Red Thunder by John Varley Read Free Book Online Page B

a note, you don't want no drug-sniffing dogs in this room."
    "Not for at least a year," I agreed. "Now, do I have to frisk you,
or can I trust that you didn't pick up any of those dimes when I wasn't
looking?"
    "Trust me."
    "Okay." I turned and looked around, spotted the bullet hole about
six feet up the wall. With the .22 there had been no chance of it
passing through the wall into the next room. I stuck the desk pen in
the hole, but the slug had fallen into the space between walls. I'd
plaster and paint it that evening. No need to alarm guests with bullet
holes in the walls. That could endanger our half-star Michelin rating.
    "Let's get out of here," I said.
    "Suits me. Let's go someplace we can do this free blow."
    I threw the roll of paper towels at him but he was already out the door.
     

6
    DAK'S FATHER OWNS a car repair business a mile down
the road from us, four stalls with lifts. The big chains undercut him
on lubes and oil changes and tune-ups, but his lot is always full
because the people in the neighborhood know he can be persuaded to wait
for full payment if you're in a bind. He sells a lot of recap tires. He
is considered to be a magician by the people at Motor Vehicles, who
send him the cars nobody believes will
ever
pass the Florida emissions standards. He usually can patch them up enough to qualify for another year.
    Behind the main repair shop there is a two-car garage that used to
hold stacks of used tires but now sports a sign: DAKTARI'S CUSTOM SPEED
SHOP. This was where
Blue Thunder
was conceived and born.
    Dak turned down the narrow shell alleyway that ran beside the main
building and we roared through it and stopped on the cracked concrete
next to Blue. We were on a screaming red and yellow Honda trail bike
with me perched uneasily behind him. I don't know how girls can stand
riding like that.
    "See how you like that one," Dak said, pointing to a nearly
identical bike, but with different colors. It looked okay to me. I got
on, started it, revved the engine, grinned at Dak. I had an old Suzuki
for a few months the previous summer until I sort of fell off and it
wasn't worth fixing. Okay, I totaled it, and it was a good thing I
landed in a ditch or I might have been hurt bad.
    "You got a helmet for him?" I turned and saw Mr. Sinclair coming out
the back door. He nodded to me, went to put his arm around his son's
shoulders. Dak pretended to fight him off and they played that little
game of grab-ass you see some fathers do with their sons. It made me
jealous as hell, I'm ashamed to say. I'd never tell Dak.
    As usual there were a couple bright but battered race cars parked
there in the back. I'm not talking about Grand Prix or Indy cars. These
were poor man's stock cars or sometimes the cheaper formulas. Racing
people like to come to Daytona. They like to live here, Daytona is a
magic zip code to put on your mail. Nobody who came to Dak's Custom
Speed was going to be out there in the Fabulous 500 without paying a
lot
of dues first. Unless you're a third- or fourth-generation Petty or
Earnhardt you're going to be working your way up through the Saturday
night dirt track circuit. You'll be scrabbling to pay for enough good
rubber to get through one more race, pounding out the dents with a
hammer, and painting it all over with a Wal-Mart spray can. This was
the kind of guy who came to see Dak.
    Most nights after the garage closed, Mr. Sinclair was back here with
him. Keeping beaters on the road was his bread and butter, but working
on fast cars with his son was pure enjoyment.
    Sometimes I wondered why Dak would
bother
with trying to
get into space. I mean, if I was in his place, would I want to change
it? His life seemed the next thing to paradise, to me.
    Dak tossed me a helmet and I strapped it on.
    "You boys aren't going too far on those things, are you?" Mr. Sinclair asked.
    "We gotta check 'em out. Dad," Dak told him.
    "Just remember they don't belong to you."
    "We won't be out all night. So long." He