The Last Open Road Read online

  There wasn't another car on the highway (what do you expect at four o'clock in the morning?) and about all we had in the way of illumination was a book of matches that were too soggy to light and a dinky pen flashlight with half-dead batteries. So we were pretty much stranded, you know? Up the road a bit Cal found a steep gravel driveway disappearing up into the forest. "Hey, Buddy," he whispered, like somebody might be listening, "let's try up here!"

  Well, there was a No Trespassing sign the size of a small billboard nailed up where you couldn't possibly miss it—not even at night—and I've always been a trifle funny about wandering up strange private drives in unknown backwoods areas at odd hours like four in the morning. I mean, I know lots of people right here in Passaic who aren't the least bit bashful about their constitutional right to keep and bear firearms. But Cal just shrugged it off. "Hey, what the hell, huh? You planning to just sit here by the side of the damn road until the sun comes up?" And with that, he fired up the TC and wheeled it up the driveway. Cal Carrington had himself a set of real brass balls, no two ways about it.

  Naturally, he made me walk ahead with that worthless pen flashlight, trying my best to keep us on the gravel while Cal juddered the TC along behind me, playing the clutch, gas, and brake pedals like a damn church organist. I couldn't see much of anything, so I was tripping over rocks and tree roots and getting snagged by branches that'd grown clear across the driveway since anybody'd been there. About a mile up we came to the nicest little ski cabin you ever saw, but it was buttoned up tighter than a drum with storm shutters padlocked over the windows and the front door bolted solid. My buddy Cal didn't think twice before taking the jack handle out of his TC and twisting the hasp off one of the shutters. Then he used it to break a windowpane so he could reach in, undo the latch, and slither his way inside.

  I just stood there, frozen to the spot. "Well, Palumbo," Cal sneered from the other side of the glass, "you planning to stay Out There all night?" You couldn't miss the challenge in his voice, so I took a couple deep breaths, swallowed once or twice, and crawled in after him. To tell the truth, I was beginning to suspect that Cal Carrington might be one of those bad-influence types your parents are always warning you about. In fact, I was pretty sure of it.

  The cabin was real dark and musty inside, but Cal managed to find us some firewood piled by the door and a box of stick matches and even a couple moldy old comforters and a can of coffee. So Cal and me sort of set up camp—like Boy Scouts, right?—building ourselves a fire and hanging our wet clothes up to dry and boiling ourselves a pot of water for coffee. Cal wrapped himself in one of the comforters and dozed right off to sleep, but I was too damn scared to do anything but sit there in front of the fire with my eyes bugged out like Eddie Cantor, listening to every owl hoot, bird chirp, and twig snap like it was the hammer clicking back on a Colt .45. I rustled Cal awake a little before seven, and would you believe it, he insisted on taking one of the comforters with us and even leaving a note behind that went like this:

  Sorry we had to break in to your lovely cabin, but our car died out in a terrible rainstorm while my prize cocker spaniel was in labor in the backseat. I'm afraid she delivered on one of your comforters, and I will send it back as soon as I have it properly cleaned. Naturally, I am happy to pay all damages, along with a modest consideration for the use of the hall. Would also offer one of the pups, but unfortunately they were half Labrador retriever, so we had to drown them in your toilet.

  Then he signed it with a flourish: Creighton Pendleton III.

  8: GIANT'S DESPAIR

  CAL AND I enjoyed a lovely ride down into the Susquehanna River valley the next morning, what with a warm July sun beaming through feathery clouds and Cal's old TC running better than ever, if I do say so myself. "You know," Cal grinned as we cruised down the last hillside into Wilkes-Barre, "this thing feels like a whole new car." I remember glancing at the oil pressure gauge (which was straining to reach 25 p.s.i.) and allowing him one-third of an agreeable nod. "Why, I bet this is the best damn MG I've ever driven," he continued, patting the screw holes where the dash mirror would've been if we hadn't ripped it off to make that old heap a few ounces lighter. "Don't be surprised if I win the race and the hill climb with this little beauty. She's ready, I can tell." You must admit, my friend Cal didn't have any noticeable deficiencies in the optimism or confidence departments.

  I, on the other hand, was going through one of those Grim Reality Inventories that come over you like stomach flu when you've been up all night, gotten thoroughly cold, wet, frightened, and exhausted, and moreover ache all over from being bounced around on the bare floorboards of a stripped-down MG being driven by some crazy rich kid who thinks he can't die in an automobile wreck like ordinary people. And that's not even mentioning that I hadn't exactly, ahh, made arrangements with Old Man Finzio about skipping work again. Truth is, I didn't think the Old Man would consider an S.C.M.A. hill climb someplace in Pennsylvania as an acceptable reason for ditching work. In fact, I was sure of it. So when we stopped at a diner for some bacon and eggs, I took a pocketful of change over by the pay phone and called the station to try and smooth things over. I even held my nose, as if I could maybe fool the Old Man into thinking I still had the terrible head cold he never believed I had in the first place. But he must've heard the change drop or picked up all the static on the line, because right away he said, "Saaay, Palumbo, where the hell are you?"

  "Uh, well, I'm kinda . . ."

  "You're off at th' frickin' car races with that runnynose rich kid, aint'cha?"

  Gee whiz, it was like the old fart had a crystal ball or something, you know?

  "Well, geez, Mr. Finzio, I sorta . . ."

  Click!

  So much for that.

  To cheer myself up, I single-handedly consumed an entire Triple Play Breakfast Special, which consisted of three large eggs, three strips of bacon, three pancakes swimming in maple syrup, a huge mound of hash browns, three slices of buttered toast, and a half dozen double-mugs of 90-weight coffee. Usually a feast like that will go a long way toward making me feel better, but it didn't help much and I still felt pretty miserable (only stuffed and miserable) as we waddled back to the car. That's when Cal reached into his pocket and tossed the keys over. "Here," he said, nonchalantly snaking a brand-new pair of aviator sunglasses over his eyes, "you drive." And just like that, the world was once again a wonderful place to be.

  "Saaay," I asked my reflection in the mirrored lenses, "where'dja get those?" No question they were a tad more stylish than our Woolworth's swim masks.

  "Inside," Cal shrugged. "I gleeped 'em off the counter by the cash register when the guy wasn't looking." Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out yet another pair. "Here's a set for you."

  I looked at the sunglasses in his hand and back at my reflection in the chrome-plated lenses over his eyes. "You know," I told him, sounding exactly like my old man, "you're gonna get us in some serious trouble one day."

  "That's what I'm here for!" Cal laughed, like it all made perfect sense.

  I'd never driven a right-hand drive/left-hand shift car before, so naturally I had a few problems—like jamming the lever in third instead of first and stalling it at every other stop sign. "Hey, don't worry about it," Cal advised. "Just try to get used to how it feels. After all," he added, an inscrutable twinkle flickering around the edges of his new aviator sunglasses, "you may be needing it later."

  We had some sketchy directions scribbled on the back of an old envelope, and did our best to follow them in a series of spiraling misshapen meandering loops crossing and recrossing the Susquehanna River while we searched in vain for that S.C.M.A. hillclimb. At least it gave me a little seat time in the MG, and except for the left-hand shift, a snappish clutch, sitting on the wrong side of the car, and steering so quick I occasionally darted into the path of oncoming traffic, it seemed I was getting the hang of it. Far as I was concerned, Cal's TC felt skittish as hell, but no question it could flick around corners quicker
than anything I'd ever driven. And you could really get the feel of the road, too. Every bump, crack, and pebble, in fact.

  As we passed through one particular intersection for the fifth or sixth time, we noticed a white XK120 coming from the opposite direction. Or make that an XK120M, since it was none other than Skippy Welcher and his faithful squire Milton Fitting, and for perhaps the only time in my life, I was happy to see them. "Say," I hollered, "you got any idea where this hill climb thing is?"

  "Follow me!" Skippy whooped, waving his cap in the air like he was Teddy Roosevelt on San Juan Hill. Why, you half-expected the Jag to rear up on its back tires as he sidestepped the clutch and squealed away. What a dipshit. But at least he knew where he was going, which was more than you could say for us. We followed The Skipper's Jag back across the bridge and zigzagged a few blocks until we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a whole herd of Jaguars and MGs and such, parked snoot-to-boot down a little side street that headed steeply uphill just past the last building in town. We had arrived.

  The S.C.M.A. armband types had a registration table set up in front of a real estate office at the far end of the street, and Cal surprised the living shit out of me when he signed us both up as drivers. Can you believe it? Of course, I didn't have any I.D. to prove I was twenty-one (which I wasn't) or that I belonged to the S.C.M.A. (which I didn't), but Cal put a sly finger to his lips and calmly introduced me as his twenty-one-year-old cousin Bartholomew from East Point (wherever the hell that was) and explained as how I belonged to the highly regarded (not to mention highly imaginary) East Point Sports Car Club, and that I'd most unfortunately misplaced my wallet on our way over from Long Island. Boy, was he ever slick at that sort of thing. Never batted an eye. Not that he could've got that sort of B.S. past a seasoned registration pro like Charlie Priddle. Not hardly. But we lucked into a sweet old lady from Vermont who actually used to collect tree sap with one of Cal's aunts every February to make maple syrup, and she signed us up without a hitch. It always comes down to who you know and who knows you, doesn't it?

  "Gee whiz, Cal," I grumbled as we made our way back to the TC, "why'dja wanna do that for?"

  "Do what for?"

  "You know. Sign me up to drive."

  "Why not?" Cal grinned, waving a carefree hand through the air. "You worked on the car, didn't you? More than I did, in fact. Hell, I never could've made it without you. So why the heck shouldn't you drive?" Then he sealed it by giving me one of those quick little shots in the arm like guys do. "You just wait and see," he continued. "If things go right, we'll run quick enough to finish first and second in our class. You'll see."

  "I dunno," I said, staring at the oil pressure gauge and wondering if this was really such a good idea. "What if it breaks?"

  "Well," he shrugged, "then it probably would have broken anyway, wouldn't it? Besides, this little beauty is not about to let us down. Not with all the hard work we've put in. She didn't come all this way just to fall apart on us."

  I wasn't so sure. "And what if I, uh, you know, uh, hit something? I mean, what if I wreck your car?"

  Cal flashed me his absolute best rich-kid smile and said simply: "Don't."

  Hill climbing was new to me, and it was a lot different from the road races out at Bridgehampton. Here the cars ran one at a time against the clock instead of wheel-to-wheel against each other, and that alone made hill climbing a lot less risky than racing. Not to mention that the steep grade, short straights, and tight corners made hill climbs mostly first and second gear, with just a few quick dabs into third for the most skillful and aggressive drivers. Which meant there was a lot less opportunity to damage your car, your body, and your precious self-esteem. Or, as Cal put it: "It's easy to be a hero in second gear."

  All of which made hill climbing highly attractive to S.C.M.A. clubbies who would never dream of racing door handle to door handle with other cars. Why, even that tightass Charlie Priddle ran hillclimbs. And did amazingly well, since he always fronted up some strange, morphidite automobile that inevitably turned out to be the only car in its class. As you probably guessed, Charlie was on the classification committee. In fact, I think he was chairman. In any case, that pretty much guaranteed Charlie a first-place mug at every single event, no matter how slowly he puttered up the damn hill. Hell, even Skippy Welcher had more class than that.

  This particular event, Charlie brought his 1922 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost to run in the "Over 2-Liter Vintage Touring Class." I swear, that thing looked like a damn parade float compared to the MGs and such everybody else was running. And Charlie drove it like one, too, trundling up the hill on the idle jets while he pretended to saw back and forth on the wheel and mugged for all the corner workers like Joe E. Brown. He took slowest time of the day by over a minute, but with nobody else in his class, that was enough to earn him yet another handsome first-place mug for the old marble mantelpiece back home.

  What a dork.

  The worst thing about hill climbing was that you had to wait in line for two hours or more for every little ninety-second burst up the hill, and then trundle back to the end of the line so's you could start your waiting all over again. Plus you couldn't see much of the action once the cars disappeared around the first curve and headed up the mountain. Not that I much cared, since I was really too damn tired to climb up and join the rubberneckers on the hill. Besides, it was a gorgeous summer day and real pretty country, too. Especially right there by the starting line, where none other than Creighton Pendleton's fabulous girlfriend was waving the green flag to turn the cars loose. She was wearing a crisp white shirt with the collar flared up and maybe three buttons undone, not to mention one hell of a pair of white shorts. In fact, I was glad Julie wasn't there to see how I was looking at her. Or where, for that matter. "Say," I asked Cal, pointing to where his eyes were already focused, "who is that?"

  "Oh, that's Sally Enderle," he said, sliding his sunglasses down his nose for a better look. "She's a peach, isn't she."

  "Boy, I'll say."

  And no question she knew it, too, because every time a car rolled up to the line, she'd flash that toothpaste-ad smile of hers, ask the driver if he was ready, and wave the green flag with a tiny little shadow of a leap that made her leg muscles draw up like hot elastic. You'd hear the tires chirp and an angry snarl off the exhaust and look up from Sally's rear end just in time to see yet another Jag or MG or whatever vanish into the trees, engine straining against the incline. Then you could watch Sally a little more while the noise churned its way up the mountainside, fading like an echo.

  Skippy Welcher's XK120M was in line a few spaces ahead of us, and he naturally got it all wrong when Sally waved the flag, dumping the clutch before he got the revs up and damn near killing the engine. Then The Skipper wailed that poor old Jaguar up to maybe six (or even seven?) grand before slam-shifting into second with a horrifying clash of gear teeth. I looked at Sally Enderle and she kind of rolled her eyes—oh, brother!—and I smiled back and rotated my palms up—what can you do?—and she laughed me a laugh with sleigh bells hung all over it. Boy, did that ever get the old electricity pumping!

  Pretty soon it was time to roll Cal's TC up to the line. "Listen," he said casually, "since I've done this before, why don't you take first crack at the hill?"

  "M-Me?"

  "Why not?"

  "Well, er, ahh. . . ." Truth is, I could think of lots of reasons. Like, fr'instance, my only experience with Cal's TC (or any right-hand drive automobile, for that matter) came between my Triple Play Breakfast Special and the hill climb that very morning. Not to mention that I'd never been in any sort of bona fide Contest of Speed before (unless you count a few casual stoplight drags in the Old Man's tow truck and one time with my dad's Mercury back when he was letting me drive it). Plus I hadn't the foggiest notion which way the damn road went once it twisted out of sight around the first turn. And then there was the little matter of the stunningly gorgeous Miss Sally Enderle standing up there at the starting line in her magnif
icent white shorts. I sure as hell didn't want to do anything stupid in front of her. No sir. But with all those doubts swirling in my head, I still knew I couldn't say no. That's because I knew the lamest, most embarrassing thing of all would be to back down.

  My hands were shaking as I fumbled to get the side flaps of Cal's old polo helmet over the ear wires of my fancy new sunglasses, and Cal tried to calm me down by telling me to "just take it easy" and that I should remember to "flow the car through the bends" (which sounded rather difficult, seeing as how I couldn't hardly flow pee through my bladder at that point), but behind it all you couldn't miss the nasty little smirk of a challenge. Typical. Cal Carrington was as good a friend as I ever had, but he'd push you and prod you right to the limit—and beyond!—just to see how you'd handle it. Truth is, Cal got me to do things I never, ever would've done by myself. Things a guy could feel a little proud and cocky about afterward. Like going up that hill for the very first time.