This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of Down in the Dirt magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
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Brilliant blue-white light split the night. The pair of headlights behind them were the more conventional halogen bulbs. After the xenon lights, they lacked the same dazzling effects. The two cars crunched down the gravel road, toward the cyclone fence.
Jimmy saw the Honda’s taillights glowing ahead, and tapped the brakes. The Mustang skidded a little, but didn’t get close to Hector’s car.
His breathing was harsh in his ears. He tried telling him that it was put up or shut up time, but he knew better than that.
They were at the El Verona training base. It was built as an air base to train new pilots that were pouring into the Army Air Force at the time. It was closed and fenced off in 1943 without a word of explanation.
When the Southern California drag scene exploded into existence in the Fifties, there were repeated attempts to buy or lease the property. While the Federal government had abandoned the property, they refused to let anybody else use the property.
After several years of refusals, the airfield was allowed to molder away. That was the official story. However, the place had developed a mystique somewhat akin to Dead Man’s Curve.
There were whispers of surreptitious races held on Runway Zero-Three. The stories always involved the Big Three automakers, going back to the days when American cars brawled amongst themselves for street supremacy.
Those that were mentioned were spoken of in hushed awe. Nobody could name names, and nobody would admit having done it. However, to do so would confer instant respectability. Those that did had the cojones to defy the Man.
Tonight, Jimmy would be upholding that fine tradition. He would be taking part in an outlaw race, defending American pride against Japanese usurpers. He just wished he felt heroic, rather than about to unload in his jeans.
A small crowd had already gathered, and the gates were open. They drove in, cheered by their partisans. They were being careful to keep lights to a minimum, and not attract attention. The threat was it was a Federal crime to trespass here.
The atmosphere was electric, a combination of sex, excitement, and fear. The half-dozen women present would be presented to the winner, to use as he saw fit, a foretaste of the fruits of victory. They were here to watch what promised to be a grudge-match race.
Unspoken, but also there was a dark, voyeuristic impulse. Everyone there was aware of the other half of the legend. Many of those who went racing on Runway Zero-Three had ended up meeting violent ends.
The legend wasn’t clear on what happened. Some could be attributed to things like brake failure, and being unable to stop when they ran out of runway. Still, there was the threat of some kind of horrible fate awaiting those that dared ignore the warnings.
Jimmy was sweating, wondering about all the stories he’d heard. It was easy to disbelieve when he was talking smack on Century Boulevard. Now that he was staring at the runway, he was no longer so self-assured. The air seemed to be alive with waves of malevolence.
They drove to the edge of the runway, and got out of their cars. The spectators gathered around them, whispering amongst themselves. Something about this place made it like a cathedral, and all the supplicants who came must whisper.
Hector showed no sign of picking up on the subtle nuances. He threw back his head, and let out a loud laugh. “It’s a great night for a race, eh ‘mano?”
Jimmy nodded. He was struck dumb by the sight. There was a two mile runway, with two smaller runways bisecting it at an angle. The big one had a big zero-three painted on one end. The others wre painted one-one, and one-two.
Tufts of grass were forcing their way up through the concrete at intervals, but it was wide enough to accommodate three or four cars abreast. It was a drag racer’s dream. Than why did it make his heart palpitate, and his palms sweat?
The women began to cluster in between the two of them, able to fawn over both of them at once. Hector grinned, and spread out his hands. “No use wasting your time on him, girls.
I’m going to be your daddy in a few minutes.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Those that can’t do, boast.”
The women oohed over that, and began to turn his way. Hector started snorting fire. “Your face, my ass!”
Jimmy grinned. “Are you asking to be my little butt buddy?”
The women tittered. Hector went brick red, and raised his fists. Just then, Arnie came bustling up, looking very self-important. “Gentlemen, get ready. Ramon is ready with the signal.”
Jimmy grinned. “’Scuse me, but that’s my cue. Hector is just going to have to wait.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Say what you will, gringo. I’m going to be the one getting all the pussy. You don’t need none, because you’re already a puto.”
This time, it was Jimmy who reddened, while the women oohed at him. He had one shot that would pay back with interest, and he decide to use it. “Oh yeah? Later this evening, I’m going to sleep with your sister Rosalind, and teach her what it’s like to sleep with a real winner.”
The crowd erupted into laughter. Even Hector’s partisans had turned against him for a moment. He stared at Jimmy, his finger pointing, and his mouth open to say something. He stood there a moment, trembling on the cusp of words. It was as if the mute button had been pushed. At last he shook his head, and said nothing.
Jimmy knew that he’d done it this time. This was supposed to be a grudge match, but the gloves were off now. No quarter would be given. Hector stopped just shy of his car, and pointed at him.
“Just remember our terms. You have to come down to the barrio tomorrow, and admit to my homies that American cars are second best, after I win tonight.”
Part of the crowd hooted, and cheered. Jimmy smirked, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll be down there, just so you can kiss my ass.”
That caused several cheers and catcalls. He ignored all of them as he got into the car. Then he flipped down his sun visor, and began looking at his CD collection.
He needed something to bug Hector. There was the old standby, Slayer. They were from Los Angeles, and heavy metal enough to really annoy. Then his eyes fell on Pantera’s ‘Cowboys from Hell’. A huge grin spread across his face. That would really get under Hector’s skin!
Chuckling, he dropped the CD into the tray. Then he looked up at the control tower. Sixty years of neglect had not left many scars on it. However, a couple panes of glass were now missing, giving it a gap-toothed smile.
Both men started their cars, and began revving their engines. A bass rumble came from Hector’s car. Jimmy rolled down his window, and Hector lowered the passenger side window of his car. “Fifty Cent. You like it, gringo?”
Jimmy’s response was to hit the Play button on his CD player. The title track began pounding out of the stereo speakers. Hector gave him the finger, then raised his window. Laughing, Jimmy rolled his back up.
Then a shadowy figure appeared in one of the dark spaces of the control tower. Both of them tensed up, one hand on the shifter, and one hand on the steering wheel. Then there was a flash of light, and a streak of fire began climbing into the sky.
Both cars took off with a roar, and a cloud of tire smoke. The Honda wobbled to the right, the Hector corrected for the torque steer. Jimmy had gotten holeshot coming off the line, but he was gaining.
He guesstimated his position relative to the end of the runway, and tried figuring if he would have enough room to pass. It would be close, but he could do it. The real margin of victory would be who chickened first in using their brakes.
Suddenly, a man appeared in the middle of the runway. He looked military, but his uniform was all wrong. Instead of jungle print, it was olive drab, and looked like a jumpsuit. Even his helmet looked odd. Though he couldn’t hear what the man was saying, the arms said it all. Get off the runway.
Hector lurched to he right, to run him down. However, he disappeared before he could. Jimmy didn’t take long to contemplate that. Lights in his rearview mirror caused new waves of terror.
It was hard to make out the dark shape in the inky blackness. The landing lights were on though, and Jimmy could make out an airplane with a boatlike fuselage, high wings, and our propeller-driven engines. That thing was huge, and unless he got off the runway, it was going to run him down.
Up ahead, Runway One-One crossed. It would be a one hundred thirty-five degree turn, but he didn’t have a lot of options. Jimmy jerked the wheel right, and hit the brakes. The rising screech drowned out the CD player, and an acrid smell filled the passenger compartment.
Jimmy jammed his foot down on the clutch, and stabbed the car into Reverse. He was trying to avoid a spinout. Gears ground, and tires howled as he blipped the gas a couple of times.
The front end swung back and forth, like a pendulum, each swing diminishing, until the car stopped. Jimmy took a deep breath, then his hands began shaking.
Hector saw Jimmy’s radical maneuver, and laughed. The white boy talked big, but he chickened in the end. His laughter didn’t last long. He saw the bomber coming up on him. Then, in his peripheral vision, he saw another set of lights coming his way.
The action happened so fast, there almost wasn’t time to register it. The B-24 was now down on the runway. Even though it was bleeding off airspeed, it was still gaining on the Honda.
On Runway One-Two, a P-40 Tomahawk was coming in for a landing. It had only one wheel down, and it was wobbling in the air. The fighter hopped on one wheel, then its left wing dipped, digging into the ground.
That caused the airplane to cartwheel, and disintegrate into a pinwheel of fire. Some of the burning wreckage hit the bomber near the tail section. The rear end skidded to the left, causing the right wing to rise, and the left wing to sink.
The tip skidded on the ground, and half the wing ripped away. Flying gasoline was ignited. The right wing dipped, and the leading edge caught the ground. Then the nose wheel snapped, and the nose smashed into the ground.
The stricken bomber flipped onto its back, landing on top of the Honda. Then the wreckage disappeared in a bright yellow ball of fire. When Jimmy lowered his arms, there was no sign of anything.
He jumped from his car, and ran to the runway. There was no wreckage, no scorch marks, nothing. Even hector and his Honda were gone. Just the crickets, and a pocket of cold air.
Jimmy thought, Forget who won this race. Whose going to believe this? I doubt the spectators will believe it.
