The next day Bobby spends the morning helping Uncle Stan move some lumber and then he goes into town, to the Rexall for lunch. Myrna Lee is working the counter so Bobby sits there and orders the hamburger special. There’s just him and two others at the counter. Mondays are the slowest day of the week, Myrna Lee tells him.
“So what are you up to nowadays?” she asks. “Whilst I’m here trying to earn a living?”
“Well, Wednesday night I’m bound for Bristol. Try my hand at that new track they got over there. I hear it’s a bona fide oval, a half mile with banked turns.”
“Speak English, Bobby Barlow.” Myrna Lee’s voice drops into a whine. “Will you take me along with you? I would like to go watch, you know.”
“You told me you hate the races.”
“Well, maybe I changed my mind,” she says. “You ever think of that? Beats sitting around that farmhouse, looking at those four walls and trying to find a station on the wireless that plays good music instead of talking all the day long about this damn Depression.”
Bobby finishes his burger and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, maybe you can come along. What’s the tally here?”
“Thirty-five cents.”
Bobby makes a show of counting the change out on the countertop, a quarter and two nickels. Myrna Lee brings over the coffee pot and pours him a refill.
“What did you say that fancy dan in the suit tipped you?” Bobby asks. “Was it four bits?” He takes a one-dollar bill from his shirt pocket and smooths it out before placing it beside the change. “Piker.”
“Ain’t you Mr. Moneybags,” Myrna Lee says.
Bobby smiles. “I’m next thing to a Rockefeller.”
He sees her eyes go to the front window and then she frowns. Bobby turns to see Boone pulled up at the curb, behind the wheel of the Cadillac. The grill is smashed in, one headlight is broken, the fender dented beneath it. Boone and Val climb out, neither looking any better than the car. Val’s nose is misshapen and an odd shade of purple. Boone has dried blood on a wound across his forehead. Neither man looks particularly happy as they come through the door.
“Hello, Boone,” Bobby says. “What happened—you run that Cadillac into a freight train?”
“None of your goddamn business, grease monkey,” Boone says. He and Val sit at the counter, away from Bobby. “Fry me a couple eggs, girl. And some sowbelly.”
“Give me a hamburger and fried potatoes,” Val tells his sister.
“Not real big on the please and thank-yous, are we?” Myrna Lee asks as she turns to the grill.
“Just cook the goddamn food,” Boone tells her.
Bobby sips his coffee, watching the two men. “So what happened to your car, Boone?”
Val turns on him. “Daddy told you to mind your business, gasbag.”
Boone has another look at Bobby though, as Myrna Lee pours coffee for him and Val.
“You know, maybe this is his business,” he says, picking up his coffee cup and moving over to sit beside Bobby. “I’m looking for a fella driving a hopped-up Ford sedan. It’s a shit brown color and built to run moonshine is my guess. If anybody in Wilkes County would know that car, I’d say it was you. Or maybe one of your racing pals. What do you say, Barlow?”
Bobby makes a show of thinking it over. “Ford sedan?”
“Yeah.”
“Two door or four?”
“Two.”
Bobby nods. “And dark brown?”
“That’s it.”
“And pretty fast too, right?”
“Yeah.”
Bobby shakes his head. “Gee Boone—I don’t recall ever seeing a car like that in these parts.”
Boone stiffens. “Your type likes to stick together. You wouldn’t tell me if you knew. Would you?”
“I might,” Bobby says. “What do you want with this car anyway?”
“I have unfinished business with the driver.”
Bobby finishes his coffee and stands up. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled, Boone. I happen to run across that vehicle, by God you’ll be the first to know. Well, you or Val there. What happened to your nose, Val? You been walking into screen doors again?”
“How’d you like me to flatten yours?” Val asks.
“I will decline that offer,” Bobby tells him. He winks at Myrna Lee and leaves.
Boone watches him as he crosses the street outside, gets into his coupe and drives off, tires spinning.
“Why’s he hanging around you?” Boone asks Myrna Lee.
At the grill, she flips his eggs onto a plate with the bacon and brings it over. “Stopped for lunch, is all.”
“I got a feeling he knows about that vehicle,” Boone says “Him and his ilk all run together. They’re like a goddamn cult, out there at Harvey’s hay field. I goddamn guarantee he knows that car.”
Myrna Lee shrugs. “You heard him. He says he don’t.”
“His word don’t cut no ice with me.” Boone covers his meal in hot sauce. “Where’s he working nowadays?”
“He was over at Charley Walker’s Texaco,” Myrna Lee says. “Not sure about now. What’s so special about this car anyway?”
Boone shovels a forkful of food into his mouth. Egg yolk dribbles down his chin. “Running shine under my nose.”
Myrna Lee smiles. “Looks like they ran it right into Val’s nose.”
“Go to hell, sister,” Val snaps. “Where’s my hamburger?”
Myrna Lee continues to laugh as she turns back to the grill.
“It ain’t a joke, daughter,” Boone tells her. “As that driver will eventually find out.”
“His name is Schwartz,” Otto tells them. “Right fielder for the Redbirds.”
“But the Birds left town, didn’t they?” Slim asks.
“They will be back,” Otto says. “I looked at the schedule. They’re back here in August. Take care of him then.”
Slim looks over at Elmer, who’s sitting on the steps behind the hotel. Otto and Slim stand a few yards away. Otto has been pitching to Slim in the alley and now he’s tightening the laces on his baseball glove, pulling at them with his teeth.
“Are we gonna break an arm or leg on anybody what ever hits a home run offa you, boss?” Slim asks.
“Yes.”
“Don’t hardly seem sporting.”
“They don’t want to get hurt, they should strike out,” Otto says. “It’s up to them, not me. I expect the word will get around.” He finishes with the glove, takes a ball and smacks it into the pocket a couple times. “Now give me the news from Wilkes County. Did you find those boys what made that good shine?”
“Those crackers are a tight goddamn bunch,” Slim says. “And down there we was sticking out like a couple of whores in a church house. They wouldn’t tell us nothing.”
“Not for love nor money?” Otto asked.
“Not for money,” Slim says.
Elmer laughs. “And we never offered any love. A few threats, but those hillbillies don’t scare easy neither.”
“Maybe you weren’t persuasive enough,” Otto says. “Everybody I ever met had something out there they’re afraid of— or beholding to. And one is as good as the other.”
He takes the ball from his glove and stretches two fingers across the seams, like Spit Fletcher showed him. He pantomimes the throwing motion.
“Sounds like you’re sending us back down there,” Slim says.
“I want that good goddamn busthead,” Otto says. “Keep in mind those people came to this city that night looking that piker from Florida. Looking for a buyer. I suspect that is still the case. So we’d be doing them a favor, not the other way around.”
“Kinda works both ways though,” Slim says. “Don’t it?”
“Yup, and that’s the beauty of it,” Otto replies. “All we need to do is track ’em down.”
“You’re coming with us?” Elmer says.
“No. I got a game tonight. We’re playing down to Nashville.” “You’re riding the team bus?” Slim asks.
“Hell no,” Otto says. “That goddamn bus smells like sweat socks and beer and farts. I got somebody driving me down.” He smiles. “Ain’t nothing wrong with the way she smells.”
“You figuring to pitch in Nashville?”
“As the owner of the team, I’m figuring to do whatever the hell I please, in Nashville or anywhere else. Depends on how my arm feels. I got a sore humerus.”
“A sore what?” Slim asks.
“Humerus,” Otto repeated. “It’s a bone in my arm.”
“And it’s called a humerus?”
“That’s what it’s called,” Otto says. “All the better pitchers have one.”
Wednesday afternoon Bobby picks up Myrna Lee at the farm, and they head for Bristol. Myrna Lee wears a yellow summer dress and patent leather shoes. She’s excited to go to Bristol, a town she’s never visited. Living on the farm, alone most of the time, she’s excited to go anywhere.
“Where’s old Boone today?” Bobby asks as they set out.
“I ain’t seen him since Monday when him and Val got a free meal off me at the Rexall.”
“They didn’t pay?”
“They did not,” Myrna Lee says. “But I got a dollar tip from a nice gentleman before that, so that covered their meals.”
“That dollar was meant for your pocket.”
“I know that.” Myrna Lee shrugs. “I’m used to it, by now.” “Boone broke, is that it?” Bobby asks. “I always figured there was money in the moonshine business.” He’d invited her along in part to quiz her on Boone’s movements.
“I don’t know whether he’s even cooking nowadays,” Myrna Lee says. “All he talks about is that Ford sedan that ran him into the creek last Sunday.”
Boone driving into that stream was his own doing, Bobby knew. But of course he would never admit it.
“And you haven’t seen either of them since Monday?” Bobby asks.
“Nope. He’s either cooking up at Cyril’s or more likely off looking for that damn car. I wouldn’t want to be that fellow if Boone catches up to him. Him and Val are toting enough guns to start up the Civil War again.”
“That car might not even be from Wilkes County,” Bobby says. “It could have been passing through.”
“It comes back this way, it better pass through quick.”
Bobby has never seen the track at Bristol but he’s been hearing a lot about it lately. Apparently, it started out the same as Boss Harvey’s oval back in Wilkes County, just another converted corn field. But the man who owns it—a Scotsman who did contract work for the TVA—brought in one of his excavators and banked the turns while leveling out the straights. The Scot also erected permanent bleachers that would seat a few hundred people. There are hot dog stands and soda concessions. A man with a trumpet plays at the start of each race. The Scot had borrowed the idea from the thoroughbred track in Louisville.
Wednesday night is race night, with the action starting at seven o’clock. Bobby arrives at the track shortly after six. He and Myrna Lee have been in town for a couple of hours. She wanted to go to Montgomery Ward and the Woolworths to look at clothes and other sundries. Bobby follows her around for a bit and then, when she goes shopping for underthings, he goes out to wait in the coupe, at her suggestion. He isn’t sure why she is bashful about him watching her buy underwear; he has seen her both in and out of her clothes for some time now. But women are strange, he knows. He doesn’t anticipate ever understanding them fully, but he’s okay with that. He likes them just fine nonetheless.
Admission at the track is twenty-five cents. Bobby pays for Myrna Lee and she goes off to the bleachers as he drives into the infield, looking to sign up. The other entries are parked side by side along a fence at the back of the track. The cars are a step up from those at Boss Harvey’s muddy field of ruts and ragweed. Or a few steps up. Like Bobby’s coupe, they’re built for racing; equipped with dual exhaust and extra carbs. Some have fancy paint jobs. A few even have signs on the doors, advertising for local businesses. Bobby hasn’t seen that before. He smiles to himself, thinking that he could have painted Flagg’s Quality Busthead on his car and drummed up some business for the family.
He gets the sense that the other drivers are watching him, in the fenderless coupe with flat primer covering the damaged areas, like he’s an oddity. He parks and climbs out of the Ford to approach a man wearing a straw hat and carrying a clipboard. Bobby assumes he is the one in charge.
“Something I can do for you?” the Straw Hat asks.
“How do I sign up?” Bobby asks.
“You give me five dollars and make your mark on this clipboard,” the Straw Hat replies. “Your first time here?”
Bobby nods as he pulls a five from his pocket and hands it over. A bright green Plymouth coupe drives up as Bobby is signing his name. The car has over-sized tires and loud exhaust. The hood sides are missing and Bobby can see the straight eight beneath the hood, topped with three Strombergs. On the door is printed DANVILLE EXPRESS. The driver gets out and takes a long look at Bobby’s coupe before exchanging amused glances with the Straw Hat.
“Another one down from the hills,” he says to the Straw Hat.
“What’s that?” Bobby asks.
The Plymouth driver is tall and blonde and wears crisp clean white overalls. He pays the Straw Hat and writes his name on the sheet. “I said—we always welcome you boys from the mountains with open arms.”
“I appreciate that,” Bobby says. He doesn’t care for the man’s tone or the smug look he shares with the Straw Hat. “Coming from a man who don’t look like he’s ever crawled underneath a car.”
“I pay others to do my crawling for me,” the man says. He gestures to Bobby’s car. “This your Ford?”
Bobby nods.
“You can’t buy a gallon of paint back in those hills?” the driver smiles. “Well, you’re not racing around behind Aunt Polly’s barn anymore, Jethro. We’ll let you play with the big boys for twenty laps and then send you on home with your tail between your legs. Do me a favor though—try and stay out of my way out there. It’s hard enough driving a race car without having to worry about gomers who got no idea what they’re doing.”
“I appreciate the advice,” Bobby says. He points to his car. “You see that there back bumper?”
The driver shrugs. “What about it?”
“I hope you like it,” Bobby says. “Because in a few ten minutes, that’s all of me you’re gonna see, gasbag.”
Moments later the cars line up. The Straw Hat drops the flag and the race starts. Bobby comes out clean and settles in, middle of the pack. The Plymouth roars out of the pack hot as a firecracker and is soon running second, tucked behind the leader, a Lincoln coupe. Bobby doesn’t make a move for the first few laps, getting the feel of the track while allowing the other cars to stretch out. The dirt here is packed, firmer from that back home and Bobby finds the banked turns to his liking. He can go into them harder and come out quicker. After a half-dozen laps, he’s ready to make his move. Coming out of the second turn, he hammers the coupe and the vehicle jumps like it’s powered by a rocket. He passes three cars like they are going backwards and downshifts as he slides into the next turn. Barreling into the stretch, he does the same. The coupe is fast and light; it’s soon obvious that there’s nothing in the field that can catch him on the straights and almost nobody as skilled in the turns.
When Bobby flies by the Plymouth, he cocks his thumb and forefinger like a gun and “shoots” the unhappy driver in the head. When the race is done, Bobby has lapped half the field and beaten the second-place car by a quarter mile. He rolls through the finish line and drives into the infield where he turns a couple of donuts, spinning the coupe in circles in the dirt. He shuts the car down and gets out to wave to the crowd. Some cheer but just as many boo at his showboating. Bobby glances up to see Myrna Lee in the bleachers, on her feet and clapping. The other entries cross the finish line one by one. Bobby watches them as he makes his way over to the Straw Hat.
“Where do I get paid, pal?” he asks.
“Patience, son,” the Straw Hat tells him. “Race ain’t hardly finished yet.”
The Plymouth idles past, and the driver shuts it down and gets out. Still speaking to the Straw Hat, Bobby raises his voice slightly.
“I’m in no hurry,” he says. “It’s just that I got to head back to the hills with my tail between my legs. Or so I’ve been told.”
The Plymouth driver laughs. “You’re awful touchy for a man who just cleaned our clocks real proper. What’s your name anyway?”
“My name is Bobby Barlow.”
“Earl Danville,” the man says. He leans over for a closer look at Bobby’s engine. “This thing has some giddy-up. Who built it?”
“I did,” Bobby tells him.
“What do you got in there?”
“That’s a stock V8 from Henry Ford.”
“You are full of shit, Barlow.”
Bobby smiles.
“What will you take for her?” Danville asks.
“Not for sale.”
“You didn’t hear my offer yet,” the driver said. “Everything is for sale.”
“Not everything,” Bobby says. He gestures to the Plymouth parked a few yards away, to the writing on the door. “What is Danville Express?”
“That’s my company.”
“And what does your company do?”
“I’m in the delivery business,” Earl Danville says. “I’m faster than the U.S. Mail. And I manage to make money doing it, in spite of these hard times. More than enough to buy this coupe.”
“If it was for sale,” Bobby tells him. “And it’s not.”
But Bobby is thinking now. He walks over to the coupe’s passenger window and reaches into the glove box for a pint of corn liquor from the Flaggs. He has a drink, watching Earl Danville for a reaction. When Bobby offers the pint over, Danville takes it.
“Well,” he says after drinking. “That’s not half bad.”
“It’s better than that,” Bobby tells him.
“Where’d you get it?”
Bobby laughs. “I can’t recall.”
“You’re lying about that engine, and you’re lying about this moonshine,” Danville says smiling. “You ought to run for office.”
“Maybe I will.”
Danville hands the pint back. “In the event that you remember where this stuff hails from, let me know. We might be able to do business together.”
Bobby tucks the bottle in his hip pocket. “I’ll keep that in mind.”