Part 7

Woody often wanted to ask him whether he still felt nervous about it, but could not bring himself to do so.

The Thursday before the race, which was to be held over the weekend, they took the Black Tiger out to the salt flats, and Randy let Woody drive her. Woody had once wanted nothing more in life than to be seated behind her wheel. But now that the opportunity was offered him, he sought to get out of it.

"I'm not used to the car," he said. "I might chew up your gearbox."

"Nonsense," said Randy. "Hop in. She's getting maximum torque at six thousand. Rev her up to that before you change. Then change fast and with full throttle. You'll get a real thrill out of it."

When he got going, Woody did get a thrill out of it. For a while he experienced the old exhilaration at his effortless arrowing forward in the Black Tiger, with the landscape around reduced to a blur. The car handled much more delicately than the MG. It was, he told himself, a real racing machine. He glanced at the speedometer and saw he was hitting a hundred and sixty in high. But when he got back and climbed out he was trembling slightly and his mouth was dry.

"How'd she feel?" asked Randy.

"Beautiful," Woody replied.

"One day," Randy said, "you might be able to race her yourself." Woody hoped heartily that that day would never come.

13

There were two other events before the Black Tiger was due to race at Santa Barbara. In the first, for cars under fifteen hundred cc.'s, Rocky raced the MG, and drove better than Woody had ever seen her drive before. She came up from seventh at the starting line to second when the race was over, and if the race had gone another lap she would have been first.

"This is our day, Randy," she told her father when she got back to the pit. "You're bound to win in the Black Tiger now. I just feel it."

"If I drove like you, I'd feel it myself," said Randy.

The second race was for old-style racing cars and more of a novelty than a sporting event. Woody saw little of it, being busy with last-minute details on the Black Tiger. The car was in tiptop shape. It was still the magnet of attention among the other drivers and mechanics in the pit area. They came over in twos and threes to look over the engine and comment on the streamlining. Tom Wisdom and Kurt Kreuger, old rivals of Randy's who were to race against him again, were there. They were obviously delighted to know that Randy's leg was in good enough shape for him to race again.

Woody overheard Tom say to Kreuger, "If it was a matter of guts alone, Randy would be sure to win. Boy, he's got more guts than all of us put together."

"You can say that again," said Kurt. He looked back at the Black Tiger and shook his big head solemnly. "Hate to say it," he said, "but that car just bothers me. Too new. Too many unknown bugs in it."

Tom nodded his head solemnly, and the two drifted off.

Randy made different pit-crew arrangements for the race than those at Torrey Pines. "Rocky and Worm stay here at the racing pit in case I develop some trouble," he said. "Woody, I'd like you to go out to bend number five and pick a spot by the fence where I can see you as I come out of the bend. Take along that blackboard and a piece of chalk. When I come out of the bend, hold the blackboard well up so I can see it, and chalk on it the number of the lap and my position. If I'm more than sixth or seventh don't bother giving me the position. But if I'm among the first five or so, let me know. Understand?"

"Yes," said Woody. "I'll put the lap number at the top of the board, and your position down below it."

"Swell," said Randy. "The race is for thirty minutes. Toward the end, you can forget about the lap number and just let me know the number of minutes left. O.K.?" Woody nodded and went off to pick a good spot near bend number five.

The Santa Barbara track is laid out roughly in the shape of a horseshoe. The cars travel around the inside of the shoe and then around the outside to complete one lap. But it is a horseshoe that has been badly bent, so that instead of just two hairpins at the feet and a long slow curve at the top, there are a number of near right-angle bends as well.

Woody found a good place behind the snow fence and waited, nerves tingling, for the race to start. Over the loud-speaker he could hear the commentator briefing the crowd on what was going to take place.

"This race," he said, "will commence with a Le Mans start. The cars are parked on one side of the track and their drivers opposite them on the other. When the starter brings down his flag, the drivers will sprint to their cars, jump in, fasten their safety belts, switch on their engines, and get going. The start, then, is a critical moment. A driver who can get under way quickly can get ahead of three or four cars he might not have a chance of passing on the track.

"Well, there they are, all sitting down waiting for the starting flag. There are three veteran Le Mans drivers in this event--Kurt Kreuger in Jag number eight, Tom Wisdom in a red Ferrari, number ten, and Jimmy Randolph in his new Italian job, the Black Tiger, number two. Randy has raced this car only once before and was doing well when he broke a steering knuckle and turned over. He's a great guy to be racing today. But he has every confidence in his car. Here it is. They're off--"

The rest of what the announcer said was drowned in a roar of engines. Woody strained over the snow fence, his eyes on bend number five about a hundred yards down the track. It was a particularly savage bend with buildings on either side and a house dead in front when the driver was halfway around. The house was protected with hay bales. Any car that didn't get around would run straight into them. A further hazard consisted of a thick telephone pole at the end of the bend, where most cars would be swinging wide after making the turn. There were hay bales around that also.

Suddenly there was a roar, and the first car appeared around number five. It was a red Ferrari, number twelve. Then came two more and then a Jag. Then three in a huddle, the one on the outside just missing the telephone pole. Woody began to wonder where Randy was. Suddenly the Black Tiger flashed by in eighth place. Randy, with his newly mended leg, had not been able to sprint over to his car as fast as the other drivers. It was typical of the man that he had made no mention of this additional handicap before the start.

The announcer picked up the rest of the first lap for Woody. Wisdom and Kreuger, old rivals, were battling for third place. Ahead of them was Ben Wedger in a Maserati. There was no mention yet of the Black Tiger. Woody suspected that Randy was still in eighth place. He waited, his eyes riveted on turn number five. Suddenly two cars flashed around it wheel to wheel. The outside car swerved off the shoulder of the track and looked as if it were going to hit the telephone pole. Woody could see the driver fighting to bring it back again. He succeeded but dropped to second place. Then came two more, one on the tail of the other. The first was Kreuger's Jag, number eight. Then Tom Wisdom in his red Ferrari. Then a Maserati, number eleven, and then the Black Tiger. She came around the corner like her namesake, clinging to the inside of the track and passed the Maserati, going full bore as they came abreast of Woody.

"He's fifth now," Woody yelled excitedly. He chalked a big three for the lap number on the top of the board and a big five for Randy's place in the last lap below it.

"They're going into the north hairpin now," said the announcer. "Dave Kingston is still ahead in number twelve, Kreuger and Wisdom are fighting it out wheel to wheel. They've come up to second and third respectively. Wait a minute. What's this. The Black Tiger, driven by Jimmy Randolph, just shot between Wisdom and Kreuger to take over third place. That makes it Kingston, Kreuger, and Randolph in the Black Tiger third. But it's still anybody's race with twenty minutes to go."

Woody forgot about the sign board in his excitement. He leaned as far as he could over the snow fence to see the Black Tiger come around turn number five. There was a tense silence in the crowd, above which he could hear the roar of the engines. He heard the squeal of wheels and the coughing spit of Kingston's Ferrari as he changed down for the bend. Then Kingston was around and after him. Turning the corner in the same instant was Kreuger's Jag and the Black Tiger, wheel to wheel. As they flashed by Woody caught a glimpse of Randy, sitting quite relaxed behind the wheel. There was a slight smile on his face, and then he was gone, headed for the right-angle bend half a mile down the track.

"It's Dave Kingston against Jimmy Randolph in the Black Tiger now," the loud-speaker blared. "Randolph cut in from the far side of the track on bend six to take over the second place from Kreuger. He's battling Kingston now for the lead position. As they pass the start-finish line on the sixth lap it's Kingston, Randolph, Kreuger, and Wisdom.

"Randolph had an overlap on Kingston's Ferrari twice. This is a great race--perhaps the greatest we shall see this year. Here they are going into the hairpin. Kingston is skillfully blocking all Randolph's attempts to pass. He's holding that inside position and has just a little more speed than the Black Tiger on the straightaway. Now they're entering bend number five. It looks as though Randolph is going to take it wide, relying on the cornering ability of the Tiger to take him around--"

Woody didn't have to listen to the rest. He saw it. Kingston's Ferrari hurtled around the bend on the inside with the Black Tiger on its tail. The big Ferrari skidded for a fraction of a second, picked up traction, and hurtled down the straightaway.

But something went wrong with the Black Tiger. The car took the corner wide, and Woody could see Randy fighting to get control. It looked as though he was going to hit the telephone pole, but he managed to miss it by inches. The car came roaring and fishtailing toward the crowd. People scattered like dust before a heavy gust of wind. Woody caught a glimpse of the Tiger hitting the shoulder of the road not a hundred yards from him. Then it leaped into the air, turned slowly on its side, and hit the ground upside down. It slithered bumping and screaming, sparks flying from it, and the wheels spinning, for fifty yards before it came to a standstill.

Woody was over the snow fence before anybody could stop him. Flagmen appeared is if by magic, waving the red accident flags. Woody was conscious that several cars flashed by, slowing down near him, but he had no eyes for them. He ran to the Black Tiger, which lay beside the track, its wheels still spinning in the air.

"Randy," he shouted, "Randy."

"Get back," somebody yelled at him and pulled him by the shoulder. Woody yanked himself savagely free and grabbed the side of the Black Tiger, attempting to right it. Several other men came to help. Together they got the Tiger back on its wheels. Randy was in the driver's seat, but his shape was all wrong. One hand was nothing but a red hunk of meat. It lay on his safety belt, and it was obvious that he had been fumbling with it. Blood dripped quietly from it onto his pants. He was slumped sideways beside the steering wheel but in such a way as to suggest that his back was broken. His head lay on the seat, and his face turned up toward them.

He looked at Woody and attempted a smile, but coughed instead. A little pink foam came to his lips.

"Brakes," he said and closed his eyes.

The ambulance was there in a second, and everybody hustled away to make room for the ambulance attendant. Woody stayed as near as he was allowed and saw a doctor bend over Randy. When the doctor stood up, he didn't say anything. He just shook his head and got back into the ambulance.

Then Woody knew that Randy was dead. The Black Tiger had killed him.

14

In the weeks that followed Randy's death, nobody made any mention of road racing or the Black Tiger around Worm's garage. There was a tacit understanding that both topics should be ignored. Woody worked harder than ever at his job and tried to put both subjects out of his mind. He saw Rocky only at the funeral, and then she went back to San Diego to live with an aunt. Woody did not know what happened to the Black Tiger. And he hoped he would never hear of it or see it again.

Worm made only one comment on the fatal accident that killed Randy. "Yon Black Tiger is a killer car," he said to Woody. "I told Randy so and tried to warn him against racing it. But he was no a man that ye could warn."

It was not, however, as easy to get away from road racing as Woody hoped. When he went into a drugstore for a hamburger, he found himself eying the road-racing magazines. When he bought a newspaper, the sports pages with their columns on road racing had an irresistible fascination for him. He did not want to look at them. Yet he found that he could not refrain from doing so. Names seemed to leap out of the pages at him--Tom Wisdom, Kurt Kreuger, Dave Kingston. It was strange how out of several thousand printed words on a page, one word would stand out as if it were printed in a different color.

A week after Randy's death, Woody called up Mary Jane and asked her for a date. She sounded neither cold nor very friendly on the phone, and said she was doing nothing that night. Woody asked her out to dinner. When he called for her, he began to realize how much he had missed her. It seemed as if he had been only a portion of himself and now he was made whole again. They spent a pleasant evening, not saying anything about what was past or about any plans for the future. It seemed as if the two of them just wanted to enjoy the present for the moment.

Mary Jane seemed much more grown up to Woody that evening. She talked neither of Somerset Maugham nor of boys she'd been out with while they were quarreling. Woody felt peaceful while he was with her for the first time in many weeks. When he went home, he slept well, and the following day was whistling at his work and much more his old self.

Worm noticed the change and was pleased by it. He was not a man to pry into others' affairs, but he had been worried about Woody, toward whom he adopted an attitude part father and part elder brother.

For the next month things went smoothly in this fashion, and Woody almost managed to forget about road racing and the unconquered fears with which the whole subject filled him.

Then one day the telephone rang, and when he answered it Rocky was on the line.

"Hi, Woody," she said. "How have you been?"

"Pretty good," Woody replied. "How are things with you?"

"Just fine now that--now that everything's settled. I called you up because I just had some wonderful news. Guess what?"

"What?" said Woody and he felt curiously ill at ease.

"The Italian factory that made the Black Tiger had a representative over here to look at Daddy's car. You know there are only three of them in the world. They were worried about the two accidents"--she hurried over the words--"because they gave the car a bad name. You know people have been saying that the car's a killer, and nobody can be found to drive it. Anyway, they've offered to pay the expenses of repairing the Black Tiger, and they'll provide all the new parts needed and everything if someone will race it again over here."

"Oh," said Woody, trying to keep the dismay out of his voice.

"Daddy really believed in that car," Rocky continued. "He said it was the finest he'd ever seen in all the time he'd been driving. I thought that since you'd worked with him on it that you'd like to know the news right away."

"Gee," said Woody. "I'm sure glad to hear it. Let me know if they find a driver, huh? Maybe Tom Wisdom. He was a friend of your father's."

"No," said Rocky. "I asked Tom. But he has the same opinion of the Black Tiger as the others. He says it's a killer--too unorthodox a design to be raced safely. Kurt Kreuger says the same. He won't touch it. But I'll find somebody. Of course, there are lots of people who would do it, but they haven't got the kind of driving flair that the car needs. Anyway, I'll let you know if anything happens."

She sounded a little disappointed.

"Thanks," said Woody and hung up.

"Who was that?" Worm asked when he put down the phone.

"Rocky," replied Woody. "They're fixing up the Black Tiger, and they're going to race her again."

Worm gave him a queer look. "Come into the office," he said. "I've something I want to tell ye. And I might as well tell ye noo."

When they were inside Worm's tiny office and Worm had lit a cigarette, he took a long hard drag at it, examined the glowing end, and addressed himself to the smoldering cigarette rather than to Woody.

"Ye may have been wondering," he said, "for ye are a noticing body, how it was I came to know Randy so well mony years ago. And ye may have heard some remarks pass between us that made nae sense tae ye at the time. Ye'll recall, nae doot, that the first time he came tae the garage here to ask me tae work on his pit crew, he said that that was something I had tae face and I'd do better tae face it wi' me friends."

Woody nodded but said nothing.

"Weel," said Worm, "the fact o' the matter is that many years ago, before ye were born likely, Randy and I were both racing drivers over there in Europe. We raced against each other in the Tourists' Trophy in Ireland and in the Le Mans in France and sometimes in road races that took us frae the Channel ports tae the toe of Italy and back. Clean across the Alps, mind ye, on narrow roads, twisting and curving, through the passes, wi' snow all aroond, and sometimes ye couldna' see tae the end o' yere headlight beam.

"Ah weel, that was when I was young and foolish. Well, there came a time when I was approached by a Swiss company tae race a new car for them in the Le Mans. 'Twas a car ye probably never heard of, for they don't make it any more. 'Twas called an Albinet."

Woody shook his head. The name was completely strange to him.

"Well, 'tis as I thought. Few these days have ever heard of the Albinet, though at the time 'twas the wonder car of the year. Like that Black Tiger noo.

"No tae make too long a tale of it, I agreed tae drive the car, and Randy was in the race too, driving a Bugatti if I remember right.

"Now I don't know if you know anything about the Le Mans. 'Tis held in the city of Le Mans in France, and the roads are blocked off tae form the track. The race is laid down through the streets of the city, and there's every kind of a turn and twist and hill and blind corner and every kind of surface ye can think of to be negotiated. 'Tis a twenty-four-hour race. There's cobbles in some parts and asphalt in others and concrete and all the rest. And sometimes it's raining and sometimes it's dry, so ye've never seen a race like the Le Mans over here, and I hope ye never will.

"I mind I was third on the eightieth lap. There was a Frenchman ahead of me in a Hispano-Suiza and a German in the lead with a Mercedes-Benz. Randy was on my tail, and we were going hell for leather down a cobbled hill with a wall on one side all covered wi' sandbags and houses on the other. At the bottom of the hill there was a sharp right turn and then a sharp turn to the left and up another hill.

"The trick was to change doon and brake hard, drift aroond the first corner, regain traction on the second, and on your way.

"The crowd was as thick as flies along the sandbags lining the wall as I came roaring down the hill. I hit my brakes to change doon, and my foot went tae the floor. The brakes had failed. I was doing a hundred and ten down the cobbled hill when I passed the Italian and tried to make the turn tae the right. The car swung around like an ice skater and hit one of the sandbags. I got doon on the floor and Randy piled intae me. There were five cars in that wreck, and three of the drivers were killed. Four people who were watching from the sandbags died too. Randy lost his foot.

"After that, I swore I'd never race again. And I never have. Randy tried tae get me back driving. He said if I didn't go back I'd be a beaten man all me life. Well, maybe I am a beaten man. But to this day I canna' look at a racing car without being filled wi' mortal fear. When I agreed tae go wi' you and Steve tae the technical inspection, I was trying tae get over some of that fear. I thought it might have left me. But it hadn't. And when I agreed tae work in the pit wi' Randy, it was for the same reason.

"I'm sorry now I did. Randy would hae been killed, nae doot. But I'd have had no part in it." He paused and flicked the butt of his cigarette deftly into a bucket of water.

"Ye'll be wondering why I'm telling ye all this, nae doot," he said. "Weel, it's on account of yon Black Tiger. Mark my words, they'll no find any racing driver wi' any experience that'll undertake tae handle her. Yon car's a killer as I said before. I'm thinking that they'll be asking you. Ye drive well. I've watched ye. Ye drive like I used tae drive when I was racing. I've looked at ye going roond the track and seen meself twenty years ago.

"But dinna make the mistake I made--Randy too. Dinna' go on wi' yere driving until ye've killed seven people just because ye wanted tae drive a new car first past the finish line.

"I'll never forget those people, laddie. Never. And I've a horror of racing now that won't leave me until I've drawn my last breath."

Woody now understood fully Worm's strange reaction to the Black Tiger and his reluctance to be associated with road racing in any way. But there was something else he wanted to know. He remembered how Randy, over dinner, had told him that road racing condensed all the challenges of life into a few minutes. He recalled Randy's saying that all drivers were scared but if a man gave way to fear he would be beaten for the rest of his life.

"Tell me, Worm," he said. "Did you quit racing because of the accident--because of the people you killed though it was not your fault? Or did you quit because you were scared of getting killed yourself? Because you didn't want to take any more chances."

"'Twas the people," said Worm, slowly.

"But they knew the risk they were taking when they came to watch the race," Woody persisted. "They knew a car might get out of control. Yet they came and sat on top of the sandbags."

Worm made no comment on this for a while. He got up moodily from his seat and looked out of the window. "Randy told me that mony a time," he said. "If I face the matter squarely, I quit because I was afraid." The sentence was uttered in almost a whisper.

"I've been afraid ever since," said Worm. Woody felt a deep compassion for him.

15

Worm's forecast that Woody would be asked to drive the Black Tiger was not long in coming true. A week after her telephone call, Rocky dropped in to see him. She drove into the garage in her MG, and although Worm was delighted to see the daughter of his old friend, it was plain that he was worried too.

"Mind what I told ye," he said privately to Woody. "Dinna' let her talk ye into driving yon Black Tiger. It's nae worth the risk."

Woody and Rocky went to dinner and then for a drive and a talk. For a while nothing was said about the Black Tiger, though Woody knew very well that that was the object of the visit. Rocky was apparently waiting for Woody to bring up the subject, and he was determined that he wouldn't.

Eventually she brought it up herself.