Thunderbolt

Arn leaned back against the side of his car. The parking lot was buzzing with activity, but his goal was to just hang back and see. It didn’t take long.

“Hey man,” a long-haired guy said, walking up, a friend a half step behind and to the side, “you looking to run that thing?”

“Maybe… if there’s something worth my time,” Arn replied with a grin.

“That thing quick? I own that Camaro over there…”

“Just a stock Ford Fairlane,” Arn said.

“What engine?”

“See for yourself.” Arn popped the hood and raised it, then stepped back.

The long-haired guy either didn’t know what to look for or was pretty confident that his car was faster that Arn expected it was. Under the hood of the Fairlane was a slightly warmed-over Ford 427. The Fairlane was a “Thunderbolt.” The Thunderbolt was a car manufactured by Ford for one year, 1964. They stuffed a 425-horsepower rated big-block that had been used for NASCAR into a smaller, lighter package. The reality was that the engines made more than six-hundred horsepower in stock trim. And Arn’s wasn’t stock. It dyno’d out closer to seven-fifty. He’d also modified the suspension to make it hook up and launch better than many dedicated track cars.

Arn’s car was a sleeper. It was in rarified territory, being able to transit the quarter mile in the low nine-second range. But it looked positively boring next to the showier cars populating the parking lot. Aside from special wheels and tires, the car looked very ordinary. He would have done regular stock wheels, but he needed more traction.

“How’s it run?” the stranger asked.

“Does ok… I mean, it holds its own against Camaros with too much chrome.” Arn started walking over to the stranger’s Camaro, the dance beginning.

“It has the 327, three-fifty horse and a four-speed,” the stranger said, popping his hood.

“It looks clean. Use a lot of Windex keeping your chrome like that?”

“Hey, this is my baby,” the stranger said, starting to get defensive.

“Sure,” Arn replied, unexcitedly.

He walked around the car, looking at the details. It was a carefully crafted look… examining everything to see if there were hints it wasn’t what it seemed, while trying to appear disinterested. That was mixed with a little smack-talk to keep his quarry invested in racing… for cash.

Arn was a regular at the Saturday cruise downtown. And the lot that he parked in was populated by those known to engage in illegal street racing. He knew a lot of the players and knew who he needed to not race… and the regulars knew him just as well.

But there were always a few outliers. They came in two flavors, marks and sleepers. The marks were the ones he was looking for… those that thought they were faster than they really were and wanted to race for stakes. The sleepers were the ones that were a lot faster than they looked… the predators of the cruise.

***

Ted, “Tig” Steele stood past the finish line for the impromptu drag race, roughly a quarter mile from the start… the last traffic light on Mountain Parkway. There were marks on the pavement to denote the distance. Between him and the finish line was the deceleration zone.

He was in “Winner’s Circle” with several others. Matt “the Cuban” was in charge. He had a thousand dollars in his pocket, five hundred from each of the racers, as well as a radio to communicate with the start line and the finish line. On the other side of him was a representative of the Camaro guy. There was another man there that was a friend of the Cuban’s… he was the muscle if things got out of hand.

They could hear the revving of engines in the distance and see the headlights of the cars, as well as the traffic light facing their way. Just as the light changed, the four of them heard the radio squawk with the call that they were off, and the shriek of tires and engines accelerating.

Thirteen seconds later it was all over. The two cars rolled to the side of the road at the winner’s circle. The Cuban handed the winnings to the faster driver as his second climbed into the car with him, and everyone dissipated like smoke.

***

Arn pulled out of the parking lot behind the Camaro. He handed his roll of cash to the Cuban just after the Camaro stranger did the same. Out on the street, he did a quick burnout, then rolled to the stop bar at the traffic light next to the other car.

They waited through a light cycle, letting any traffic clear ahead of them. Spectators lined the sides of the road for the first hundred yards, and they could see headlights pointed out onto the road at the finish, and beyond that at the winner’s circle, where the Cuban would be waiting with the money.

Arn peered side-eyed at the traffic light pointed toward the cross street. He watched as it turned yellow, then red. He knew this light well and started revving his engine preparing for the green light which would flash a moment after the red lit the other way.

He kept an eye on the light, anticipating the green, but also scanned for movement in the lane next to him.

Green.

His big-block produced a low, stomach rumbling growl as he launched the car forward. Instead of the stock four-speed, he ran a six-speed, and the deeper first gear let him get a comfortable jump on the car next to him. He would have an extra gear change, crossing the line in fourth, while the Camaro would probably be in third at redline when they hit the line.

As he pulled third gear, he kept his throttle down to about three-quarters. He wanted to beat the other car, but not by too much. It was never good to lay all your cards on the table. Fifty yards before the finish, he pushed the shifter up into fourth.

Crossing the line, he maintained a thirty-foot gap ahead of the second car… enough that there would be no question of the winner, but not enough to look like a blow-out. It was early, and there might be more marks in the crowd watching.

After crossing the line, he jumped into the brakes and hauled the car down to a stop, then pulled to the side of the road just past the Cuban. Tig hopped into the passenger seat as the Cuban handed Arn the cash-roll.

“Good run, Arn. Not your best, though. Any more tonight?”

“Who knows what the night might bring?” Arn replied before pulling back out onto the road. Fifteen minutes later he would be slotting back into a spot on the parking lot he’d been inhabiting before.

***

Tig was again checking the crowd while Arn was leaning against his car when a new guy walked up. He could see the Camaro guy standing in the background, watching.

“You friends with Camaro?” he asked, nicknaming the stranger.

“We’re acquainted. He says you took him by two lengths.”

“I musta got a good jump,” Arn replied.

“Wanna run against something more your speed?”

***

Once again, Arn found himself sitting at the line, waiting for the light to change. This time, though, instead of a small-block Camaro, there was a Chevelle SS396 on the line next to him. He’d looked it over a bit more carefully. There was more muscle under the hood, and he didn’t want to lose.

Just up the road, the Cuban stood with the seconds of the two racers. This time, each had handed over fifteen hundred for the race.

Again, Arn watched the lights and the car next to him.

Forty-five seconds after the cars revved up, he was rolling to a stop in the winner’s circle, the Cuban handing him the cash. This time it had been barely a car length, but no argument about the win. Not bad, he thought, almost midnight and up by two-thousand dollars.

Arn and Tig stopped by Dairy Queen, and he got a couple of Blizzards before heading back to the parking lot.

***

The parking lot had a different vibe than earlier in the night. The early crowd was small-time. Amateur hour. Now there were guys that raced for real stakes. It was a scene to which Arn knew he didn’t belong. There were a dozen cars in the lot that could easily take him on the best of nights. Some of the races would be for ten, twenty-thousand dollars or more. Owners didn’t drive some of the cars, and many had armed security.

It was serious.

There were still a few of the low-level guys. Guys like Arn. But, as the clock ticked past midnight, he became more passive. It was almost time for him to go. He’d probably make a circuit of the cruise, see if there were any girls of note, then go home. His car wasn’t flashy enough for the cruise. All go, little show.

“Hey,” a new guy said, walking up.

“S’up?” Arn replied.

“Wanna run?”

“Kinda sudden, don’t you think? I don’t know you… What do you drive?” Arn asked.

“69 Vette.” He pointed over his shoulder to a yellow Corvette.

Arn ambled across the lot to give it a look. He checked the car over, mostly looking for nitrous-oxide. That would give the other car an unmistakable advantage.

After a few minutes looking it over, he walked away to consult with some other guys he knew in the parking lot. Nobody knew the newcomer.

“It’ll cost you twenty-five Bens,” Arn said, walking back over to the stranger. “Everybody here knows the Cuban. He can hold. You can send your guy down to the winner’s circle with him. He’s straight up. Feel free to have someone at the finish, too.”

“You ripped my friends, Dude. This time, you’re goin’ down,” Corvette said as he climbed into his car.

***

“Arn goin’ for a triple tonight?” the Cuban asked Tig. “You know, they say never light three cigarettes from one match.”

Up the road, Arn rolled up to the light next to the Corvette. It had a little more lope than he expected, but it was too late now. He watched the other light tick up to yellow. The Corvette revved and held. No holding back, Arn thought.

The light flipped to green and both cars stood at attention as their engines roared. Arn’s Thunderbolt dug in, lifting the front tires. Smoke poured out of the wheel wells of the Corvette. The Ford grabbed second a moment before the Vette.

The two cars barreled away from the traffic light, the Thunderbolt pulling out a decided advantage. Arn grabbed third, then fourth before crossing the line. Five lengths separated him from the Corvette. In the end, it was barely a race.

Arn’s Fairlane rolled to a stop near the Cuban. The big guy handed the cash to Arn, then leaned into the car, “Damn, son, you haven’t lost it. I wish we had timing out here. I bet you were nine flat.”

“You ripped me off, man,” Corvette yelled, rolling to a stop in front of the Fairlane.

“No, Chrome, he kicked your ass,” the Cuban said, walking around to the driver’s side.

“He’s running NOS.”

“Dude, outside of some cheesy movies, nobody calls it ‘NOS’. And he ain’t running the laughing gas. That thing is all motor.”

Arn pulled out, knowing it was time to go, while the Cuban stood talking to the driver and a couple of his guys took up station in front of the other car so that he couldn’t tear out after the guy that just beat him.

When the Thunderbolt was out of sight, the Cuban stepped away.

This was Summer Fiction Series challenge #6. Check out #7 below.

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