The Last Open Road Read online

  "Ah said ASK him!"

  Butch squirmed around like he wanted to crawl off under a car and die, but Marlene had her mind made up and jammed him another good shot in the ear to get him going. You could see all the air drain out of him, and he had to clear his throat a couple times before he spoke. "Uh, lissen, Buddy," he mumbled into his lap, "would'ja do me a little favor when the Old Man comes back?"

  "Sure, Butch. Anything you want. Just name it."

  His voice went down so quiet I had to bend down next to him to make it out. "Would'ja mind askin' the Old Man if he can maybe use a lil' help around the station here? Part-time, even. I can still do lotsa stuff. . . ."

  "Sure you can," I told him.

  "Yeah," he sighed in barely a whisper, "sure I can."

  There wasn't much of anything to say after that, and I caught myself listening to the cars out on the highway again. Like the sound of the ocean in a seashell, you know? But then Butch shook it off and flashed me a shadow of the rugged old smile he used to whip out now and then around the Sinclair. "Well," he said, "me an' Marlene gotta be gettin' along. We got stuff t'do. . . ."

  "A'course you do, Butch."

  "You takin' good care a'my tools, boy?"

  "Sure am, Butch. You know that."

  "You damn well better had."

  Marlene started rolling him toward the street, but all of a sudden I got a bright idea. "Say, Butch," I yelled after him, "maybe I oughta be paying you something for those tools."

  Butch grabbed the wheels and spun that wheelchair around, angry as hell. "What th'FUCK makes you think I'd wanna sell my goddam tools?"

  "N-Nothing, Butch," I stammered. "I mean, that's not what I meant. Not at all, Butch. No sir."

  "Well, that's sure what th'fuck it sounded like."

  "Geez, Butch, I just thought, you know, like maybe I oughta be payin' you, I dunno, some kinda rent or something."

  "Rent?"

  "Sure" I said. "After all, I been using your tools for quite awhile now. Maybe I oughta be payin' rent for 'em, doncha think? I mean, it's only fair. . . ."

  Butch thought it over, rubbing his chin with his bad hand. "Naw," he said finally, shaking his head, "I don't think I'd feel real happy about that. You just take care a'them tools until I'm ready t'use 'em again."

  "Honest, Butch, I can afford it. I'm doin' real good here at the station."

  "I 'spect you are, Buddy. I 'spect you are. But I'm doin' okay, too. I got some money comin' in from the disability insurance and stuff. Fact is, I got more now than I ever had when I was workin'. Can't get out t'the damn tavern anymore an' spend it. Ask Marlene."

  "Sure thing, honey," she cooed, real sarcastic. "01' Butch here is one hell of a provider these days. . . ."

  "Ah, button yer lip, y'old bag."

  "Or else what , jerkoff? Yew planning t'button it for me?"

  Butch arched up like he was gonna take a swipe at her, but Marlene simply stepped out of range and there was nothing Butch could do but paw the air where she'd been. Finally, he slumped back in his wheelchair, shook his head, and slowly pushed those armor-plate sunglasses up over his forehead. "Lissen, Buddy," he said, staring me square in the eyes, "it ain't just about money, see."

  "It isn't?"

  "Hell no, it ain't. A man's gotta work , Buddy. He's gotta get out of th'damn house an' do something. Life ain't worth two shits just sittin' around with yer dick in yer lap." And with that, Butch spun around so Marlene could grab the handles and wheel him off down the street.

  In a heartbeat they were gone.

  I told Old Man Finzio about Butch's visit when he got back to the station, but I had to be honest about the shape he was in. I mean, there was no point lying about it. So naturally the Old Man wasn't real keen on hiring him. And to tell the truth, I couldn't blame him. Sure, I felt bad about it, but it was just one more lousy deal in life that I couldn't do a single goddam thing about. It seems like the older you get, the more of that shit you run into.

  We had a sort of warm spell toward the middle of May, and right on cue Big Ed's XK120 started overheating whenever he got stuck in traffic. It wasn't one of your steaming, gurgling, car-disabling boil-overs, but rather one of those irritating deals where the temp needle creeps up into the worry zone and the engine starts skipping a little because fuel is percolating someplace in the pump, lines, or float bowls. As you can imagine, that aggravated the hell out of Big Ed—hey, he wanted his cars perfect —so he brought the Jag over one evening for me to check it out. But of course it was cooler then and so naturally the engine ran like a charm and never missed a beat. Happens every time.

  "Aw, this g-goddam thing," Big Ed sputtered. "If Cadillac built cars like this, they'd be outta goddam business."

  "I'm sorry," I shrugged, "but I can't find anything wrong, Mr. Baumstein. She seems t'be runnin' fine."

  "Oh, suuurre," he grumbled. "Now th' damn thing runs fine. Purrs like a goddam kitten. Lissen, Buddy, you drive the sonofabitch over t'Westbridge tomorrow. Across the bridge during rush hour. You'll see," and Big Ed handed me the keys to his brand-new Jaguar. Just like that.

  Naturally, Big Ed needed a lift home, and believe it or not, he let me drive. Probably wanted to see if I could handle it, you know? As you can imagine, I took it very easy, squeezing the gas and brakes so gently you could've set a line of beer mugs down the hood and not lost a drop. Even so, that XK120 was the most exciting piece of machinery I'd ever had my hands on, and I couldn't wait to drop him off so I could maybe stretch its legs a little.

  Big Ed's house in Teaneck was set back at the end of a long, woodsy drive that just about deserved its own street sign, and I swear I'd never seen a place like that in my life. It looked more like a country club or a small municipal library than the private home of an ordinary two-armed, two-legged, shot-and-a-beer human being. Why, it was two stories high and damn near half a block long, and there were big marble columns and one of those rounded turret deals with a pincushion top like you see on Russian Orthodox churches. In fact, there were fancy architectural doodads all over Big Ed's place, including carved stone gargoyles on the corners of the roof and a pair of mean-looking concrete lions flanking the main entrance. Across the driveway was this big oval fountain with green ceramic carp spouting water at one end and a little bronze boy pissing off a rock at the other. To be perfectly honest, I thought Big Ed's house was just a tad, you know, overdone for a private home. But it was sure as hell impressive, and I guess that was the whole idea.

  Of course, a guy like Big Ed needed a special place for his automobiles, and around the side was a five-car garage—all brick, natch—with Big Ed's two Caddies on one side, an empty slot for his Jag in the middle, one of the maroon-and-gold GMC half-tons from his scrap yard up against the wall, and his wife's butterscotch-yellow Chrysler convertible in the stall beside it. It was one of those "Town and Country" jobs with the real wood trim, and even though it was two years old (same as Big Ed's marriage to the current Mrs. Baumstein) you couldn't tell it from new. Big Ed wanted to buy her one of those hot new '52 Packard ragtops, but the reigning Mrs. Big Ed wouldn't hear of it because she was so fond of the solid maple trim on her Chrysler. I kind of liked it myself, and could never figure why Chrysler decided to shitcan the woodwork for the '51 model year. When you get right down to it, Chryslers were fat, lardy-looking cars that needed all the dress-up help they could get.

  Nobody at the Sinclair had ever met Big Ed's wife, and I have to admit I was more than a little curious as to just what kind of woman a guy like Big Ed Baumstein might marry. Not to mention vise versa. But I begged off when Big Ed invited me in for a bite to eat. After all, I was still dressed in my greasy mechanic's coveralls and Big Ed's house didn't look like the kind of place where a guy with a full day's garage work spread all over him could plop down in a swivel-backed chair, prop his feet up on an empty soda case, and scarf down a quick bottle of Coke and a hamburger sandwich. Not hardly. Besides, I had better things to do. It was a beautiful spring evening and I
had the keys to Big Ed's Jaguar XK120 burning a hole in my pocket. Who needed to eat?

  I took it easy on the way back to my apartment—just getting the feel of it, you know—and spent a few minutes in my aunt's driveway disconnecting the Jag's speedo cable (it's easy on an XK120, you just reach behind the dash and unscrew the fitting) so I could go for a little spin without anybody being the wiser. Then I went inside to shower, shave, and put on the freshest shirt and pair of pants I could find. I mean, you don't go cruising in a gleaming ivory-white Jaguar roadster looking like a blue-collar working stiff who adjusts valves and greases kingpins for a living, do you? Even if that's exactly what you are.

  After I got myself all spiffed up, I went down to the corner grocery store and rang Julie up to see if she'd maybe like to join me for a little late-night Jaguar prowl on the Parkway. But her mom answered (what else?) and no way would she even consider it. In fact, she flat refused to put Julie on the line and gave me a major-league earful about calling so late. You know how that goes with girls' moms. So there was nothing to do but take Big Ed's Jaguar for a spin all by my lonesome. Which was okay, too, but not near as nice as sharing it with Julie. Especially since it was such a perfect spring night, what with the smell of new green things and just enough chill in the air so's a person could really appreciate the soft waves of heat rolling up off the Jag's transmission tunnel. The Manhattan skyline was shimmering over the Hudson like the string of lights on a cruise ship, and I just drove up and down the Jersey shore for hours, enjoying the gutty purr out the Jag's tailpipe, the rich smell of that English leather upholstery, and the taut, right there feel through the steering wheel and suspension. Every once in a while I'd double-clutch her down to second and lay into the gas, just to feel that big twin-cam six uncoil. Boy, it had more urge than any car I'd driven in my life! Why, I didn't make it back to my apartment until the sky was getting light. But who cared? Jaguar roadsters were just made for nights like that.

  Naturally, I was groggy as hell when my alarm went off at 6:45 the next morning, and I had half a mind to shut it off, pull the covers up over my head, and go right back to sleep. But I'd promised Big Ed that I'd drive his Jaguar into Manhattan, and by God, that's exactly what I planned to do. Just as soon as I could find the damn keys. And my socks. And my toothbrush. And my cleanest remaining pair of undershorts. Truth is, I was stumbling around my apartment like a broken-down Bowery wino that particular ayem, and probably set a new world's record for bumping my head on the rafter beams. But an ice-cold shower and a couple cups of reheated, day-old coffee (ugh!) blew out enough cobwebs so's I could make it down the stairs, hop into Big Ed's Jaguar, and take off for the city.

  Traffic was packed like a tin of sardines on the George Washington Bridge that morning, and it didn't take but fifteen minutes of bumper-to-bumper creeping before the needle on the Jag's temp gauge started climbing toward the peg. Yup, overheating all right. No two ways about it. In fact, by the time I pulled up in front of Westbridge, Big Ed's Jag was gurgling like a turkey with its throat cut and little wisps of steam were curling out from under the hood. Barry Spline heard the hissing in his driveway and wandered out to see what was up.

  "Yer drove the bloody thing over 'ere during rush hour?" he gasped, watching Big Ed's Jag pee hot coolant all over his sidewalk.

  "She's been overheating," I told him, "and Big Ed wanted me t'drive her over here and check it out."

  Barry Spline sighed and slowly shook his head—the way mechanics do when you've proved beyond doubt that you have no mechanical sympathy whatsoever. "Jagyewahr one-twenties over'eat in traffic as a matter of routine bloody operation, Buddy," Barry explained. "Think of it as the car's way of telling yer it rather prefers the open road."

  "But that's crazy!"

  "Maybe so, mate, but a bloke's gotter be sensitive t'such things if 'e ever expects ter get along with a bleedin' Jagyewahr."

  Well, I personally figured there ought to be some way to keep any damn car from overheating—maybe a bigger radiator core or a smaller fan pulley or a different thermostat or something —but Barry wouldn't even discuss it. He told me to have Big Ed run it with the heater on full blast—in the goddam summertime! —or, better yet, avoid routine commuting in an XK120 entirely. Boy, Big Ed's face was going to turn the color of a beefsteak tomato when he heard that little tidbit of professional Jaguar service advice. I asked Barry if we couldn't maybe try this or that to fix the problem, but he wasn't the least bit interested in any sort of mechanical improvements that didn't come direct from the Jaguar factory in Coventry. "If there was a better bleedin' way ter do it," he sniffed, "I'm certain the lads at Jagyewahr would've sussed it out by now themselves." Over the years, I've observed a lot of that head-in-the-sand crap in new car dealership service departments. In fact, it's more or less universal.

  While waiting for Big Ed's Jag to cool down, I noticed a real flurry of activity going on in the shop. There must've been two dozen cars packed in cheek by jowl and no less than five (or maybe even six) coverall-clad mechanics climbing all over them. And they were hustling, too, which seemed completely out of character considering the shop's normal pace of operation. MGs and Jaguars were getting oil changes, sparkplugs, grease jobs, brake shoes, and freshly balanced tires everywhere you looked. I noticed Westbridge's latest foreign mechanic (the second of the two Hugos) bent over that torpedo-shaped Frazer-Nash, trying his best to balance the carburetors. That was no easy task, on account of the Frazer-Nash had no less than three Solex carburetors, and Sylvester had already advised me that even one Solex could give even a good mechanic fits. To make matters worse, the Frazer-Nash didn't have much in the way of mufflers, so Hugo II had to jam his ear right down into the carburetor throats to hear them hiss, and listening to the exact pitch and volume of that hiss is the essence of accurate carburetor balancing. Now Sylvester had showed me that first day at Westbridge how a wise mechanic could use a length of rubber hose to keep his head a meaningful distance away while attempting to balance carburetors, but I guess Hugo II made a big point of never asking Sylvester anything, and for sure Sylvester Jones was not about to offer advice where it wasn't wanted. Anyhow, the engine was apparently still a little cold (or maybe running a trifle rich) because all of a sudden it backfired—KA-BANG! —and damn near blew Hugo Two's right-side eardrum out his left-side ear.

  "Oh, this one's a real bleedin' genius," Barry muttered as we watched Hugo the Deuce reeling around the shop like he'd taken a solid right from Rocky Marciano. "Why, the idiot damn near killed Sylvester yesterday. Backed a bloody great Mark Seven inter the TC Sylvester was under. Almost knocked h'it clear off the jack stands!" He shook his head disgustedly. "Took out both bloody 'eadlamps on the TC and put a god-awful crease in the Jagyewahr's fender. 'E won't be here past week's end, that one won't. Mark my words."

  "Why the heck don'cha just fire him?" I wondered out loud.

  "Bloody can't," Barry shrugged. "Too much flippin' work t'finish by Friday."

  That sounded a little odd, since getting cars back to customers on time had never been a real priority around the Westbridge Motor Car Company, Ltd. Not hardly. "What's the big rush?" I wanted to know.

  Barry looked at me like I'd just arrived from outer space. "Bridgehampton," he said simply, like that one word should mean something to me.

  "Bridgehampton?"

  "Why, the S.C.M.A. races at Bridgehampton," Colin St. John chimed in from behind my back.

  "The what?"

  "The S.C.M.A.," Colin explained while oh-so-casually filling his pipe, "puts on a bit of a speed event at Bridgehampton every spring. Real wheel-to-wheel stuff, you know. Many of our best customers compete. It's quite the place to be."

  "You mean actual racing?!"

  "Righto, sport."

  Boy, I could feel the old pulse picking up. "Jeez, that sounds neat! Say, where the heck is Bridgehampton, anyway?"

  Colin pulled a stick match out of his jacket and struck it off the edge of the service counter. "Out on Long Islan
d," he said thoughtfully, sucking through his pipe, "near the very tip."

  "They got some kind of racetrack out there?"

  "We race on the country roads around town, actually. You know, uphill, downhill, left, right, sweeping bends, tight hairpins. . . ."

  "Jeez, don't the locals get kind of, you know, upset?"

  "Certainly not. In fact, it's something of a major occasion for them." Colin leaned back against the doorway and folded his arms across his chest like a college professor. "The S.C.M.A. chaps have a sort of, um, arrangement with the local Lions Club organization. Charity and all that. Here," he said, pointing to a poster tacked to the fake maple partition between the Westbridge showroom and service department, "see for yourself." Sure enough, right in the middle were two wheel-to-wheel Jaguar 120s—charging right at you!—with hundred-mile-an-hour speed lines streaking off the fenders and huge dust clouds trailing off behind. Wow! In large type up at the top it said:

  ROAD RACES

  *** Bridgehampton, Long Island ***