’.

I took a shower and rummaged around looking for clothes to impress a doctor. I settled on clean jeans and T-shirt but I had to recycle some old socks because Devon seemed to have taken my other two pairs up North with him. All this so that Karen might like me … it felt wrong, but what could I do?