Wheels (63 page)

On the telephone Hank Kreisel was pbilosophic when Adam gave him the
news. "Figured the odds weren't the greatest. Thanks, anyway
.”

Adam asked, "Where do you go from here
.”

"Can raise dough in more than one oven," the parts manufacturer said
cheerfully. But Adam doubted if he would-at least, for the thresher, in
Detroit.
He told Erica about the decision over dinner that evening. She said,
"I'm disappointed because it was a dream with Hank-a good one-and I like
him. But at least you tried
.”

Erica seemed in good spirits; she was making a conscious effort, Adam
realized, even though, almost two weeks after her arrest for
shoplifting, and release, their relationship was still unclear, their
future undecided.
The day following the painful experience at the suburban police station,
Erica had declared, "If you insist on asking a lot more questions,
though I hope you won't, I'll try to answer them. Before you do, though,
I'll tell you I'm sorry, most of all, for getting you involved. And if
you're worrying about my doing the same thing again
don't. I swear
there'll never be anything like it as long as I live
.”

He bad known she meant it, and that the subject could be closed. But it
had seemed a right time to tell Erica about the job offer from Perce
Stuyvesant and the fact that Adam was considering it seriously. He added, "If I do accept, it will mean a move, of
course-to San Francisco
.”

Erica had been incredulous. "You're considering leaving the auto
industry
.”

Adam had laughed, feeling curiously lightheaded. "If I didn't, there'd
be problems about dividing my time
.”

"You'd do that for me?
He answered quietly, "Perhaps it would be for both of us
.”

Erica had seemed dazed, shaking her head in disbelief, and that subject
had been dropped too. However, Adam had telephoned Perce Stuyvesant next
day to say he was still interested, but would not be able to fly West
until after the Orion's debut in September, now barely a month away. Sir
Perceval had agreed to wait.
Another thing that had happened was that Erica moved back into their
bedroom from the guest room, at Adam's suggestion. They had even essayed
some sex, but there was no escaping that it was not as successful as in
the old days, and both knew it. An ingredient was missing. Neither was
sure exactly what it was; the only thing they knew with certainty was
that in terms of their marriage they were marking time.
Adam hoped there would be a chance for them both to talk things
over-away from Detroit -during two days of stock car racing they would
be attending soon in Talladega, Alabama.

Chapter
twenty-eight

A page one banner headline of the Anniston Star ("Alabama's Largest
Home-Owned Newspaper") proclaimed: 300 GOES AT 12:30
The news story immediately following began:
Today's Canebreak 300, as well as tomorrow's Talladega 500, promise some
of the hottest competition in stock car racing history.
For the grueling 300-mile race today, and even tougher 500-miler
Sunday, super f
ast cars and drivers have pushed qualifying speeds
close to 190 mph.
What drivers, car owners, mechanics, and auto company observers now
wonder is how the power-packed racers will act over the 2.66 mile
trioval of Alabama International Speedway, at those speeds, when 50
cars are fighting for position on the track . . . Lower on the same page was a sidebar story:Severe Blood Shortage
Will Not Diminish
Big Race Precautions Local alarm had been manifest (so the secondary news story said) because
of an area Blood Bank shortage. The shortage was critical "because of
the possibility of serious injuries to race drivers and a need for
transfusions over Saturday's and Sunday's racing
.”

Now, to conserve supplies, all elective surgery at Citizens Hospital for
which use of blood was predicted had been postponed until after the
weekend. Additionally, appeals were being made to race visitors and
residents to donate blood at
special clinic, opening Saturday at 8 A.m. Thus,
supply of blood for racing casualties would be assured.
Erica Trenton, who read both news reports while breakfasting in bed at
the Downtowner Motor Inn, Anniston, shuddered at the implications of the
second, and turned to the paper's inside pages. Among other race news
on page three was an item: New 'Orion' on Display
This One's a 'Concept' The Orion's manufacturers, it was reported, were being closemouthed
about how nearly the . styling concept" model, currently on view at Talladega, resembled the soon-to-appear, real Orion. However, public
interest had been high, with prerace crowds thronging the infield area
where the model could be seen.
Adam would have had that news by now, Erica was sure.
They had come here together yesterday, having flown in on a company
plane from Detroit, and this morning Adam left their suite at the motor
inn early-almost two hours ago-to visit the Speedway pit area with Hub
Hewitson. The executive vice-president, who was the senior company
officer attending the two-day race meet, had a rented helicopter at his
disposal, which had picked up Hewitson and Adam, and later several more.
The same helicopter would make a second series of trips shortly before
race time to collect Erica and a few other company wives.
Anniston, a pleasant green-and-white country town, was six miles or so
from the Talladega track.
Officially, Adam's company, like other car manufacturers, was not directly
involved in auto racing, and the once strongly financed factory teams had
been disbanded. Yet no official edict could wipe out an ingrained
enthusiasm for racing which most auto executives shared, including Hub
Hewitson, Adam, and others in their own and competitive companies. This
was one reason why most major auto races attracted strong contingents from
Detroit. Another was that auto corporation money continued to flow into
racing, through back doors, at division level or lower. In this way-in
which General Motors had set a pattern across the years-if a car bearing
a manufacturer's name won, its makers could cheer publicly, reaping
plaudits and prestige. But if a car carrying their name lost, they merely
shrugged and disclaimed association.
Erica got out of bed, took a leisurely bath, and began dressing.
While doing so, she thought about Pierre Flodenhale whose picture had been
featured prominently in the morning paper. Pierre, in racing garb and
crash helmet, was shown being kissed by two girls at once and was
beaming-undoubtedly because of the girls but also, probably, because most
prognosticators had picked him as among the two or three drivers most
likely to win both today's and tomorrow's races.
Adam and others in the company contingent here were also happy about
Pierre's prospects, since in both races he would be driving Cars with
their company's name.
Erica's feelings about Pierre were mixed, as she was reminded when they
met briefly last night. It had been at a crowded cocktail-supper party-one of many such affairs
taking place around town, as always happened on the eve of any major
auto race. Adam and Erica had been invited to six parties and dropped
in on three. At the one where they met Pierre, the young race driver was
a center of attention and surrounded by several glamorous but brassy
girls-"pit pussies," as they were sometimes known-of the type which auto
racing and its drivers seemed always to attract.
Pierre had detached himself on seeing Erica, and made his way across the
room to where she was standing alone, Adam having moved away to talk
with someone else.
"Hi, Erica," Pierre said easily. He gave his boyish grin. "Wondered if
you'd be around
.”

'Well, I am
.”

She tried to be nonchalant, but unaccountably felt
nervous. To cover up, she smiled and said, "I hope you win. I'll be
cheering for you both days
.”

Even to herself, however, her words sounded
strained, and in part, Erica realized, it was because the physical
presence of Pierre aroused her sensually, still.
They had gone on chatting, not saying very much, though while they were
together Erica was aware of others in the room, including two from
Adam's company, glancing their way covertly. No doubt some were
remembering gossip they had heard, including the Detroit News item about
Pierre and Erica, which distressed her at the time.
Adam had strolled over to join them briefly, and wished Pierre well.
Soon after, Adam moved away again, then Pierre excused himself, saying
that because of the race
tomorrow he must get to bed. “y
ou know how it
is, Erica," he said, grinning again, then winked to make sure she did
not miss the unsubtle humor.
Even that reference to bed, clumsy as it was,
had left an effect, and Erica knew she was far from being completely over
her affair with Pierre.
Now, it was noon next day and the first of the two big races-the
Canebreak 300-would begin in half an hour.
Erica left the suite and went downstairs. In the helicopter, Kathryn Hewitson observed, "This is rather
ostentatious. But it beats sitting in traffic, I suppose
.”

The helicopter was a small one which could carry only two passengers at
a time, and the first to be whirled from Anniston to the Talladega
Speedway were the executive vice-president's wife and Erica. Kathryn
Hewitson was a handsome, normally self-effacing woman in her early
fifties, with a reputation as a devoted wife and mother, but also one
who, on occasions, could handle her dynamic husband firmly, as no one
else knowing him could or dared to. Today, as she often did, she had
brought along her needlepoint which she worked on, even during their few
minutes in the air.
Erica smiled an acknowledgment because the helicopter's noise as they
were airborne precluded conversation.
Beneath the machine, the ochre-red earth of Alabama, framing lush
meadowland, slid by. The sun was high, the sky unclouded, the air warm
with a dry, fresh breeze. Though it would be September in a few days
more, no sign of f all was yet apparent. Erica had chosen a light summer
dress; so had most other women whom she saw.
They landed in the Speedway infield, already massed with parked vehicles
and race fans, some of whom had camped here overnight. Even more cars
were streaming in through two double-lane traffic tunnels beneath the
track. At the helicopter landing pad, a car and driver were waiting for
43 Kathryn Hewitson and Erica; briefly, traffic in one of the incoming tunnel
lanes was halted, the lane control reversed, while they sped through to
the grandstand side of the track.
The grandstands too-North, South, and Over Hill-were packed with
humanity, waiting expectantly in the now hot sun along their mile
long
length. As the two women reached one of the several private boxes, a
band near the starting line struck up "T
h
e Star-Spangled Banner
.”

A
singer's soprano voice floated over the p.a. Wherever they were, most
spectators, contestants, and officials stood. The cacophony of speedway
noises hushed.
A clergyman with a Deep South drawl intoned, "Oh God, watch over those
in peril who will compete . . . We praise Thee for today's fine weather,
and give our thanks for business Thou hast brought this area . .
.”

"Damn right," Hub Hewitson asserted in the front row of his company's
private box. "Lots of cash registers jingling, including ours, I hope.
Must be a hundred thousand people
.”

The phalanx of company men and wives
surrounding the executive vice-president smiled dutifully.
Hewitson, a small man with close-cropped, jet black hair, whose energy
seemed to radiate through his skin, leaned forward so he could better
view the throngs which jammed the Speedway. He declared again, "Motor
racing's come up to be the second most popular sport; soon it'll be the
first. All of 'em out there are interested in power under the hood,
thank Godl-and never mind the sanctimonious sons-of-bitches who tell us
people aren't
.”