When Edgar stops in at the Texaco after work, he finds Bobby in the process of removing the engine from the coupe. He has the V8 hanging from a chain hoist attached to an overhead I-beam and is slowly lifting it to clear the engine compartment as Edgar walks in. All four fenders and the running boards have been removed from the car.
“What in the Sam Hill are you doing now?” Edgar asks.
Bobby pulls down on the chain, inching the engine upwards. “I’m making a banana split, Edgar. What’s it look like I’m doing?”
“Charley said this here is a brand-new engine, all the way from Detroit,” Edgar says. “Why would you remove a new engine, Bobby?”
Bobby gives the chain one more pull, and the engine swings free. “I’m taking it to Charlotte to my pal’s machine shop. I never had a motor this good in my whole life and I’m going to make it even better. When I’m done, this coupe is going to be the fastest car in the whole goddamn state of North Carolina. You can write that down and have it notarized, Edgar.”
Bobby walks around to the front of the car and pushes it backward, out from under the suspended engine. Edgar gives him a hand. When the car is clear, Bobby takes a ratchet and socket from the toolbox, and begins to remove the exhaust manifolds from the V8.
“Edgar, grab the keys off that hook by the door and back Charley’s pickup in here, will you? He says I could borrow it to run to Charlotte.”
After Edgar brings the truck inside, Bobby arranges a couple of scrap tires in the pickup box to set the engine on. When it’s lowered into place, he chains it to the box sides to secure it and then slams shut the tailgate. He turns to Edgar.
“You want to take a ride to Charlotte?”
Edgar glances at his watch. “I better not. Mother will be expecting me for supper.”
Bobby laughs. “Mother will be expecting you for supper. You’re a hoot, Edgar, you know that?”
Tiger Thompson works at a machine shop on the north side of Charlotte. Tiger and Bobby met in Europe during the war. Tiger is a few years older than Bobby and was already a mechanic at that time. The Army tasked him with keeping the trucks running during the fighting at the Marne. Tiger took Bobby, who was just fifteen and as green as grass, under his wing, thinking he could keep the boy away from the front if he got him repairing army vehicles alongside himself. The military recruiters might have been fooled into believing that Bobby was old enough to enlist, but Tiger wasn’t. His plan worked in theory—right up until the night they had to go behind enemy lines to rescue a patrol whose Liberty truck had broken down in no man’s land. The German artillery had started up just as they arrived, probably after they’d been spotted approaching the line. Both men were hit with shrapnel. Tiger was bleeding out in a ditch when Bobby found him. Bobby applied a tourniquet and carried Tiger over five hundred yards to safety, in spite of being hit in the leg himself.
This night is a sight more peaceful than that. The two men are back working together, for the first time in years, in a shop that is set up for all kinds of machine work. Bobby has the V8 stripped bare, the block resting on an engine stand. Tiger turns the camshaft in a lathe while Bobby bores the cylinders to increase displacement. Bobby glances at a clock. It’s a quarter of midnight.
“I ain’t got but eight hours to get this mill together and be back in Wilkesboro for work,” he says.
“No sweat,” Tiger assures him. “Get that bore done and all that’s left is relieving the block. Throw in the new pistons and rings, and you’re ready to roll.”
“Keep a total on all this,” Bobby says. “I’ll pay you when I can.”
Tiger shakes his head to show he’s not worried about it. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
He goes into a back storeroom and returns with an intake manifold mounted with three carburetors. He places the intake on the workbench. “Yours,” is all he says.
“Jesus, Tiger,” Bobby says. “That’s an Edelbrock. And Strombergs. I can’t afford that.”
“It’s yours,” Tiger insists. “I got it from a fellow down in Columbia who owes me money.”
“I’ll pay you for it,” Bobby says.
“No,” Tiger says again. “I owe you from the Marne now and forever. Besides, you want to build this engine right, or not?”
By three o’clock they have the V8 back together and resting once again in the back of Charley Walker’s shop truck. Tiger opens a couple of beers to celebrate the job. He and Bobby lean their elbows on the truck box, admiring the gleaming engine.
“Remember when we were in Paris after the armistice?” Bobby says. “We went to that fancy museum––the Loover or however they called it?”
Tiger smiles and takes a drink.
“All those abstract paintings,” Bobby goes on. “Nothing but a bunch of splotches and squiggly lines. And that Limey gunner— Harris, it was—telling me that a person needed to be educated to appreciate the beauty of it and such. Well, you could educate me from now until the cows come home and that wouldn’t happen. I would still see nothing but splotches and squiggles. But this here flathead V8; to me, that’s a thing of beauty. You gonna tell me that some Frenchie painter could create a thing like that?”
“I expect not.”
Bobby looks at the clock once more. He has a three-hour drive back to Wilkesboro. He might be able to squeeze in a catnap before work. It was worth it though, no question.
“You recall that museum?” he asks.
“I seem to recall you pitching woo with the lady who ran the front desk.”
Bobby smiles. “Now she was near as pretty as that engine.” He drains the beer and sets the empty on the workbench. “You ought to come up and watch me race sometime, Tiger. I’m gonna turn some heads with this mill.”
“All I ask is that you stay out of trouble, Bobby.”
“When have I ever been in trouble?” Bobby asks.
“Only your whole damn life,” Tiger replies.