Nova 2 Read online

  “Then none ever have been?”

  A flicker of annoyance. “No, of course not.”

  I flashed my best hat-in-hand smile and stood up. “Well, I guess that’s it, then, I won’t trouble you any further.” But before I turned away I said, “I’m really not much on automobiles but I’m curious. How did the museum get started?”

  He warmed up a little. “On Turn-In Day a number of museums like this one were started up all over the country. Some by former dealers, some just by automobile lovers. A number of models were donated for public display and . . .”

  When he had finished I said casually, “Donating a vehicle to a museum must have been a great ploy for hiding private ownership.”

  “Certainly the people in your bureau would be aware of how strict the government was,” he said sharply.

  “A lot of people must have tried to hide their vehicles,” I persisted. Dryly. “It would have been difficult . . . like trying to hide an elephant in a playpen.”

  But still, a number would have tried, I thought. They might even have stockpiled drums of fuel and some spare parts. In the city, of course, it would have been next to impossible. But in remote sections of the country, in the mountain regions out west or in the hills of the Ozarks or in the forests of northern Michigan or Minnesota or in the badlands of the Dakotas . . . A few would have succeeded, certainly, and perhaps late at night a few weed-grown stretches of highway would have been briefly lit by the headlights of automobiles flashing past with muffled exhausts, tires singing against the pavement . . .

  I sat back down. “Are there many automobile fans around?”

  “I suppose so, if attendance records here are any indication.”

  “Then a smart man with a place in the country and a few automobiles could make quite a bit of money renting them out, couldn’t he?”

  He permitted himself a slight smile. “It would be risky. I really don’t think anybody would try it. And from everything I’ve read, I rather think the passion was for actual ownership—I doubt that rental would satisfy that.”

  I thought about it for a moment while Pearson fidgeted with a letter opener and then, of course, I had it. “All those people who were fond of automobiles, there used to be clubs of them, right?”

  His eyes lidded over and it grew very quiet in his office. But it was too late and he knew it. “I believe so,” he said after a long pause, his voice tight, “but . . .”

  “But the government ordered them disbanded,” I said coldly. “Air Control regulations thirty-nine and forty, sections three through seven, ‘concerning the dissolution of all organizations which in whole or in part, intentionally or unintentionally, oppose clean air.’ ” I knew the regulations by heart. “But there still are clubs, aren’t there? Unregistered clubs? Clubs with secret membership files?” A light sheen of perspiration had started to gather on his forehead. “You would probably make a very good membership secretary, Pearson. You’re in the perfect spot for recruiting new members—”

  He made a motion behind his desk and I dove over it and pinned his arms behind his back. A small address book had fallen to the floor and I scooped it up. Pearson looked as if he might faint. I ran my hands over his chest and under his arms and then let him go. He leaned against the desk, gasping for air.

  “HI have to take you in,” I said.

  A little color was returning to his cheeks and he nervously smoothed down his damp black hair. His voice was on the squeaky side. “What for? You have some interesting theories but . . .”

  “My theories will keep for court,” I said shortly. “You’re under arrest for smoking—section eleven thirty point five of the health and safety code.” I grabbed his right hand and spread the fingers so the tell-tale stains showed. “You almost offered me a cigarette when I came in, then caught yourself. I would guess that ordinarily you’re pretty relaxed and sociable, you probably smoke a lot—and you’re generous with your tobacco. Bottom right hand drawer for the stash, right?” I jerked it open and they were there, all right. “One cigarette’s a misdemeanor, a carton’s a felony, Pearson. We can accuse you of dealing and make it stick.” I smiled grimly. “But we’re perfectly willing to trade, of course.”

  I put in calls to the police and Air Central and sat down to wait for the cops to show. They’d sweat Pearson for all the information he had but I couldn’t wait around a couple of hours. The word would spread that Pearson was being held, and Pearson himself would probably start remembering various lawyers and civil rights that he had momentarily forgotten. My only real windfall had been the address book . . .

  I thumbed through it curiously, wondering exactly how I could use it. The names were scattered all over the city, and there were a lot of them. I could weed it down to those in the area where the Sniffer had picked up the automobile, but that would take time and nobody was going to admit that he had a contraband vehicle hidden away anyway. The idea of paying a visit to the club I was certain must exist kept recurring to me and finally I decided to pick a name, twist Pearson’s arm for anything he might know about him, then arrange to meet at the club and work out from there.

  Later, when I was leaving the museum, I stopped for a moment just inside the door to readjust my mask. While I was doing it the janitor showed up with a roll of weatherstripping and started attaching it to the edge of the doorway where what looked like thin black smoke was seeping in from the outside. I was suddenly afraid to go back out there. . .

  The wind was whistling past my ears and a curve was coming up. I feathered the throttle, downshifted, and the needle on the tach started to drop. The wheel seemed to have a life of its own and twitched slightly to the right. I rode high on the outside of the track, the leafy limbs of trees that lined the asphalt dancing just outside my field of vision. The rear started to come around in a skid and I touched the throttle again and then the wheel twitched back to center and I was away. My eyes were riveted on Number Nine, just in front of me. It was the last lap and if I could catch him there would be nothing between me and the checkered flag . . .

  I felt relaxed and supremely confident, one with the throbbing power of the car. I red-lined it and through my dirt-streaked goggles I could see I was crawling up on the red splash that was Number Nine and next I was breathing the fumes from his twin exhausts. I took him on the final curve and suddenly I was alone in the world of the straightaway with the countryside peeling away on both sides of me, placid cows and ancient barns flowing past and then the rails lined with people. X couldn’t hear their shouting above the scream of my car. Then I was flashing under banners stretched across the track and thundering toward the finish. There was the smell of burning rubber and spent oil and my own perspiration, the heat from the sun, the shimmering asphalt, and out of the comer of my eye a blur of grandstands and cars and a flag swooping down . . .

  And then it was over and the house lights had come up and I was hunched over a toy wheel in front of me, gripping it with both hands, the sweat pouring down my face and my stomach burning because I could still smell exhaust fumes and I wanted desperately to put on my face mask. It had been far more real than I had thought it would be—the curved screen gave the illusion of depth and each chair had been set up like a driver’s seat. They had even pumped in odors . . .

  The others in the small theatre were stretching and getting ready to leave and I gradually unwound and got to my feet, still feeling shaky. “Lucky you could make it, Jim,” a voice graveled in my ear. “You missed Joe Moore and the lecture but the documentary was just great, really great. Next week we’ve got Meadowdale ‘73 which has its moments but you don’t feel like you’re really there and getting an eyeful of cinders, if you know what I mean.”

  “Who’s Joe Moore?” I mumbled.

  “Old time race track manager—full of anecdotes, knew all the great drivers. Hey! You okay?”

  I was finding it difficult to come out of it. The noise and the action and the smell, but especially the feeling of actually driving . . . It was
more than just a visceral response. You had to be raised down in the flats where you struggled for your breath every day to get the same feeling of revulsion, the same feeling of having done something dirty . . .

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said. “I’m feeling fine.”

  “Where’d you say you were from, anyway?”

  “Bosnywash,” I lied. He nodded and I took a breath and time out to size him up. Jack Ellis was bigger and heavier than Pearson and not nearly as smooth or as polished—Pearson perspired, my bulky friend sweated. He was in his early fifties, thinning brown hair carefully waved, the beginning of a small paunch well hidden by a lot of expensive tailoring, and a hulking set of shoulders that were much more than just padding. A business bird, I thought. The hairy-chested genial backslapper . . .

  “You seen the clubrooms yet?”

  “I just got in,” I said. “First time here.”

  “Hey, great! I’ll show you around!” He talked like he was programmed. “A little fuel and a couple of stiff belts first, though—dining room’s out of this world. . .

  And it almost was. We were on the eighty-seventh floor of the new Trans-America building and Ellis had secured a window seat. Above, the sky was almost as bright a blue as Monte had used in his paintings. I couldn’t see the street below.

  “Have a card,” Ellis said, shoving the pasteboard at me. It read Warshawsky & Warshawsky, Automotive Antiques, with an address in the Avenues. He waved a hand at the room. “We decorated all of this—pretty classy, huh?”

  I had to give him that. The walls were covered with murals of old road races, while from some hidden sound system came a faint, subdued purring—the roaring of cars drifting through the esses of some long-ago race. In the center of the room was a pedestal holding a highly-chromed engine block that slowly revolved under a baby spot. While I was admiring the setting a waitress came up and set down a lazy Susan; it took a minute to recognize it as an old-fashioned wooden steering wheel, fitted with sterling silver hors d’oeuvre dishes between the spokes.

  Ellis ran a thick thumb down the menu. “Try a Barney Oldfield,” he suggested. “Roast beef and American cheese on pumpernickel.” While I was eating I got the uncomfortable feeling that he was looking me over and that somehow I didn’t measure up. “You’re pretty young,” he said at last. “We don’t get many young members—or visitors, for that matter.”

  “Grandfather was a dealer,” I said easily. “Had a Ford agency in Milwaukee—I guess it rubbed off.”

  He nodded around a mouthful of sandwich and looked mournful for a moment. “It used to be a young man’s game, kids worked on engines in their backyards all the time. Just about everybody owned a car . . .”

  “You, too?”

  “Oh sure—hell, the old man ran a gas station until Turn-In Day.” He was lost in his memories for a moment, then said, “You got a club in Bosnywash?”

  “A few, nothing like this,” I said cautiously. “And the law’s pretty stiff.” I nodded at the window. “They get pretty uptight about the air back east . . .” I let my voice trail off.

  He frowned. “You don’t believe all that guff, do you? Biggest goddamn pack of lies there ever was, but I guess you got to be older to know it. Power plants and incinerators, they’re the ones to blame, always have been. Hell, people, too—every time you exhale you’re polluting the atmosphere, ever think of that? And Christ, man, think of every time you work up a sweat. . .

  “Sure,” I nodded, “sure, it’s always been blown up.” I made a mental note that someday I’d throw the book at Ellis.

  He finished his sandwich and started wiping his fat face like he was erasing a blackboard. “What’s your interest? Mine’s family sedans, the old family workhorse. Fords, Chevys, Plymouths—got a case of all the models from ’50 on up, one-eighteenth scale. How about you?”

  I didn’t answer him, just stared out the window and worked with a toothpick for a long time until he began to get a little nervous. Then I let it drop. “I’m out here to buy a car,” I said.

  His face went blank, as if somebody had just pulled down a shade. “Damned expensive hobby,” he said, ignoring it. “Should’ve taken up photography instead.”

  “It’s for a friend of mine,” I said. “Money’s no object.”

  The waitress came around with the check and Ellis initialed it. “Damned expensive,” he repeated vaguely.

  “I couldn’t make a connection back home,” I said. “Friends suggested I try out here.”

  He was watching me now. “How would you get it back east?”

  “Break it down,” I said. “Ship it east as crates of machine parts.”

  “What makes you think there’s anything for sale out here?”

  I shrugged. “Lots of mountains, lots of forests, lots of empty space, lots of hiding places. Cars were big out here, there must have been a number that were never turned in.”

  “You’re a stalking horse for somebody big, aren’t you!”

  “What do you think?” I said. “And what difference does it make anyway? Money’s money.”

  If it’s true that the pupil of the eye expands when it sees something that it likes, it’s also true that it contracts when it doesn’t—and right then his were in the cold buckshot stage.

  “All right,” he finally said. “Cash on the barrelhead and remember, when you have that much money changing hands, it can get dangerous.” He deliberately leaned across the table so that his coat flapped open slightly. The small gun and holster were almost lost against the big man’s girth. He sat back and spun the lazy Susan with a fat forefinger, spearing an olive as it slid past. “You guys run true to form,” he continued quietly. “Most guys from back east come out to buy—I guess we’ve got a reputation.” He hesitated. “We also try and take all the danger out of it.”

  He stood up and slapped me on the back as I pushed to my feet.

  It was the old Jack Ellis again, he of the instant smile and the sparkling teeth.

  “That is, we try and take the danger out of it for us” he added pleasantly.

  It was late afternoon and the rush hour had started. It wasn’t as heavy as usual—businesses had been letting out all day—but it was bad enough. I slipped on a mask and started walking toward the warehouse section of town, just outside the business district. The buses were too crowded and it would be impossible to get an electricab that time of day. Besides, traffic was practically standing still in the steamy murk. Headlights were vague yellow dots in the gathering darkness and occasionally I had to shine my pocket flash on a street sign to determine my location.

  I had checked in with Monte who said the hospitals were filling up fast with bronchitis victims; I didn’t ask about the city morgue. The venal bastards at Air Shed Number Three were even getting worried; they had promised Monte that if it didn’t clear by morning, he could issue his alert and close down the city. I told him I had uncovered what looked like a car ring but he sounded only faintly interested. He had bigger things on his mind; the ball was in my court and what I was going to do with it was strictly up to me.

  A few more blocks and the crowds thinned. Then I was alone on the street with the warehouses hulking up in the gloom around me, ancient monsters of discolored brick and concrete layered with years of soot and grime. I found the address I wanted, leaned against the buzzer by the loading dock door, and waited. There was a long pause, then faint steps echoed inside and the door slid open. Ellis stood in the yellow dock light, the smile stretching across his thick face like a rubber band. “Right on time,” he whispered. “Come on in, Jim, meet the boys.”

  I followed him down a short passageway, trying not to brush up against the filthy whitewashed walls. Then we were up against a steel door with a peephole. Ellis knocked three times, the peephole opened, and he said, “Joe sent me.” I started to panic. For God’s sake, why the act? Then the door opened and it was as if somebody had kicked me in the stomach. What lay beyond was a huge garage with at least half a dozen ancient cars on
the tool-strewn floor. Three mechanics in coveralls were working under the overhead lights; two more were waiting inside the door. They were bigger than Ellis and I was suddenly very glad I had brought along the Mark II.

  “Jeff, Ray, meet Mr. Morrison.” I held out my hand. They nodded at me, no smiles. “C’mon,” Ellis said, “I’ll show you the set-up.” I tagged after him and he started pointing out the wonders of his domain. “Completely equipped garage—my old man would’ve been proud of me. Overhead hoist for pulling motors, complete lathe setup . . . a lot of parts we have to machine ourselves, can’t get the originals anymore and of course the last of the junkers was melted down a long time ago.” He stopped by a workbench with a large rack full of tools gleaming behind it. “One of the great things about being in the antique business—you hit all the country auctions and you’d be surprised at what you can pick up. Complete sets of torque wrenches, metric socket sets, spanner wrenches, feeler gauges, you name it.”

  I looked over the bench—he was obviously proud of the assortment of tools—then suddenly felt the small of my back grow cold. It was phony, I thought, the whole thing was phony. But I couldn’t put my finger on just why.

  Ellis walked over to one of the automobiles on the floor and patted a fender affectionately. Then he unbuttoned his coat so that the pistol showed, hooked his thumbs in his vest, leaned against the car behind him and smiled. Someplace he had even found a broom-straw to chew on.

  “So what can we do for you, Jim? Limited stock, sky-high prices, but never a dissatisfied customer!” He poked an elbow against the car behind him. “Take a look at this ’73 Chevy Biscayne, probably the only one of its kind in this condition in the whole damned country. Ten thou and you can have it—and that’s only because I like you.” He sauntered over to a monster in blue and silver with grillwork that looked like a set of kitchen knives. “Or maybe you’d like a ’76 Caddy convertible, all genuine simulated-leather upholstery, one of the last of the breed.” He didn’t add why but I already knew—in heavy traffic the high levels of monoxide could be fatal to a driver in an open car.