'It's what his friends call him,' Fancy said, stepping up like she was measuring Brewster for a right cross.
'That's sick, man,' Brewster said, laughing. 'One of your psycho ideas?' he sneered in Wendy's direction.
'There's one kind of sickness you'll never get, Brewster,' she replied, gently.
'Yeah? What's that?'
'Brain fever,' she said. Two of Brewster's boys slapped a high five. His face flushed. 'Don't even think about it,' I said to him real quiet.
'See you out there, wimp,' he said, stalking off.
Sonny swung the front end of the Plymouth forward, exposing the engine and upper suspension. A guy in a little cloth cap stopped by, stood off a few feet checking things out. I watched his face for that superior–snide look, but he was rapt with respect.
'Is that a four–thirteen?' he asked.
'It's a four–forty,' I told him. 'With sixty over.
'What a monster!' the guy said, open admiration in his voice. 'I haven't seen one like that since I was a kid. You going to run her?'
'He is,' I said, indicating Sonny.
'I guess you got enough torque for a short course,' the guy said to Sonny. 'But it's got to be carrying a couple of tons unsprung weight.'
'Yeah,' Sonny said. 'But it loads to the outside wheels pretty good.'
'Can you lock it up? Hold it in low gear all the way?'
'That's my plan. The automatic's just a three–speed— it probably won't even red–line.'
'Good luck,' the man said, offering his hand.
'Thanks,' Sonny acknowledged.
The man walked away. 'You know who that was?' Sonny asked me, answering his own question without waiting for my response. 'That was John Margate— he used to race Formula One. Even did the Grand Prix… damn!'
'I guess he knows the real deal when he sees it.'
'John Margate…the kid mused, chest swelling.
We watched the races from the roof of the Plymouth, legs dangling down across the windshield. Mostly sports cars: I spotted a sprinkling of Alfas, old Triumphs, an MGA coupe. Most of them handled the course pretty well, with only an occasional spin–out. An electronic board at the finish line flashed the time of each car as it came through. After a while, the course attendants went out on the track, moved the cones around, set them wider, opening things up. The next wave was stronger stuff: a white Nissan 300ZX, a blue Mazda RX–7, even an NSX like Fancy's.
'Pretty soon,' Sonny said. He looked about as nervous as a pit bull facing off against a cocker spaniel.
We all climbed down. Sonny walked around the Plymouth one more time, stroking the big car, saying something I couldn't hear. Wendy took her long black chiffon scarf from around her neck, tied it carefully to the Plymouth's upright antenna, gave Sonny a kiss. He put on his driver's helmet, donned a pair of leather gloves, and started the engine. The Plymouth growled a warning, ready.
Sonny put it in gear and pulled off toward the staging area.
'He's gonna be fine,' I told Wendy.
'I know,' she said.
I looked around for Fancy, couldn't see her. Before I could puzzle it out, she strolled up carrying a cardboard tray with big paper cups carefully balanced, a white cowboy hat on her head.
'Where'd you get that?' I asked her.
'There's a concession stand on the other side,' she said, handing an iced Coke to Wendy, another to me.
'I mean the hat.'
'Oh. Some young boy was wearing it— he gave it to me.'
'Come on,' I said to both women. 'Let's get over to where we can see it.'
The first car through was a lipstick red Dodge Viper. The PA. system gave the guy's name, drawing some polite applause. He couldn't drive to save his life, wiping out on the twisting backstretch, spinning out of control. The car skidded harmlessly to a stop.
'You get three runs.' I looked over at the speaker, a guy in his forties, wearing one of those suburban safari jackets. He looked fully equipped— a clipboard in one hand loaded with crosshatched paper, a monocular on a cord around his neck. 'Most of them push too hard the first time through,' he said knowingly. I nodded my thanks for the information.
The next car was a one–seater with some kind of boattail— I didn't recognize it.
'Herbert Carpenter. Driving a D–type Jaguar,' the PA. announced.
Whoever he was, he was good. Real good. The dark green car zipped through the pylons smoothly, making a sound like ripping canvas. The electronic scoreboard flashed…1:29.44.
'Best time of the day,' the guy next to me said.
