In the Wheels

a moment. I thought I saw a little doubt in his face, but then he shrugged and turned back to the girls.

Zeke eased the Chevy up to the line. “Hey, piss-head,” Zeke said. The Bobcat ignored us.

“I said, ‘Hey, piss-head.’”

Bobcat thumbed one gloved hand at us and asked one of the girls, “Who is this yokel?”

It was Lydia Mitchum, the Preacher’s daughter, who answered. “That’s Zeke Landers.”

The Bobcat turned to us and leaned down to look into the car. “That’s it? Just ‘Zeke?’”

Zeke was ready to jump out of the car and punch this guy. I looked at his wild red hair falling like a mane down his back and I said, “Don’t you know who this is, little Bobcat? This the King of the Beasts, Zeke the Lion!”

Zeke gave me a look that told me to shut up, but the word was already out among the watchers.

Bobcat looked annoyed. “Okay, ‘Lion.’ What stakes are you willing to put up?”

Zeke didn’t hesitate a second. “Pink slips.”

“Are you crazy, yokel? You’re going to go zombi for sure.”

“I win, I take your Ford.”

“And if I win, I take your ugly Chevy and drive it off a cliff!”

“Do what you want,” Zeke said. “Down to Busted Bridge, two miles.” He grinned. End of argument.

“Two miles. You’re on.” Bobcat pushed the girls out of the way and climbed into his Ford. Zeke and I watched him pull the inserts out of the palms of his gloves, prick the exposed skin with a small knife, and then fit his hands over the channels. He called Lydia over to tie the thongs of his gloves to the steering wheel.

Zeke snorted. “Wimp.” Zeke’s hands were bare as always. I pushed the handle to get out.

“Hey! Where you going?”

“I’m going to watch,” I said.

“Like hell. Don’t you know you’re my lucky piece? You ride with me!” I got back in, scared but excited as all hell. The Bobcat started his Engine and the crowd backed away to the railings. Zeke tightened his grip on the wheel. Our Engine growled to life.

Lydia Mitchum stripped off her green t-shirt and stood between our headlights. I couldn’t take my eyes off her breasts. “On my mark!” she yelled, raising the shirt above her head. Zeke snarled under his breath. Lydia brought the green cloth down. “Go!”

We went.

I think I screamed most of the way down the track. And then I looked over at Zeke and saw that he was smiling. Maybe I should have realized then that I had no part in this, but with Zeke so confident and in control, I started to smile too. We beat the Ford to Busted Bridge by a quarter mile.

The Bobcat was furious. “Who the hell are you!? What kind of Engine is that?” he kept yelling. Zeke told him to keep his shitty car and go home.

Zeke grabbed me by the shoulders. “So what do you say? Do we hit the circuit or what?”

I was young. I had just won my first race with Zeke. I said yes.

* * *

I left a note for my Father telling him I would be back for the harvest in October. Then I hopped out my window, a sack of clothes in my hand, and headed out across the fields to Zeke’s house. When I got there, Zeke was taking an axe to a tin contraption behind the shed. “What is that?” I said.

“His still.” He broke up the last of the tubing, dumped a big barrel of mash on the ground, and then tossed the axe into the field. “Maybe this will keep him alive ‘til I get back,” he said.

We drove the white highways, only getting off when the road was too ridden with holes or the bridges were out. Zeke the Lion became the new name on the circuit. “I refuse to lose,” he’d say to me before each race. And he didn’t. We drove through Kintucky, Appalachia, Texas, Misery, taking on all challenges. We would sleep outside, or in the Chevy if it was raining.

There were always girls at the races. A lot of times I would have to walk around for a couple of hours while Zeke was using the car. Or he would gather a bunch of kids around, slowly strip off his bandages, and tell them what it was like to drive one of the Engines. Zeke loved every minute of it. I spent every minute horny as hell, but the Driver magic didn’t seem to rub off on me.

And Zeke was changing. By late August he was staying out later and later before each race. He’d get roaring drunk and then shake me awake. He always wanted to talk. Most of the time it was racing: about the cars he’d beaten, or was going to beat in the next town, and especially how he was going to take on the Brujo in Mexicana.

But sometimes it was weirder stuff. “Joey,” he said to me one night in Texas, “the voice is getting louder. When I start a race, I can hear it screaming at me. It’s getting in, Joey.” I asked what he meant but he only stared at his hands and mumbled again, “It’s getting in, I can feel it.” Then he took another slug of corn-gin. After a while he shambled off into the darkness.

By September we were in Mexicana.

The Brujo was nothing like I expected. I first saw him standing near his big white Caddy, surrounded by a group of racers. He was talking in a loud high voice and when he laughed he sounded like an old woman. His face was fat, and he beamed at everyone around him like an idiot.

When he saw Zeke and me step out of the Chevy he walked over. His body was as fat as his face, much too soft for an Engine driver’s. He held out a big gloved hand to me and smiled. Long leather thongs hung from the gloves. “I am Phil Mendez! You must be Lucky Joe!” That had gotten to be my name on the Circuit. We shook hands but his eyes were already on Zeke. Those eyes were flat, professional.

His smile faded. “This is the Lion?” Zeke was in bad shape. His skin was pale from blood loss, his hands were shaky, and his eyes were bloodshot. He hadn’t eaten well in days. And he was still drunk from a binge last night.

“I want to race,” Zeke said. His voice was raspy.

“My friend, Zeke,” the Brujo said, “you aren’t well enough to shit on a rock.” The Brujo’s gaze swiveled back to me. “No race. Get him out of here.”

“No!” screamed Zeke, and he grabbed Mendez by the shirt. “You can’t chicken out on me, sucker.” Mendez looked at him coldly. I suddenly realized that the Brujo was an old man, maybe older than Frank.

There was a few seconds of silence. Then the Brujo smiled. “Okay, little man. What kind of car you want to put up?” Zeke let go of his shirt and Mendez looked over at the Chevy. He studied it for a moment and then looked at me.

“Who painted that car?” he snapped.

“Zeke did.”

“Bullshit.” He walked up to the car and circled it once. “I know this pattern.”

Zeke shouted at him. “So what’s the deal? We race?”

“You’re from up around Illini, aren’t you?” I nodded. The Brujo shook his head sadly. “I thought so. I thought so.” He turned back to the circle of drivers waiting for him by the Caddy. “Okay, little man. You get your race.”

We watched the Brujo take on three challengers that day, which was almost unheard of on the Circuit. Every time the Brujo’s big caddy beat someone to the two-mile marker Zeke would say, “I can take that. I can take it.”

We were scheduled for the next morning. Racers and girls and local kids stopped by our car to wish Zeke luck tomorrow. Bottles were passed. Zeke wasn’t drinking that night, but for the first time I was. It tasted horrible.

“I need an edge,” Zeke said to me after everyone had left. He passed me a bottle. “He’s got a bigger Engine in that Caddy.”

“Forget it,” I said. My voice was too loud. “There’s no way for you to get a bigger Engine.”

Zeke leaned against the hood. “Not a bigger Engine, Joey. More fuel, that’s all that matters. Bigger channels.”

I drained the last of the bottle. The world was spinning a little crazily and I just wanted to lie flat on the ground. I pulled my blankets out of the car. “Sleep on it, Zeke,” was the last thing I remember saying.

The next morning I woke up and Zeke and the Chevy were gone.

From the direction of the white highways I heard the Chevy’s roar, and in a second I was up and running toward the sound.