Twice in a lifetime, p.10
Twice in a Lifetime, page 10
“Lotsa luck to ya, fella,” the other man said before heading over for a few last words with his son.
Only one of us is gonna need it.
In his head, Amos was already counting his winnings. Within the hour, with another wad of cash split between them, he and Drake would finally drive out of this godforsaken town. Looking at the map that morning, Amos had already settled on Arrow Landing as their next destination, another backwater, forgettable place. No matter what it took, he needed to stay one step ahead of Sweet Woods; the alternative was too gruesome to consider. With a bit of luck, Amos would manage to keep himself and Drake safe; if he used his head, the drug-dealing thug would never get within fifty miles of them. If they could run long and far enough, somehow, someday, he would come up with a solution. So far, they’d been lucky.
Unfortunately, another problem loomed on the horizon.
Amos was almost out of morphine. The night before, he had been glad Drake wanted to go for a walk. No sooner had he stuck his head out the window to watch his friend saunter off down the sidewalk than he was digging in his coat pocket for his drugs. Seconds later, when the needle slid effortlessly into his vein, he was on his way to paradise; in fact, he’d barely had enough time to put away his paraphernalia before the morphine’s haze descended. When next he woke up, Drake had come back and the sky outside the windows was pitch black.
Although Sweet was undoubtedly still out there, Amos remained one step ahead. Soon, he’d be on the road with money in his pocket and enough morphine to last a couple of days longer. The sun shone brighter by the minute. Amos smiled.
This is going to be one hell of a good day…
This is one of the worst days of my life…
Drake sat behind the wheel of the Plymouth, but his mind was far away. Absently, he pumped the car’s accelerator, the engine rumbling beneath him, while his hands strangled the steering wheel. He hadn’t even glanced over at the other car when it pulled up beside him; its driver kept echoing him, his own engine growling like a caged animal desperate to escape. But even though Drake knew he should be concentrating on the race, visualizing the road that stretched out in front of him, he couldn’t.
All he could think about was Clara.
Once he’d finally made it back to the hotel, Drake had lain awake for hours, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, consumed by what had happened. Over and over, he had sifted through their time together as if it was a haystack and he was in search of a needle. But no matter how hard he looked, beginning with knocking on her door and ending with his clumsy attempt to kiss her, after considering everything that he might’ve done differently, he hadn’t found any answers.
“How you feelin’, champ?”
Drake jumped; he’d been so busy thinking about Clara that he hadn’t heard Amos approach. The mechanic leaned against the Plymouth, one elbow sticking through the open window, smiling like a cat about to pounce on a canary.
“Good…I’m good…” Drake answered distractedly.
“That’s what I wanna hear,” Amos said enthusiastically. “One thing, though,” he continued. “This road ain’t the straight shot they want us to think it is. Up ahead, ’bout three-quarters of the way to the bridge, it curves a bit to the right. As I’m sure you noticed, they put you on the left.”
Drake nodded, hearing little, his head still a mess.
Amos kept talking. “They think they got an advantage, so we’re gonna let ’em go on believin’ that. All you gotta do is make sure you’re in the lead when the road slants. By then, that kid will be so far behind you that it won’t matter one red cent which side you started on.” Nodding at the other driver, he added, “Just look at that cocky son of a bitch.”
The kid was young, probably half Drake’s age. Acne marred the corner of his mouth. His hair was greased back in a style he’d probably copied out of a magazine or the movies. While Drake watched, his opponent glanced his way, nodded, and then gave a smile without an ounce of respect in it. Amos was right; the kid was cocky. Still, Drake didn’t hold that against him. Years ago, back when he had started racing, he’d probably looked the same, in over his head but too stupid and stubborn to know better. The realization embarrassed him slightly.
“Dumb rube,” Amos spat, shaking his head.
As if in answer, the other driver revved his engine.
“Don’t pay him no mind,” the mechanic continued. “He ain’t worth the gas they filled that fancy car a his with. That jackass’ll be chokin’ on your dust ’fore he gets into third gear.
“But I want you to remember somethin’,” Amos added, his tone changing, becoming more serious. “I don’t want none a that garbage you pulled last time. You don’t gotta make it look good. You whoop that boy, we get our money, chuckle while that country bumpkin wonders what the hell happened, then we leave this town.”
Drake nodded absently.
That morning, after breakfast, Amos had laid out his plan. Once they won the race, they would head down the road.
And Drake would never see Clara Sinclair again…
Everything had been going so well, better than he could have hoped. Their conversation. Her laughter. The final moment of anticipation, sure that he was about to kiss her. But then, somehow, it had fallen apart. Now, the final image he would have of Clara was of her running from him, shutting him out. Once he left Sunset, Drake knew he would long wonder if had he done something different, gone after her, maybe they would have—
“You listenin’ to me, Drake?”
He shook his head. “Yeah…yeah, I heard you,” he managed.
“All right, then,” Amos said, giving his driver a slap on the arm. “Next time you see me, I’ll be countin’ our money. This race is gonna be easier than takin’ candy from a sleepin’ baby!”
Unfortunately, Drake wasn’t quite so sure…
Once both cars were at the starting line, the man with whom Amos had made the bet walked out twenty paces in front of them holding a striped handkerchief. He looked at each driver, waiting until he received an acknowledgment they were ready; Drake raised two fingers from the steering wheel. Both engines rumbled beneath their hoods. Finally, the man raised his makeshift flag high above his head, then plunged it toward the ground as fast as he could. The race had begun.
Drake pressed down on the accelerator and felt the Plymouth leap forward, but he was shocked to see that the other car had gotten off the line first; clearly, the Chrysler had plenty of horsepower. In a matter of seconds, both automobiles had rocketed past the older man, his handkerchief once again flying while he energetically whooped and hollered, cheering on his son, as they sped down the road. Behind them, the starting line had already disappeared in a thick, billowing cloud of dust.
It’s going to take more than a fast start to beat me…
Calmly, Drake increased the Plymouth’s speed. He had done it thousands of times before, one hand gripping the steering wheel tightly while the other rested on the stick, waiting for the precise instant when the engine roared, straining for more, before effortlessly shifting into a higher gear.
But today, something was wrong.
Drake tried to shift the car from second to third, but his usually steady hand faltered and the gears ground together; he had to force it where he wanted it to go. It hadn’t taken long, a couple of seconds, but his opponent took advantage, increasing his lead to half a car length.
The road was rock and hard dirt, a track Drake usually favored. Fortunately, it’d been some time since it had rained, so there were no puddles to watch for or mud to deal with. Still, now that he was behind, he felt as if the trees had inched closer, their trunks whipping past just outside his window.
Drake cursed himself. This was all because he’d been distracted, thinking about Clara. In racing, even the smallest of errors could be the best driver’s undoing. He tried to concentrate, to get back what he had lost, but even as he did so, the Chrysler widened its lead.
“Come on, damn it!” Drake shouted, urging himself on.
Suddenly, up ahead, he saw the curve in the road that Amos had warned him about, although it looked different than the mechanic had explained; it slid so dramatically to the right that, as Drake hurtled toward it on the left, he worried he would have to brake to keep from smashing headlong into the trees. Worse, he hadn’t heeded Amos’s advice; instead of being comfortably out in front, he was behind. Consequently, as he entered the curve, he took his foot off the gas and grabbed the wheel with both hands. The tires protested loudly while the trees whipped closely by, but somehow he managed to stay on the road. Once it straightened, he stomped back down on the accelerator; unfortunately, the kid had taken advantage of his better positioning, as well as Drake’s caution, and had furthered his lead.
Drake bore down on the other car. So far, the other driver hadn’t managed to get a full car length ahead; if he had, he could have drifted back and forth in front of the Plymouth, making it almost impossible for Drake to gain ground. Still, Drake had no margin of error; if he made one more mistake, the race would be over.
And so, slowly but steadily, Drake inched closer. Glancing up, he saw the other driver’s reflection in the Chrysler’s side mirror; the kid’s skin was slicked with sweat, as if holding such a slim lead was making him nervous. With every passing second, Drake cut the distance between them.
As long as I don’t run out of road, I’m going to catch him…
But unfortunately, that was exactly what was happening.
Up ahead, Drake saw the bridge. It was just as Amos had described it; narrow, with room for only one car to go through at a time. To win, Drake had to cross first. If there was ever a time for him to make his move, this was it.
But the Chrysler’s driver knew it, too. Gunning the car’s powerful engine, the kid held his lead; the closest Drake managed to get was to draw his front wheels even with his opponent’s side door. But Drake understood that the other driver wasn’t going to back down; he would force them both to crash if it meant fending off his challenger. To avoid an accident, one of them had to give way.
“Aww, hell,” Drake growled.
Jamming down on the brakes, he sent the Plymouth skidding sideways. Holding tight to the wheel, he let the car turn, eventually bringing it to a shuddering halt a hundred feet short of the bridge. Helplessly he watched the other car barrel across, the punk kid honking the Chrysler’s horn in triumph.
Drake had lost.
“What in the hell happened?”
Drake drove them back toward town. Amos hadn’t said a word since Drake had returned to the starting line, though even a blind man would’ve noticed how angry the mechanic was. The Chrysler’s driver and his father had celebrated loudly as they counted their winnings; to Drake, it felt like having salt rubbed in an open wound.
“I got beat,” Drake answered, hardly believing it himself.
“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Amos barked. “That kid weren’t nothin’ and you know it! Didn’t I tell you how the road curved, that he was on the inside, and that you needed to get out in front if you were gonna beat him ’cross that bridge? Was I talkin’ to myself?”
Amos pounded his fist angrily against the Plymouth’s dashboard, and then he cursed because it hurt more than he’d expected.
“I’m sorry,” Drake offered, and meant it. “I was distracted.”
“What kinda sorry excuse is that?” Amos asked disdainfully. “The only thing you shoulda been thinkin’ ’bout was the money we stood to win. Now it’s our pockets that’re empty and those two rubes is crowin’ like roosters!”
“I just…I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Amos opened his mouth as if he was going to keep on ranting, but he stumbled. “Wait, wait, wait,” he finally said. “Hold on a second, now.” His head turned slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing, staring hard at Drake. “Is this ’cause a that dame we helped yesterday? The one with the broken-down truck?”
Drake didn’t answer. His eyes never left the road.
“Is that where you went last night?” Amos kept prying. “Is that where your walk took ya? Over to some lonely broad’s place?”
“Watch it now,” Drake answered, his temper rising.
The mechanic threw up his hands. “Aw, hell and high water!” he exclaimed. “If somethin’ goes wrong under the hood, that’s on me, but when my driver’s tomcattin’ ’round, there ain’t a damn thing I can do ’bout it!”
Drake wanted to argue against his friend’s claim but found he couldn’t; the truth was that it was his fault they had lost, because he’d been thinking about Clara.
So instead, they rode on in silence.
Finally, Amos sighed. “What’s the use in stayin’ mad ’bout this?” he asked rhetorically. “It ain’t like complainin’ is gonna change anything. Let’s just call it water under the bridge, get back to the hotel, grab our things, and skedaddle on down the road. That way, we can find another—”
“We’re not leaving,” Drake blurted, giving voice to something that had been building inside him ever since Clara had rejected his advances.
“What are you talkin’ ’bout? This morning, we said—”
“You said,” Drake interrupted, correcting him. “You’re the one so hell-bent on getting out of here. What for? Why the hurry?”
Amos stared out his window. “I…I just don’t see the point of stayin’ in this little nothin’ of a town for long,” he answered. “Men like us, we gotta go where the action is, where we can make a bet, although now, what with losin’, we ain’t got enough money for another.”
“I do,” Drake answered matter-of-factly.
“What’s that?” Amos asked, turning toward him.
“Don’t worry about money. Even with what we lost today, I can cover us next time.”
“You got that kind of cash on you?”
Drake nodded. He still had most of his savings in the bottom of his duffel bag. He’d never told Amos that he had the money, but desperate times called for fewer secrets. The truth was, he wanted another chance to see Clara; he didn’t care what he had to give up to get it.
Amos nodded, taking it all in.
“Maybe losing today was for the best,” Drake said.
The mechanic frowned. “How do you figure?”
“They already beat us once. We come back, this time betting higher stakes, they’ll be confident, cocky. We win, we get back all we lost and then some.”
The older man thought it over for a long while; to Drake’s eyes, Amos didn’t seem completely convinced. Surprisingly, in the end, he agreed.
“I still don’t wanna stay here too long,” Amos said. “But I suppose another couple days ain’t gonna hurt. Maybe you’re right. Maybe that dumb hick will give us ’nother race. And this time,” he added with a grin, “you’ll be the winner.”
But Drake wasn’t thinking about a rematch.
He was thinking only about Clara.
Last night, he’d made a mistake, pushed things between them too far, too fast, and he had been unable to think of much else since. Drake wanted to know her, to understand her better, but until this moment, he had thought he would never get the opportunity. Now, fate had seen fit to grant him another chance.
He was determined to use it.
Chapter Eleven
I THINK YOU SHORTED me one of my relatives.”
Clara looked down at the coins spread out before her, then up at Ben Franklin. The pig farmer grinned broadly, his ample belly pressed up tight against her teller window, his clothes smelling particularly foul. Slowly, it dawned on her that he was right; not only did she have no idea what number she was at, she couldn’t even remember what amount she was trying to reach.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, feeling more than a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid I lost count…What were we…”
“That’s all right, darlin’. I come in to cash that check,” Ben explained, pointing a meaty finger at the slip of paper next to Clara’s elbow. “Pete Dixon paid me twenty-eight dollars and ninety-nine cents for a couple of piglets—stubborn old goat wouldn’t part with that extra penny—and I was plannin’ to turn it into fifty-seven of my namesake and a handful of those other fellas.”
“That’s right,” Clara answered. Everything was laid out like it should’ve been, with stacks of shiny silver half-dollars arranged like soldiers. Regardless, she scooped up the coins and started over.
It had been that way all morning, one small mistake after another. No matter how hard she tried to pay attention, Clara couldn’t think about anything other than her evening with Drake McCoy. All night and into the next day, she had replayed it in her mind: her surprise at finding him at her door, their conversation as they walked beneath the stars, the comfortable way she felt in his presence, how he’d made her laugh. But she particularly remembered that moment, standing in front of her house, when he was about to kiss her…
But that was when it had gone sour.
Now she would never see him again. He had come into her life by chance, had helped her in her time of need and then surprised her by lingering longer than expected; he was like a match burning brightly before being blown out, the smoke he left behind slowly drifting away.
But Clara couldn’t stop thinking about him. She wondered what direction Drake and his mechanic friend had gone when they’d left Sunset, what sights he’d seen, and if he was thinking about her as much as she was about him.
“…fifty-five, fifty-six, and one more makes fifty-seven,” she said, finishing with the right amount.
