The Black Cadillac with red flames around the wheels rolled right over and came to a sudden, silent stop. The windows were tinted, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to see inside. I hopped in the Packard and Weatherby joined me in the passenger seat. He was tapping his fingers on his thin knees, staring intently out the window. I didn’t want to let him down.
The Black Cadillac’s engine revved up, a roaring snarl like the crackle of flames. The other cars followed, preparing their own engines. The leader of the Morningstar Car Club, a greaser with a carefully prepared pompadour and black leather jacket, walked to the center of the road and pointed a pistol to the sky. I felt my heart tense up as his finger wrapped around the trigger. An hour later, it seemed, he fired the gun and the race was on.
I took my foot off the brake and let the Packard rocket forward, sliding past Hadley Stullworth’s car and screaming to the lead. The black Cadillac was coming up fast behind me, and Vette’s coupe was on the side. The Crabbpatches, and Buck Beltz fought for space behind — while the audience howled.