He pulled the trailer out of the garage and went back and forth a couple times, testing the trailer's air brakes.
He ran around then and locked everything up and put a nearly invisible thread along each door. He was learning, but he just wasn't suspicious enough in his nature to make a good spy even now. He should have done that before those hoods had gotten in! A real spy has to be downright paranoid all the time. Heller would never learn. In espionage, insanity is mandatory. Heller was crazy, of course, but not in the right direction.
The big rig plowed its way through the snow. He got to a bigger roadway and, though it earlier had been snow-plowed, it was again inches deep. But the snow for the moment had let up.
He was converging now with mobs and traffic from New York and the going was much slower. Cars jammed full of people, people jammed into blankets and coats, all hurrying along to be able to get parking space or a seat for the big race.
Heller topped a small rise. From it the speedway was plainly visible. He went a bit further, looking for something through his windscreen peephole. He finally centered on Pit 1. It could be seen because of the angle of a distant open gate. He got off to the side of the road and stopped hundreds of yards short of what should have been his destination.
He pulled the diesel down to idle. Mobs and mobs of people and cars were passing on the road to his left. A big sign ahead said PARKING $20, with an arrow.
I wondered why he was hiding like that. For hiding it was. Nobody would recognize the Caddy or see who was in the cab. He must suspect somebody was after him.
Heller took a hamburger out of the sack and pushed it into a miniature microwave oven in the panel. After a moment he took it out, heated. He looked at it. There was nothing wrong with it I could see but he put it down. He seemed upset.
He was watching Pit 1 through the windscreen peephole. He shifted and looked at the grandstand lights and then at the enthusiastic crowd flooding along to the left of the Peterbilt. He seemed to be trying to figure something out. Plainly, he was worried.
Well, if he thought something odd was on schedule for this coming race, believe me, he was right!
He laid the hamburger aside and got out the sack of I.D.'s. They were mostly Italian names—Cecchino, Fiutare, Rapitore, Laccio, Scimmiottare, Cattivo, Ladro, Pervertire and Serpente. One wasn't Italian: Benny Heist. What was peculiar was that every one of them had a U.S. passport, up-to-date, and every one of them had five one-thousand-dollar bills except Heist, who had fifty-five thousand! There was a hundred G's plus small bills in those wallets!
Heller went back to Benny Heist's. He said, "You could have shot me as I drove up, Benny. Or did you find your gun was jammed or what? What did you intend to do and why? And what did that have to do with this race?"
He threw them back in the garbage bag and put it under his seat. He didn't eat his hamburger.
It was just past 7:00 A.M. The excited crowds were thickening. It was still dark. It began to snow again.
Heller closed his eyes. Maybe he was taking a rest. He'd need it before this day was out, I vowed. I had not even begun on him yet!
Chapter 4
At 7:30 A.M., Heller turned on his radio: ".. crowds. From Manhattan, from Queens, from Brooklyn and as far away as New Jersey, they are pouring to this race. Route 495 is jammed, State 25 is crammed and State 27 is slammed with cars and buses. Somehow the overloaded Sunrise Highway is being kept open.
"Despite the storm, the army has flown in snowplows from as far away as Fort Bloomindales. But as fast as highways are swept, there is more snow.
"Several of the drivers and their crews are here. There is no sign yet of that idol of America, the Whiz Kid. He will be Car 1. He has been assigned Pit 1.
"Ah, here is Jeb Toshua. He is 101 years old. Jeb, how does this snowstorm stack up to you?"
"Well, Jerry, I can't reckamember a storm this bad since way back in '65 or was it '75. No, maybe it was '82. Let's see, I lost my cat...."
"Thank you, Jeb," said the sportscaster hastily. "There's a lot of money, not on just the race but also on the weather: will it be clear or will it be snowing at flag time?
"Hey, here is Killer Brag, the top bomber driver of Georgia. Killer, what do you have to say about this race?"
"It's the craziest lot of racing commissioners in history. It's snowing and the God (bleeped) commission won't change bomber rules and let us use chains and spikes. The (bleepers)..."
"Thank you, Killer Brag. The crowds are still coming. There's a bus load, the Jackson High School Marching All Girls Virgin Band. There seems to be an awful lot of them...."
Eight o'clock. The snow had let up. It was lighter. The crowds, as I could see from my hill, still converged upon the speedway. Long Island trainloads were being bused the last lap of the journey. Snowplows were spraying geysers of white off the roads. One was working on the track to clear it.
Eight-thirty. A new, ominous wall of gray-black clouds was rolling in. It began to snow twice as hard as it had.
The radio said, "According to local meteorologists, brought to you through the courtesy of the Florida Chamber of Commerce, there are two weather fronts at work here today. One is icy cold, sweeping in from Manhattan with temperatures of minus ten degrees. The other is battling it with heavy snow pushed north by the warm and sultry breezes of Miami Beach, Florida. It is eighty-two on a beautiful, tropical morning at Hialeah where the most beautiful girls in Florida watch the thoroughbreds run. The two embattled fronts are bashing at each other right above Spreeport, Long Island. We pause for this commercial from Tropical Airways. ..."
Whatever lies the Floridians were telling about Florida, it only served to emphasize the brutality of the weather that was going on here. Sheets of white snow blanketed down upon a completely frozen landscape. Traffic churned the roads into slush which instantly froze again into dirty ice. When I stuck my nose and binoculars out of the van window, both froze up promptly and I had to hang the glasses outside to keep them usable. I was looking for my snipers. I should be able to see them from this height. But the snow curtained everything.
The crowds weren't heading for Florida. Wrapped into mobile mountains, they were converging here at Spreeport to see the Whiz Kid race.
Heller was trying to see Pit 1. Even the hole in his snow-covered windshield kept closing and he had to heat the glass behind it to see at all.
It was creeping on toward nine. The radio said, "... and still the crowds come. No sign of the Whiz Kid as yet. The other drivers have been having a meeting with the officials. Ah, here's Hammer Malone. How did the meeting go, Hammer?"
"God (bleep) it, it's going to snow off and on all day.
You can't keep that God (bleeped) track clear. We got to have chains and spikes to race at all. And the God (bleeped) officials won't suspend the rules. The race is off!"
Loudspeakers in front of the grandstand: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry to have to announce that the drivers have refused to race without chains and spikes. The officials will not change the bomber..."
A roaring surge of anger! From the radio, audible in the open air. Ten thousand people howling in outrage! Berserk!
Loudspeakers: "Ladies and gentlemen, please be calm. Please be calm, ladies and gentlemen...."
Snarls, batterings!
Then a hasty voice on the loudspeaker: "The officials have just this minute reached a new finding. They will suspend all rulings concerning chains, spikes and wheels! The race will go on!"
Heller muttered, "That's all I've been waiting for."
The snow let up momentarily. Through his peephole he watched two huge vans punching their way through the gate. They turned and drew up behind Pit 1. They both had signs:
JIFFY-SPIFFY GARAGE, NEWARK, N. J.
Men were spilling out of the vans!
I had a sinking feeling. He had Mike Mutazione's people as his pit crew! And what else?
Heller reached for a full-visored racing helmet. He pulled the dark shade down. He put the semi in gear and, creeping along the heavily trafficked road, made his way to the gate.
At the guard point he slid down his window. He was holding up a NASCAR card and a ten-dollar bill. The security man sucked in his breath. Heller hastily said, "Don't yell who it is."
The guard shut his mouth, took the bill and Heller was through. He pulled up behind Pit 1.
Mike opened his door. "Hell of a rush, kid, but we made it. We been working all night for three nights. And I got a great pit crew for you."
Heller handed Mike the garbage sack. "Hide this for me, will you, Mike?"
I had another disappointment. It had been in my mind to sort of slide in and pick up that sack. Now I wouldn't know where it was! But what was this?
Mike's crew was unloading huge tanks of oxyacetylene and putting them in padding. What were they going to do? Start the world's most active welding shop?
And another thing, as Heller glanced around I could see from bulges in their heavy tank suits that this crew was armed!
Mike said to Heller, "Why didn't you let the family bet on you? We worked like hell on the wheels. You're sure to win now."
The cover had come off the Caddy. It was visible from the grandstand. A surging cheer went up from the massive crowd.
When he could be heard again, Heller said, "I don't really know, Mike. This is just too crazy a race. Let's get the wheels on."
It was snowing again, undoing all the previous snow-plow work. The crew had the Caddy off the trailer. They pushed it to pit position. It had a huge black 1 on it outlined in gold, and WHIZ KID. The crew was fixing straps across the area where the windscreen was missing.
Three officials, wrapped to their crowns, came up. "You're late," said the first one.
Heller said, "Please satisfy yourselves there is no gasoline tank in, under or around the car and then certify that."
The crew was lifting the Caddy's right side with a hydraulic jack. The inspectors numbly did as they were told.
Heller then said, "Now please inspect the hood and the pan under the engine and testify that they are sealed. Put your own seals on them."
They did. Then an inspector said, "Those wheels!"
The crew had removed the two right-side regular wheels and were rolling up two others. They looked strange. All silver colored. They did appear to be wheels but they had very deep zigzag grooves and they bristled with spikes.
An inspector tapped one. It gave a hollow clank! "Hey, that's not rubber. That's metal!"
"They're internally braced steel doughnuts," said Heller. "And you just allowed a suspension of all rules on wheels."
The inspectors seemed calm about it. But I sure wasn't! They wouldn't blow out!
Or wait. Yes, a .30-06 Accelerator slug travelling at 4,080 feet-per-second muzzle velocity could gouge Hells out of one of those and unbalance it. I was still all right.
The crew had all the wheels on now. Heller bent down behind each wheel. I saw there was a kind of disc above the brake drums. Heller was pulling a wire from the car engine area and putting in place something that looked like an electrical brush. I understood what he was doing. That carburetor developed more power in electricity than it did in fuel. He was grounding it through the four metal wheels instead of trailing a metal strap.
The inspectors wanted to know if the wheels had motors in them. In that event, they'd be disallowed as they were supposed to be wheels, not motors.
"Just grounding them," said Heller. "Lot of electricity around today. No motors in the wheels."
That was all right then. Those inspectors knew better than to antagonize that crowd. Cold as it was, they were cheering and howling.
The snow was coming down about five times as thick. Anything the snowplows had just done was being undone fast.
It was about twenty minutes to starting time now. Heller went into the Peterbilt cab. He stripped and put on a garment that looked like an insulation suit. Then he put on a warm racing outfit of red synthetic fur with some heat coils in it. He slid into fur-lined rubber boots that had enormous cleats in the soles.
I suddenly realized that racing in bitter cold did not seem strange to him. A spacer flashed through temperatures approaching absolute zero! Today's minus ten Fahrenheit might even seem warm weather!
He put on some Voltar insulator gloves. Then he pulled on a red racing helmet that had a microphone across his mouth and, apparently, a radio in it. He pulled down its dark visor.
He got out and went to the Caddy and got in. He started it up to let it warm. All up the line, through the snow, bombers were starting and warming up. The sound of engines at their pits was low and threatening. The snowing increased.
Heller buckled himself in, tested the quick release and rebuckled it. His pit crew was checking about.
Heller said into his microphone, "Are you there, Fancy-Dancy?"
A voice came back in his earphones, "There."
Wait. Who was this "Fancy-Dancy"? And where was "there"?
Then I realized he must be testing the radio with his pit crew.
The flagman and the pacer car were out, trying to make it through the snow.
Heller revved the Cadillac.
"Sounds sweet," said Mike at his window.
Suddenly I remembered to start my stopwatch. Heller now had about five hours left on that carburetor. But I wasn't going to wait on that.
Somebody signalled. Heller turned his steering wheel to roll out into the starting parade.
"Bye-bye, Heller," I said. Oh, how I was going to enjoy watching this (bleepard) fail! Him and his stinking, snobbish Fleet officer manners and ways! His lousy popularity was about to go up in smoke!