THE MEXICALI 1000 Wynn and Lonny, two North Carolina boys, save every penny they earn working in a garage in order to enroll in a racing-driver school in California. When they arrive, they find they have been tricked. There is no such school! But they do not return home. Instead, the boys land jobs in a drag shop as “gophers” and gain favor with their boss, a racing buff. They hear about the Mexicali 1000, and, in their spare time, rebuild their buggy, Beetle Bomb, for the grueling off-road race down the Baja Peninsula of Southern California. During the exhausting race they realize that they have been unwittingly involved in an unscrupulous scheme of Mexico’s two top smuggling gangs! Obstacles thrown in their way nearly cost Lonny’s life and leave them stranded in the forbidding desert. Will their ingenuity and perseverance pay off? Read this hair-raising adventure and find out!
WYNN AND LONNY RACING BOOKS The Mexicali 1000 Road Race of Champions GT Challenge Gold Cup Rookies Dead Heat at Le Mans The Midnight Rally
Wynn and Lonny Racing Books
THE MEXICALI 1000 BY ERIC SPEED
GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers
New York
COPYRIGHT 1975 BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CANADA LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 74-1898 ISBN: 0-448-11790-8 (Trade Edition) ISBN: 0-448-13220-6 (Library Edition)
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS CHAPTER
PAGE
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII
1 10 22 36 44 55 63 73 84 93 100 110 121 130 139 149 155
HOT-ROD CHALLENGE A TERRIBLE BLOW SPINOUT! SAVED BY A BELLE SURVEILLANCE CLUE CARELESS ARCHIE LONNIE’S VICTORY BAJA ADVENTURE CONTRABAND TURTLES CACTUS GHOSTS TRICKED! THE DOGWOOD HELMET DOWN THE RAMP! DESERT RESCUE COPTER ATTACK MEXICAN STAND-OFF LA PAZ FIESTA
THE MEXICALI 1000
CHAPTER I
Hot-Rod Challenge
Wynn Redford and Lonny Morris, eighteen-year-old high school buddies, loaded camping equipment into their hot rod at Bud Eubanks’s Service Station. Now that Beetle Bomb was completely rebuilt, Bud said he would be lonely without the ripping sound of the engine firing up and rattling the windows in the tight quarters of his grease pit. “We’ll come back—as champs,” said sandyhaired Wynn, and he slid his tall, wiry frame into the driver’s seat. Lonny, a stocky boy with brown hair, patted his exuberant tail-wagging coon dog. “By the time I get all the tools in here, Archie, I’m afraid we won’t even have room for a spare bone. In the back you go!” The hound jumped into the yellow convertible while Bud looked on. “I’ll have to admit it. Your 1
buggy’s a beauty,” he said. “I never would have thought that little Volkswagen engine could have been tuned up to run like this!” Bud had been a racing driver in his youth, running stockers on the quarter-mile dirt ovals that were found in every mountain town that was large enough for two gas stations. Racing stock cars in the Appalachians came as naturally to the local boys as playing sandlot baseball. Bud had not completely approved of the boys’ choice of an engine. Frequently he had stood back in silence as racing fans kidded Wynn and Lonny about trying to move a cow with a bumblebee motor. Undaunted by the ridicule, the boys had made plans to go to California where they had enrolled in a school for racing drivers. Wynn had found an advertisement in a hot-rod magazine. For a hundred dollars it promised: After one week of our intensive training with European champion driver Jacques Breve, you will be ready to embark on a road-racing career. Students were to be schooled in a sleek, openwheel formula car, a mini-Indy, modeled after the cars of the world champions. Eager to attend, the boys had earned the hundred dollars by servicing 2
cars at Bud’s station. “Well, I think we’ve packed everything but the grease pit,” Wynn declared. “Looks as if we’re ready to leave. All set, Archie?” The dog whimpered, and his tail beat like a gong on the extra fuel tank. “Boys, wait!” Bud sounded concerned. He went to the cash register, pulled out two 20 dollar bills, and handed them to Wynn. “I want you to do something for me in California. One of Nancy-Rae’s girl friends said she was sure the kid’s out there traveling with a racing team. . . .” He stopped and looked depressed. Bud’s daughter, Nancy-Rae, had run away from home. For months Bud had called his old racing buddies all over the country for word on her whereabouts, but to no avail. An auto-racing fan since her childhood, when her mother had died, Nancy-Rae knew the names of cars before she could write the alphabet. She wanted to race herself, but Bud would not allow it. She had hinted to friends that to pursue her chosen career, she would have to leave home and do it on her own. “Do all you can to find Nancy-Rae,” Bud said. “We will,” Wynn promised. Bud opened the service-station door, and Wynn started the engine. A puff of black smoke came from the tailpipes when it fired. After a few seconds of 3
warming up, it began to hum smoothly. Lonny got into the car and spread a road map out on his lap. “Looks as if we have a lot of crooked miles for a while, Wynn. Later on it’s as the crow flies.” “Okay, navigator. You direct me as the snake crawls until we get out of these hills.” They pulled out of the station, waving good-by to Bud. The Blue Ridge Mountains stretched ahead of them, and the early-morning haze was still in the air. Wynn had always wanted to be a racing driver. As a small boy he spent all of his free time at the stock-car racing shops, waiting for every opportunity to hand the mechanics a wrench or to polish a car. In high school, he found a book on driving techniques by a former Italian champion, Piero Taruffi. He lent it to Lonny, and the two friends developed sudden enthusiasm in their physics class, where they tried to sort out the complexities of slip angles and apexes. They even made plans for the day when Lonny would be chief mechanic on the car Wynn would race. The Beetle Bomb, which belonged to both, was their first venture. “I’m really looking forward to the course,” Wynn said. “It’ll be great to talk about more than just driving flat out and spinning wheels.” 4
Lonny nodded. “We can learn from people who know there’s more to racing than tromping your foot on the gas. Wait until old Jacques Breve asks us if we understand apexing in a turn.” Wynn laughed. “Wait until we sit in one of those little formula cars and he asks us to put our wheels where our mouths are,” he quipped. “The truth is,” Lonny said, “that I can’t wait to see them. I lie awake nights thinking about how much horsepower those foreigners get out of fourcylinder engines. Beetle Bomb has almost twice as much as it was born with, but I’ve run out of places to squeeze in another horse.” Lonny Morris, a graduate of the Wilkes County High School, had been in the technical program. The only son of a poor farmer, his strong arms and shoulders were built up from years of hard work. Motors had always fascinated Lonny. Years ago, he had earned the respect of the older men when he had spent an afternoon tinkering with a rusted motor at a deserted sawmill. By evening it had exploded into life. After the boys had acquired Beetle Bomb, Lonny had spent long nights polishing the engine parts by hand. Although he yearned for a taste of high-speed driving, his main objective was to see the racing machines in California. “You know, Wynn,” he said, “the more I think 5
about what I read on European racing, the more respect I have for those drivers. They compete on tracks built like country roads, with blind curves and hills. Anyone can make a car go fast in a straight line. But it takes a genius to go fast through a hairpin.” “I know what you mean, Lonny. I have—oh-oh!” “What’s wrong? The car sounds fine.” “Look in the mirror. One of the locals is out for a race.” “Well, tell him to go somewhere else. We have a long drive ahead of us, twenty-five hundred miles. And we don’t want to end up on our heads before we get out of the county.” A big car roared around and hovered beside them. Wynn slowed to let it pass, but the challenger slowed, too. The sound of Beetle Bomb’s finely tuned engine was drowned by the roar of the V-8. “Hey, why don’t you put your engine up front, where it belongs?” the driver called out. “What’s that thing for, anyway? Mowing grass?” “Ignore him,” Lonny advised. “He’s just looking for trouble.” The challenger swerved, tapping the fiberglass front fender of the buggy. Beetle Bomb slid sideways onto the shoulder, but Wynn recovered and pulled away. “Be careful,” Lonny warned. “Don’t play his 6
game!” The V-8 roared beside them again, heading to nip the front fender once more. Wynn slowed. He saw the straight road ending abruptly, with the inevitable hairpin turn. He hit the brakes hard, turned quickly, and slid through the turn. The rear-engine buggy roared on the back wheels and regained adhesion as they came out of the curve. Lonny watched over his shoulder. The other car locked up the brakes, skidding with a loud screaming sound as the tires broke away from the pavement. The powerful engine made a last and final lunge, taking the car into the ditch on the far side of the road. “Whew!” Lonny exclaimed. “That was really something!” “Thanks,” Wynn replied, “but I think my apex was a little early. Nine-tenths perfect. Next time, ten-tenths.” “Our friend got only about one-tenth of it right. We’d better go check on him.” Wynn wheeled the buggy around and headed for the ditch. The driver was out of the car and standing next to it. HARVEY (HOOKS) CONWAY was written on the door. As Wynn stopped, Hooks scowled at him. He was a big man in his early twenties, with a flat nose and furrowed forehead. 7
“Hey, sorry about that,” Wynn said. “But I didn’t pick the road, you know. Can we give you a hand getting out? We have a towrope.” Hooks glared. “Take it and hang yourself,” he said with a growl. “Well, we just wanted to offer you a hand—” “I’ll offer you a fist if you don’t get out of here!” Taking his advice, Wynn made another U-turn and headed down the road. “Not exactly the friendly type,” he said. “And that wasn’t a car either,” Lonny grumbled. “It was a weapon. People like him shouldn’t be allowed to drive.” “Did you see the size of his hands?” Wynn asked. “When he shook that fist at us, I thought he was wearing boxing gloves!” From then on the miles rolled by without trouble. That night the boys slept in a farmer’s orchard and the following night they set up camp in an abandoned field. The low brush seemed to be filled with jackrabbit ears. Archie chased them around until he was so exhausted he collapsed by the tent with a wheeze. In the middle of the night, the boys were awakened by the dog’s howls. “I was hoping he’d give up his rabbit hunting and let us get some rest,” Wynn grumbled sleepily. “Wait! That’s a different kind of howl. I know 8
Archie’s cries. Let me check.” Lonny pulled on his shoes and left through the tent flap. Then he yelled. “Wynn! Quick! Somebody’s trying to steal the car!”
9
CHAPTER II
A Terrible Blow
Wynn scrambled out of the tent and the two raced toward the buggy. They could see the dark outline of a man running off into the night. He disappeared behind a clump of bushes and even though the boys gave chase, they lost him a few minutes later. “No use to pursue him any farther,” Wynn grumbled. “Let’s go back and see if he did anything to the car.” The boys returned to Beetle Bomb and Lonny took a flashlight from the glove compartment. He shined it on the ground and walked slowly around the buggy. “Let’s see if our buddy left a clue,” he said. Both boys examined the car and the surrounding area carefully but found nothing but footsteps in the damp grass. “I wonder if it wasn’t Hooks Conway trying to 10
get even with us,” Wynn said. “Way out here?” “You never know. He looked mean enough.” “Mean enough to steal our car?” Wynn shrugged. “He might have just wanted to fool around with it a bit so we couldn’t start it.” Early the next morning the boys drove on, with Lonny at the wheel. At midday, he pulled up under a tree to push back the convertible top. A car roared by. Lonny looked up quickly. “The engine! Did you hear it?” “It sounded like a hot one to me,” Wynn said. “No. I mean, haven’t you heard it before? That was Hooks Conway!” “Are you sure? I didn’t even get a look at the car.” “Positive,” Lonny replied. “Hooks is short on manners, but he knows how to build an engine. Say, maybe he’s going to California, too. Perhaps even to the same driving school!” Wynn laughed. “He could use a few lessons on negotiating hairpins.” Crossing the Great Plains, Lonny talked about hometown events. One was the disappearance of Nancy-Rae. “I didn’t know her well,” he said. “Did you?” “Not really. Saw her at the station many times in 11
Levis, usually with a smudge of grease on her face.” “I’m surprised she really up and left,” Lonny said. “Quite a blow to her father. Couldn’t the police find her?” “Bud never asked them to. You know how he feels about the police.” The entire county knew. Years before, Bud was rushing to the hospital with his pregnant wife. They had been on a picnic with little red-haired NancyRae when the emergency arose. Federal revenue agents, thinking Bud was running whiskey, blocked the road. The resulting crash killed one of the officers and Nancy-Rae’s mother. It left the girl with a slight limp. “Nancy-Rae’ll come back someday,” Lonny said slowly. “Once she’s proved she can race.” “I suppose she’s got to get it out of her system,” Wynn agreed. Two days later, the boys arrived in California. They were in a long line of cars driving on the Los Angeles Freeway when Lonny said, “Take the next exit.” Wynn switched lanes and drove down the ramp. “According to the map, we go up two blocks, turn left, and the school should be on the corner,” Lonny said. Wynn was skeptical. As they waited for a stoplight, he said, “Are you sure this is right? I can’t 12
imagine they’d have a road-racing course here.” Lonny looked at the rows of tract houses in the modest residential area and shook his head. “According to the directions in the ad, this is where the track entrance should be.” Wynn parked and they rechecked their map. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Let’s go ask the police.” At headquarters they told their story to a sergeant. He shook his head, then recited the ad to them. “I know. ‘Four miles of challenging turns on the model of the best European tracks.’ I’m sorry, boys. You’re the twenty-third complaint this month. That ad was a phony! We’ve been looking for that swindler, but so far no luck.” Wynn and Lonny glumly sat on the curb outside the police station. They had come 2,500 miles to find their hopes shattered! “I can’t believe this happened to us,” Lonny said bitterly. “I’ve been cheated out of nickels and dimes, even a dollar or two, but it took a long time to earn that hundred bucks!” “Some road-racing career!” Wynn said. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to track down that crook Jacques Breve and get our money back!” Lonny shook his head. “And think of all the other guys just like us who’ve had their dreams go up in smoke.” 13
“I’d rather not! Listen. Let’s get a room, a nice hot shower, a big juicy hamburger, and forget our troubles until tomorrow.” “I’m all for that,” Lonny said. Even Archie yapped cheerfully. Early the next morning, they felt refreshed and eager to start their search for the swindler. They went directly to the office of the magazine that ran the ad, in the publishing district of Los Angeles. They found that the slick shiny magazine was produced in a not-so-slick or shiny office. The walls of the building were stained, and the steps to the second floor were littered with paper. “They could recycle enough of this trash to print the magazine for a year,” Lonny ventured. Inside the editor’s office, they spoke to a man in shirt sleeves who sat behind a cluttered desk and introduced himself as O. T. Martin. He pushed back a shock of hair and listened to his callers’ story. “Yeah, the guy who put in the ad gave us a phony name,” he said. “I’ve already notified the police. Don’t like that kind of business, myself. We try to keep things on the up-and-up around here.” “Isn’t there something you can do about it?” Wynn asked. The man shrugged. “Somebody comes in and slaps his money on the table. You have to give him the ad space. Know what I mean? I don’t have time 14
to check out every advertiser.” Lonny asked, “Can you describe the man?” “Young guy, tall and thin, black hair. Expensive clothes. Looked like they were fresh off the rack.” “That could be anybody,” Wynn said. “Was there anything distinctive about him—a limp, or a scar?” “Yes. There was an unusual thing. It might have been real, or he might have gotten it from a dye bottle, but he had this white streak running right through the middle of his black hair.” “One more question and we’ll be on our way,” Wynn said. “Now that our money has been temporarily misplaced, could you suggest a racer around here who might need a couple of helpers?” “Try the drag shops. They can generally use a gopher.” “A gopher?” “Yeah, that’s what they call guys who run errands and do odd chores. You know, go for this and go for that.” “Okay, Mr. Martin. And thanks for your help.” “Don’t mention it. I’m sorry, but you understand my position—” Wynn and Lonny shut the door and headed down the hall. “A gopher, huh?” Wynn said. “I always thought that was some kind of squirrel. Well, I suppose you can pick up nuts in a drag shop!” “Ow!” Lonny said, and he gave Wynn a punch. 15
After two days of trying the drag shops with no luck, their cash supply was dwindling and their confidence was down. The boys stopped for a hamburger. “Hey, Lonny,” Wynn said as he toyed with a French fry, “we’ve got to get out of this gloom. Maybe those guys we asked for jobs figured us for a couple of hicks. Come on! Let’s take in the drags.” “Okay. There’s a big one this afternoon.” They found the strip on the outskirts of the city and left Archie to guard their car. The drag area stretched before them like a combination circus yard and used-car lot. Colored tents were everywhere to provide shade for the mechanics while they worked on the dragsters before the racers were to appear, two abreast, at the starting line. Because each run required only a few seconds, lines of cars sprawled for miles around the short patch of pavement allotted for the quarter-mile run. Grandstands lined the strip and the extra length needed at the end to slow the monsters. Spectators, who paid extra for a pass permitting them to mill around the work area, peered over the mechanics’ shoulders as they prepared their cars. The air was filled with the smell of burning rubber and the special fuel mixtures used by the highpowered machines. “What a sight!” Wynn said, looking over the 16
field. The dragsters varied from the exotic to the ordinary. In almost no way did they resemble regular cars except that they had four wheels and an engine. The stock class, however, was virtually a street vehicle with careful tuning, locked in by the rules to allow a category for inexpensive cars. This was to attract beginners who wanted a taste of the sport before “sinking a bundle” in a car. The real show was put on by the exotic dragsters, with their ripping engines and colored parachutes that would spin open and pull them to a stop. Wynn and Lonny had known from the time they were youngsters that the driver’s chore seemed relatively simple in comparison to the mechanic’s work. It took nerve, good reflexes, smooth shifts, and experience to pilot a dragster; but most performances lasted less than ten seconds. The mechanic, on the other hand, dealt with engines producing so much horsepower that they sometimes exploded under the pressure. The greatest danger facing the driver was the damage his exploding machine could do to him. Lonny looked into the cockpit of a waiting fuel dragster. The driver’s seat was nestled between two huge tires in front of the powerful engine. “Look, Wynn. See how little there is to do. You’ve got that butterfly steering wheel to hold 17
straight, you have a throttle, and there’s the lever you pull to release the parachute.” Wynn chuckled. “Is that all? I think I’ll hop in one tomorrow. If I get the nerve!” They talked to a friendly driver who stood beside his car. It was a sword-shaped vehicle with an engine and two large tires that looked like the sword’s handle. Its rails ended with two bicycle-like wheels in front. He explained that a driver must practice the stopping motion over and over while his car is at a standstill until his reflex action is automatic. “Don’t forget, you’re going over two hundred miles per hour when you have to stop,” he said. “After you put your foot on the throttle, you must make yourself hold it until the end of the quarter mile. Then you have a split second to release the parachute to slow you down. If you use the throttle incorrectly, the front end of the car might fly into the air and bang down, damaging the structure. It’s pretty fragile, you know.” The driver pointed to a car on the line that was rearing like a horse while his opponent was already flying along the strip. The narrow front wheels slammed into the pavement. “That was an expensive mistake,” the man said. “That driver got eliminated, and he destroyed a good deal of his mechanic’s hard work. But that’s racing.” 18
Wynn and Lonny walked to the starting line for a closer look. Between the next two competitors stood a fixture of colored lights known as the Christmas tree. It was invented to replace the man who once stood between the snarling monsters and signaled the start with flags. The lights told each driver the moment he could put his foot to the fuel. If he left too soon, the electric eye would catch him, displaying a red light that disqualified his run. Two more dragsters came to the line, the huge black doughnut tires oozing softly along the pavement. The engines revved up and down as the drivers prepared for the run. A crew member of one racer ran to the back wheels with a bottle of bleach and poured it under the tires. “What’s he doing, Lonny?” Wynn asked. “I’ve read about this,” Lonny replied. “It’s called a burnout. When the driver spins the tires in the bleach, it heats them up for more traction on the actual start. That’s how he gets the most of his engine power on the ground. The car that reared up misjudged and it got too much—” Lonny’s voice was drowned by the roar of the engine as the rubber doughnuts spun in the bleach, filling the air with an acrid smoke cloud. The boys instinctively put their hands to their ears as the two vibrating monsters raced off down the quarter mile. 19
Behind them, the parachutes opened and snapped full of air. They spun like pinwheels while slowly dragging the cars to a stop. “Boy,” Lonny exclaimed, “if those parachutes hadn’t opened, they’d be on the moon tonight!” After the fuel dragsters came two of the stockeliminator-class entrants. Although Wynn and Lonny had been in awe of these cars at their local strip back home, the engines had sounded mild compared with the California competition. The boys were intently observing the machines pulling to the line, when Wynn exploded. “Well, I’ll be an ugly catfish! There’s old Hooks!” On the door of one of the starters were the words Hooks Conway. Lonny grinned. “Can’t believe my eyes.” Conway blasted down the strip to win the run. “He’s plenty good on the quarter mile,” Wynn admitted. They went closer to the fence to see the next entrants pull up. They were in the “funny car” class, fuel dragsters disguised with fiberglass bodies resembling regulation automobiles. They drove up for the burnout, noses pointing toward the ground like snouts. “Looks like an anteater, and—watch out!” Lonny screamed. A black doughnut tire lifted from under one of the cars as the axle snapped. The wheel careened over 20
the protective fence and with deadly force spun directly at a man and a young boy, who stood frozen in terror. Wynn, who was closest to them, made a desperate horizontal dive. He hit the man and the boy, and all three tumbled onto the pavement!
21
CHAPTER III
Spinout!
The wheel flew over the heads of the three people sprawled on the ground and crashed into the side of a refreshment stand, tumbling potato-chip racks onto the pavement. Finally it wobbled to a stop. The man stood up and helped the boy to his feet. “Are you all right, Teddy?” he asked. “Yes, Dad. I’m not hurt.” The boy brushed himself off and the man turned to Wynn. “Thanks,” he said. “We might have been killed if it weren’t for you. I should know better than to turn my back on a race car after all these years.” He introduced himself as D. A. Crawford, and they shook hands. Teddy extended his, too, and smiled. “I’m Wynn Redford and this is my buddy, Lonny Morris. I didn’t know what to do but to take a dive at you.” 22
“I’d say a skinned elbow is better than a broken head any day,” Crawford said. “You’ll let me reward you for your action—” “Oh, no sir. I don’t believe in getting paid for ten seconds’ work.” “Don’t let those fellows in the dragsters hear that.” Crawford chuckled. “They get paid a bundle for working less than that. Okay, then, I’ll treat you to a snack.” Wynn and Lonny sat with father and son under a tree, eating hot dogs while the dragsters roared off the line. Hundreds of competitors would be eliminated until only two were left in each class to make the final run to victory. The boys found that Crawford’s interest in racing went beyond the dragsters. He was involved in the ownership of two sprint cars and several sports cars. When they told him about the phony driving school that brought them to California, he was sympathetic but could provide no leads to the swindler. “But if you’re racing buffs,” he said, “you should have known that the name Jacques Breve was fictitious. “I guess we ought to have checked him out,” Lonny said ruefully. “Tell you what,” Crawford said. “How would you like to work in my garage? You’re still interested in becoming drivers, aren’t you?” 23
“You bet we’d like a job!” Wynn exclaimed. “We’ll do anything—push a broom, wash parts, run errands—” “Good. Here’s my card. See you tomorrow.” Crawford and Teddy returned to the fence to watch the racers. Wynn and Lonny were elated. The next morning they reported for work. Crawford’s shop was a new and exciting experience. Although Bud Eubanks back home was known as an excellent mechanic who ran a good repair station, the boys had not realized how limited his facilities were until they stepped inside this two-story building. Lonny let out a low whistle of admiration, and Crawford smiled. “There’s a great difference between knowing how to repair a car and knowing how to make it go faster,” he said. “My aim here is to run a self-sufficient shop where my men can make the needed parts. Sometimes they can’t, and that’s where you come in. You’ll be sent to other shops for the goods.” Tacked on the wall was a list with each man’s name and the chores he was assigned, with a time schedule to coordinate the work. “That’s efficiency,” Wynn said. “It’ll be great working here, Mr. Crawford.” While Crawford went to get the boys keys, Wynn and Lonny surveyed the shop. On one side, amid 24
gigantic machines that whined, groaned, and piled metal shavings at their feet, were the machinists. The gophers would soon learn one of their jobs was to clear away scrap. In another section were the welders—gas, arc, and heli-arc. They could bend all kinds of metal into any shape. Between the machinists and the welders stood a tall rack holding metal rods and sheets of raw materials. The fabricators, who made custom parts for cars, walked back and forth to the equipment as they assembled their machinery on separate workbenches—carburetor scoops, collapsible steering columns, special dashboards with toggle switches. Unlike a factory, the noise was irregular; and though no one was loafing, it was not unusual to hear the men singing to the piped-in music. The walls were decorated with checkered victory flags and horseshoe wreaths of dried roses that confirmed the results of the men’s hard work, for which they received a share of the purse. Crawford caught the boys’ attention and beckoned them to his office. It was decorated with trophies and photographs of championship racers. An open door on the far end led into a drafting room. Several men were bent over tables. Crawford ushered the gophers inside. “These drawings will be given to the machinists 25
and fabricators,” he explained. “They, in turn, make the needed parts. Most of our skilled workers can do their own drawings. We even put our drivers to work, so they’ll appreciate what goes on and take better care of the cars.” In the distance, a bansheelike crescendo filled the shop with ear-splitting noise. “An engine’s being put on the dynamometer,” Crawford said. “That’s an apparatus to gauge the horsepower and give the mechanics various readings as they experiment with adjustments like carburetor settings and exhaust systems.” He paused a moment, then went on, “We can generally gain ten percent more horsepower just by having the dyno give us accurate readings before the engine’s placed in the car. Touch, or feel, or a man’s ear is not enough.” The wailing died down, and Crawford led the pair to the engine-assembly room. It was set away from the rest of the shop, sealed off from dust and shavings of the work area, and it was as spotless as an operating room. The image of the mechanic with grease up to his elbows disappeared as soon as Wynn and Lonny met the chief, Carl Ryberg. They found out that he scrubbed his hands with a special soap. Parts were wrapped and stored on shelves in perfect order to prevent making mistakes in the 26
internal assembly. Several engines were partially put together and wrapped tightly in plastic to keep out dust. When their tour through the shop was over, the boys were issued coveralls, and the rules were explained to them. Several men were loading a sprint car on a trailer for testing on a local track. One of them asked the newcomers to go along, and Crawford nodded his okay. On the way Lonny noted that the sprint machine was quite different from the light, agile rear-engined European racers. It looked more like a trip back in his racing-history book, when the old Indianapolis drivers sat bolt upright in their front-engined cars and slid through turns on their skinny tires. The gangly crew chief, Nick Warren, explained, “The cars might look old-fashioned but this is a special kind of racing. The machines never get outdated and put away in mothballs, because the rules don’t change all the time like they do in that fancy European racing. “A fellow can get a car and race it until it has to be turned out to pasture. The guy with the most money isn’t necessarily the one who wins.” “Of course there have been some changes,” Lonny said. “Sure, but they’ve all been made to increase driver safety—roll cages, harnesses, and special fuel 27
tanks with internal cellular construction to prevent explosion on impact,” Nick said. The outlook of people in the sport had also changed. At one time a roll cage was actually illegal because rule-makers contended that a driver would go faster if he weren’t afraid of breaking his neck for making a mistake. They arrived at the track, which had just been wetted down to settle the dust. Having no starter, the sprint car was push-started by a pick-up truck with a special wooden bumper. One of Crawford’s mechanics took it around and it bounced off the ground when the wheels struck the potholes left by a race the week before. The auto skittered sideways through the turns like a boat on rough water. The mechanic pulled in and offered it to Wynn for a few laps. “Keep the rpm down and just try to get the oil temperature up so it will be ready for the driver when he arrives. Remember, you have to throw it sideways to slow down in the turns. Brakes won’t do a bit of good out there, slipping and sliding in the mud.” As Wynn climbed into the car, the crew started to chuckle. “Wait until he feels that engine come to life under his foot the first time,” Warren said with a grin. “He’ll think he’s riding a greased rocket!” The car leaped into action, and Lonny watched 28
Wynn’s arms as he struggled with the steering wheel while the mud from the front tires dashed against his face. Although Lonny knew his friend could not turn down this chance, he was worried about Wynn’s unfamiliarity with this type of car. Wynn gave the engine a little more juice, and Lonny felt the exhaust from the special fuel start to sting his eyes. Wynn went faster. “We’d better get him in,” Warren told the crew. “He’s letting it out too much too soon. All we need is for the kid to overcook the boss’s car and take it into the wall.” “Look out!” somebody exclaimed. The racer broke away in the mud and started to spin. It turned 360 degrees by the wall, the engine choking off as the car continued to loop. Lonny heard the sound of rocks and mud on the wall, then saw a whiff of black smoke. The left rear wheel hit the wood, and the car slowed down to a halt at the edge of the track. Wynn sat, stunned, while the mechanics flocked around to check for damage. “No harm done,” Nick said finally. “But if you’d gotten a hair closer to the wall, you’d have scraped off more than rubber!” At that moment Crawford himself arrived. The boss’s usual smile was missing. “I think you need driving lessons before you start turning the wheel,” he said stiffly to Wynn. “Let’s 29
see you turn wrenches for a while first.” Then he looked at Nick. “You shouldn’t have let him have the car!” Wynn had a sick feeling of embarrassment and shame. He apologized quietly, finding words for the first time since the spin. “Okay,” Crawford said, his expression softening. “But remember, a race car isn’t something to play with, and you don’t get into a machine and become a champion just like that!” Back at the shop that afternoon, Wynn and Lonny worked hard to clean the mud off the racer. Their carefree attitude had disappeared, and Crawford noticed. “Don’t take it so hard, fellows,” he said. “I have a suggestion. Enroll in a Sports Car Club of America Drivers’ School. A course is being held at Riverside next weekend.” The friends exchanged glances and Crawford went on, “I know how it is, believe me. I wanted to drive more than anything in the world myself. Then I learned it was a long tough road to the top. Before you start having any real thoughts about fast cars, I think it would be a good idea to learn control in a low-powered machine—one that feels like a big race car but won’t take you into the marbles quite so quickly.” It seemed as though the weekend would never 30
come. Crawford lent them helmets and flame-proof suits, and they rented Formula Vees—a racing class built around the Volkswagen engine and chassis— with some of the money they had earned at the shop. Wynn and Lonny spent late evening hours reading rule books, memorizing flags, and quizzing each other. “Blue with yellow stripe,” Wynn said. “Means move over. You’re in the way of a faster car.” “Black.” “Bad-boy flag. You have broken a rule and must pit to talk to an official before returning to the course.” “Red.” “Stop immediately where you are. There’s a bad accident or some other course blockage.” Their boss had arranged for them to spend a couple of evenings at the shop where the Formula Vees had been built. He believed that a driver must know his automobile inside and out before trying to race it. Formula Vee racing, they learned, was often called “poor man’s racing” because a car could be purchased in kit form and built in much the same way as the Beetle Bomb. The engines, gear boxes, and wheels were taken from standard Volkswagens. There were no exotic and expensive parts to buy. 31
Lonny was pleased to see the bug engines and proud to be experienced help to the regular mechanics. “If we have any trouble, Wynn, old Beetle Bomb can lend us his power plant for a while,” he joked. “Just remember,” Wynn replied, “we need Beetle Bomb for traveling, and the racer is just for fun.” Lonny noticed that since his spinout, Wynn had become more conservative when talking about racing. He had learned a lesson in responsibility and how quickly an accident can happen on the track. To give his new employees a chance to get the most out of the Riverside School, Crawford had assigned two of his mechanics to go along with them to tune the cars. They all left the shop on Friday afternoon. The mechanics loaded the Formula Vees on a double-decker trailer while Wynn and Lonny, along with Archie, set off in Beetle Bomb. All carried camping equipment for the overnight stays at the track. The North Carolinians found that Riverside International Raceway, one of the biggest in the country, was located several hours east of Los Angeles. The surrounding yellow-pink hills were barren except for a few rock houses and sagebrush. The winds blew clouds of dust. The paved track, they learned, wound for miles, with a difficult collection of uphill and downhill 32
esses and turns that snaked through the sand. The pits were at one end, with a number of covered garages and buildings where the mechanics serviced cars. A grassy area separated the track from the pit lane, where crewmen could signal their cars as they passed. On the far side of the pit lane they saw a concrete wall to protect working men from out-ofcontrol cars. After their Formula Vees were unloaded and registered, Wynn and Lonny polished the fiberglass noses of the little racers to keep their nervousness from showing. “You know what my mechanic just told me?” Lonny said. “My car will go one hundred and eighteen mph.” Wynn whistled. “I guess it makes a lot of difference when your bumblebee motor has to pull a dune buggy, camping equipment, two passengers, plus a healthy hound dog.” “The whole car weighs only eight hundred pounds,” Lonny went on. “There’s no room in the cockpit for anything but me, and I’ll have to eat a light lunch.” Wynn slid into his seat, getting used to the feel of the short gearshift, the tiny steering wheel, and the reclining driving position for the rear-engined racer. The top of his head seemed to be level with the top of the tires. 33
Saturday morning they went through the inspection of cars and drivers’ uniforms, then were given a short lecture on the weekend’s activities. After the written test, which the boys passed without trouble, they began their on-course training. Students were split up into small groups, and they practiced each type of turn with a licensed sports-car racer as an instructor. During the lunch break, the tired neophytes gathered in the shade of a garage for a quick hot dog. Lonny said, “I thought my final exams at high school taught me how to concentrate, but this driving course makes high school look like hopscotch.” Wynn nodded and wiped some mustard off his chin. “I wonder how the local street racers back home would feel after a taste of this.” Suddenly he nudged Lonny. “Lookee yonder!” Hooks Conway was just taking off his helmet! He had not noticed the boys. “Let’s stroll over and see what our old pal is up to,” Lonny suggested. The boys walked to the car Hooks had entered and studied it. It was a small European sedan with the name STEVE SMITH on the door. “Is this your car?” Lonny asked. “That’s right,” Hooks replied, turning at the same 34
time. His eyebrows popped in surprise. “Wh-what are you doing here?” “Same as you,” Wynn replied. “How come you have the name Steve Smith on your car? Are you using an alias in California so nobody will know you’re just a beginner?” Hooks’s bullneck turned red. Instead of answering, he lashed out with his right fist and hit Wynn flush on the chin. Lonny watched in frozen surprise as his friend fell over a stack of tires and upset a pan of oil before one leg came to rest beside a battery. It tipped over, spilling acid onto the leg of Wynn’s driving suit!
35
CHAPTER IV
Saved by a Belle
Before Lonny could assist, Wynn rolled over, jumped to his feet and grabbed Hooks by the collar. Other student drivers gathered around to watch the fight. Several tried to pull Wynn and Hooks apart, but it was impossible. Wynn shoved Hooks. Hooks teetered backward, lost his balance, and fell, banging his head on his open toolbox. With an oath, Hooks leaped up and grabbed a lug wrench. He took a mean swipe at Wynn, missed, and poised for another. Suddenly a girl in a gold driving suit jumped forward. With her blond ponytail swinging, she dealt a couple of karate chops against Hooks’s neck. The man fell to a seated position and looked up, completely dazed. “Not that I have anything against a good fight,” the karate chopper said, tucking her suit in at the 36
waist, “but I’m opposed to mayhem.” As she kicked the fallen wrench back toward the toolbox, Wynn got a good look at his benefactor. She was of medium height, with China-blue eyes, a small tilted nose, and a slightly protruding lower lip. This, with a full firm chin gave her a decidedly nononsense appearance, which by now was fully appreciated by the amazed Hooks. But when she smiled as she helped the fallen man to his feet, all the severity vanished from her face. She was a handsome young woman, Wynn thought. “Thanks a lot,” Wynn said, “but I feel pretty silly being saved by a belle.” Her smile became a wide grin. “Funny boy, if you don’t mind a little female advice, I’d suggest that you get that battery acid off your suit fast, or you’ll have more than a laundry problem. I spilled some on the back of my jeans once and the whole bottom fell out.” Wynn hurried to a nearby faucet and drenched the acid, while Lonny and the girl helped him scrub it off. The crowd broke up, and the boys and their new friend walked toward their cars, leaving Hooks to clean up the spilled oil and acid. “My name’s Ingrid Larsson,” the girl said. “Call me Inky.” The boys introduced themselves and Lonny said, 37
“I didn’t realize girls were in the course.” “I’m the only one here,” she said. “But when I went to my first racing school at Donnybrooke, near where I live, there were three girls. I should have enough hours to get my regional license if everything goes okay this weekend.” “Donnybrooke? Then you’re from Minnesota,” Wynn said. “Minneapolis.” “I thought you talked funny,” Lonny teased. Inky laughed. “Boy, when I heard you fellows drawling like hillbillies, I hoped you wouldn’t drive that slow!” Wynn and Lonny told Inky about their trip from North Carolina, their run-in with Hooks, and the racing-school swindle. She listened sympathetically. Suddenly Wynn had an idea. “Hey, Lonny, maybe Inky can help us find Nancy-Rae.” He told her about the missing girl and asked Inky if she had seen her. “No,” Inky said. “I’ve only been in California a couple of weeks myself. But I’ll keep an eye out. If I hear a girl talk as funny as you all, I’ll let you know.” “Thanks,” Wynn said, and he gave her the telephone number of Crawford’s shop. Their attention turned to the track exit, where Hooks Conway’s car was being loaded on a trailer. 38
“Guess you knocked the edge off his reflexes, Inky,” Lonny said. “He’s packing out with the course not even half over.” “Too bad he’s leaving,” Wynn remarked. “He’s good, but he’s got to learn a lot about driving.” Sunday morning the students practiced rolling starts, and the boys realized that they, too, had plenty to learn. Now all formula cars were allowed out together. Since they didn’t move in prescribed lanes, as they did on public roads, it proved to be quite an experience. Wynn and Lonny found that adjusting to vehicles on both sides, cutting in front, tailgating, and swerving—with every driver for himself—was quite difficult. Everyone wanted the same fast lane through a turn. It was not unusual for three cars to dive for the identical spot at the same time, with first come, first through, the other two yielding. A race from the inside was made of a lot of small races and challenges, wheel-to-wheel over several miles of twisting and hilly road. After the first few sessions, they learned that all sorts of dramas had taken place out of their sight. For one, a car had rolled over in the esses and righted itself again before they had arrived on the scene. During the next practice race, the officials put the red flag up. Lonny and Wynn screeched to a halt 39
only to find that many of their competitors kept running. The flag was a hoax. Its purpose was to see if the novices were paying attention. Their alertness paid off, and they were awarded points. The offenders were penalized. Wynn discovered that the cars he passed on the straight got around him just before he entered the turns. When he talked to his instructor about his problem, he was told simply, “You’re from the southern hills. You ought to know the old moonshiner approach to a curve—in slow, out fast. Either you put your boot on the brake or keep it off. Don’t pussyfoot around.” After several turns of locking up a wheel and coughing in the blue rubber smoke as the tire slid, Wynn started to get the feel of hard braking, jabbing his foot on the pedal. Lonny was told that he should apex tighter in the turns, that he was leaving much of the road unused, with the inside wide open for a car to duck in and pass him. For several laps he thought about this and realized that he still imagined cars coming from the other direction. He laughed aloud at himself as he tried to adjust to the one-way race-track traffic. The school ended at about 4:00 P.M. on Sunday, and the students nervously awaited the logbooks with their scores for the various techniques. They picked up their sheets and checked the areas in 40
which they needed more practice. To their surprise, Wynn and Lonny’s highest scores were awarded in the curve category. “Well, how did the southern moonshiners do?” Inky called. She flashed a logbook, indicating that she had qualified for her racing license. “Nice going,” Wynn said. “We should make the grade in one more session. All we need now is practice. They always said back home that our roads were laid out by tying a punctured bag of lime to a cow and sending her on her way. It must have been worth something to us.” “Hey.” Inky frowned over their shoulders. “Isn’t that your dog Archie?” The boys turned to see the hound limping across the pit area. “Archie, fellow, what happened?” Lonny questioned. “I thought you were in the buggy? Did you step on something?” The dog lay down on his side, sticking one paw up in the air. “Did somebody hurt you?” Wynn rubbed the animal’s stomach softly, and he whined. “Say, does he belong to you?” one of the instructors called. “Yes. What happened to him?” “I didn’t see it, but someone said the guy you had a fight with yesterday kicked him.” Lonny lifted the pet into his arms and carried him 41
to Beetle Bomb. “I think we’d better have a vet look at him, just to be sure.” Inky knew an animal hospital that was open seven days a week. “I took my girl friend Lilo’s cat there a few days ago,” she said, jotting down the address. The boys thanked her and she left, waving goodby. Then they helped load their cars onto the trailer. It was agreed that the mechanics would take the racers back to Crawford’s garage to keep them safe until next morning. “Don’t bother cleaning them,” Wynn said. “We’ll drop over later and take care of that.” They headed for the vet’s in Beetle Bomb. The hospital was immaculate and the doctor in charge, a pleasant young man. He suggested that Archie stay for a few days so he could keep an eye on the swelling around the bruised ribs. He wanted to make sure there was no internal bleeding. “I’ll miss the old pooch,” Lonny said, as they left the hospital and drove to the shop. The mechanics were just leaving as they pulled in. “Thanks a lot, pals,” Wynn called out. “See you tomorrow.” The young racers took a long look at the condition of the machines. “They need a bath before we put ‘em to bed,” Lonny commented, “and a little polish, too.” 42
They worked for two hours until the Formula Vees shone. It was dark when they prepared to leave, exhausted and hungry. “What say we go to Bull Heaven,” Lonny said. “I don’t think I can sleep with my stomach roaring this loud. Sounds like a race going on inside me.” “Let’s lock up. It’s been quite a day.” Wynn closed the big door and snapped the padlock. Lonny was already behind the wheel of Beetle Bomb, and the motor was purring in the damp night air. “Listen to that lullaby,” Lonny said, as his buddy slipped in beside him. “What a sweet baby!” They traveled about a mile to Bull Heaven, one of their favorite hamburger spots. The sandwiches were thick and juicy, and Lonny’s growling stomach stopped complaining. Wynn picked up the check and reached for his wallet. “Oh, rats! I must have left it in my driving suit. I feel like I left my brains in it, too. We’d better go back to the shop.” “So that leaves me holding the check,” Lonny said, and he paid the bill. They arrived in minutes. Wynn unlocked the door and as he pushed it open, the sound of breaking glass shattered the silence!
43
CHAPTER V
Surveillance Clue
Wynn and Lonny rushed into the garage and switched on the lights. No one was in sight. “Somebody must have broken in,” Lonny whispered. “He’s probably hiding.” “Or broken out,” Wynn suggested. “Let’s look for the smashed glass first.” They checked the windows on both sides of the building. “Here it is,” Lonny called out. “You were right. It must have been stuck, and he banged right through it. Most of the glass fell outside.” They climbed through the window and searched the neighborhood in vain. “He got away,” Wynn said, “possibly with some cuts and bruises.” The boys thought that the intruder might have slipped in unnoticed when the mechanics returned 44
the cars earlier in the evening. “Then we came in,” Lonny said, “so he had to hide until we left. Lucky thing you forgot your wallet and we had to drive back.” They went into the garage. “Now let’s see if any damage was done,” Wynn said. They fine-combed the equipment until Wynn spied something unusual. “Look, Lon. The plastic’s been ripped off this new engine.” A crumpled covering lay beside the workbench. The boys examined the engine carefully. “Maybe it’s a case of espionage,” Wynn offered. “Let’s look in the drafting room.” “You were right,” Lonny said as they entered. He pointed to a sheaf of drawings strewn about the floor. “Who could it have been?” Wynn said. Lonny shrugged. “Hooks, maybe?” But then he shook his head. “No. I don’t think he’d be that rotten.” “Why?” “Just a gut feeling. Besides, we can’t accuse him without evidence.” Wynn went to the telephone and called Crawford. “Notify the police,” his boss said. “I’ll be right over.” A squad car arrived first, and Crawford followed. Two policemen, one a detective, studied the break-in 45
and dusted the engine for fingerprints. There were none. Nor were any clues found in the drafting room. “The guy must have used gloves,” the detective said. “We’ll check this area more frequently from now on, Mr. Crawford.” The garage owner and the boys headed for his spacious home on the ocean at Palos Verdes, where Wynn and Lonny had rented a small apartment over his large three-car garage. It had a bedroom, kitchen, a living room that they hardly used, and a place to work on Beetle Bomb. Next morning they overslept, but managed to dash to work in time, each munching a prune Danish. Their first chore was to collect work rags and soiled coveralls for the laundryman, who called every Monday. “Hi, Clarence,” Wynn said, going to the door. “Here’s the dirty stuff.” The laundryman, middle-aged, affable, and talkative, was in no hurry to leave. “That your VW?” he asked, nodding toward Beetle Bomb. It was parked in front instead of its usual place in the garage. “Sure is. Lon and I built it,” Wynn replied. “Are you getting it ready for the Baja?” “You mean the off-road race in Mexico?” “Yeah. Must have seen half a dozen buggies like 46
yours entered in the Mexicali 1000.” “Tell us more.” The laundryman looked pleased. “It starts November first, the day after Halloween, in Mexicali, just over the border. It ends at La Paz, almost a thousand miles down the Baja Peninsula.” Wynn and Lonny talked enthusiastically with Clarence until they were called back inside to work on the sprint cars. But they had learned plenty about the race. The Mexicali 1000 was open to dune buggies, and a special class called Baja Bug included all varieties of rough-road Volkswagens. The boys could run the race together, trading off the navigating and driving chores to conserve energy on the long tough haul down mostly unpaved and unmarked roads. To enter, a contestant had to be sixteen, the bug had to pass a safety inspection, and the racers were required to join the Mexicali Racing Association. The complete trip would take a bug nearly twenty-four hours. Drivers rode all night, crossing the more populated areas of Mexicali and Trinidad and driving into the Baja territory. “That’s for us!” Wynn said. “Let’s sign up.” While dreaming of the 1000, the gophers spent their days preparing race cars. Archie, who had been released by the vet, watched as they worked. In the 47
evening, Crawford allowed them to use his equipment to beef up Beetle Bomb for the rough terrain of the Baja. Each metal joint had to be rewelded and braced, the suspension parts replaced with heavy-duty pieces. When they disassembled the sprint cars for the inspection required by the racing association, Crawford took them to a specialty shop, where they learned how metal fatigue and cracks were detected. The rules, Crawford told them, required that many of the parts be magnafluxed—by a metal x-ray originally designed for aircraft use—to expose hidden defects. The process fascinated the boys. In the magnaflux shop, Lonny watched with keen interest as the parts were coated with a special substance and put under detector lights to illuminate every flaw in the metal, hidden or on the surface. Each spot where a tool had slipped showed blue under the lights. The mechanic proudly showed them a faulty piece he had discovered in a spacecraft part. It seemed like a bolt of blue lightning. “That,” the man said, “could have destroyed a multimillion-dollar space shot.” As the days sped by, Wynn and Lonny became more eager to race, and they brought up the subject time and again with ill-disguised subtlety. Finally Crawford promised to let them compete in a 48
Saturday-night sprint race. To prepare for it, they practiced one afternoon a week on the local track, learning how to sling the car sideways in the corners. Then the big day arrived. In the late afternoon they joined Crawford’s caravan of cars and mechanics in the hour-long trip to Ascot Park in Gardena. After their first practice session under the lights, the pair came into the pits, their arms sore and mudsplattered. “Boy, I couldn’t see anything but brown,” Lonny exclaimed. When Wynn took the car out for a qualifying run, his heart thumped as the push truck started him rolling. If he could only qualify the first time out! He tried to remember all the techniques and drove as fast as possible without racking up. When he finished, Lonny took his qualifying run and came in, grinning with satisfaction. Crawford called them over. “Good news, boys. You are only one second off the pace. Not good enough for the final tonight. But don’t worry. Before long they’ll let you start in one of the racing heats to see if you qualify for a feature race. After that, maybe you’ll make the big one, the trophy dash.” They beamed. “Only one second,” Lonny mused. “Hey, we’re getting good.” “Don’t raise your hopes too high yet, fellows,” 49
Crawford said. “Remember that even though one second doesn’t sound like much, it means hundreds of feet on a race track.” They started to load the sprint car for the trip to the wash when Lonny suddenly grabbed Wynn’s arm. “Don’t look around too fast, but there’s a guy I’d like to meet.” Wynn turned slowly, dropping the wrench he had held in his hand. As he stooped to pick it up, he glanced at the man, who was about to step into a taxi. He was tall, thin, and well dressed. Wynn realized why Lonny wanted to meet him. Through the center of the man’s black hair ran a streak of white! “Get things together quickly, Lonny. We’ve got to follow Jacques Breve!” The man slammed the cab door shut. Wynn quickly arranged for Crawford’s mechanics to take care of the racer, and the two boys followed the taxi in Beetle Bomb. The man was driven to a local motel. He walked briskly into the lobby and disappeared before Wynn and Lonny could reach the desk. “Who was that fellow who just came in?” Wynn asked the clerk. “I didn’t see anyone.” “He’s tall and has a streak of white in his hair.” The clerk shrugged. Disappointed, the boys left. 50
“I have an idea,” Lonny said. “Let’s go back to the car wash. Maybe they know him.” Most of the mechanics were still there when they arrived. The boys spoke with a number of men until they finally had some success. An older man identified their quarry, who was said to be Charlie Jayson, a character to stay clear of. At one time Charlie had been a top driver, but a bad accident in the days before roll bars became legal had caused a head injury. The streak of white hair was one result of that accident. “He’s got a mean streak, too,” the older man said. “I hear he’s not too honest, either.” “Do you know where he lives?” Wynn asked. “No. Matter of fact, I haven’t seen him in a long time.” The boys thanked the mechanic and walked out. “Do you think we ought to get the cops on him now?” Wynn asked. “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Lonny cautioned. “Jayson might not be the only guy with a white streak in his hair.” Wynn nodded. “But we’ve got to check this out somehow. Tomorrow evening we’re not busy. What say we stake out his motel and see if we can tail him?” “Good thought. Now we’d better get back to the garage.” 51
The companions stopped working early the next evening to shadow Jayson. They saw him leave his motel at eight o’clock and walk across the street to a restaurant. They peered through the window to see him slide into a high-backed booth. A man was waiting for him. Hooks Conway! “I don’t believe it!” Lonny whispered. The men shook hands and started to talk. “Come on,” Wynn said. “We’ll get that next booth and eavesdrop.” Partially concealed by a group of departing patrons, the boys slipped into the adjacent booth and listened. Jayson was talking. “It worked and it’ll work again. All we have to do is make a fast buck and move on to Mexico for a while. I’ve got a great new racket starting down there already.” Hooks spoke in a flat tone of voice. “I don’t know, Charlie. You’re the man with the ideas, but I wonder if the same game can work again.” “Sure it can! You take one of those little mountain newspapers that’s always struggling for advertisers. They’ll put it in. I got a list of thirty papers in the Carolinas alone. All you have to do is rent a Post Office box and open a bank account under a fictitious name. When the money comes in, you close the account and we’ll split the take. I’d do it myself but I’ll have to be in Mexico in a week.” 52
As other people walked in, the men lowered their voices, and after a few minutes Jayson left. When he was out of sight, Wynn and Lonny jumped to their feet and confronted Hooks. “Hey! Where’d you guys come from?” he asked. “May we sit down?” Lonny slid into the booth, blocking Hooks. “We haven’t been formally introduced, I believe. Wynn Redford here. My pal’s Lonny Morris. But you could say we’ve already met.” The astonished Hooks was speechless. He looked around the room as if he might spy Inky Larsson lurking for a karate attack. “Why did you bust into our garage?” Wynn shot the question and watched Conway’s face. “Bust into your garage? What do you mean?” Hooks asked with an innocent look. “Okay, skip it. Now, about your friend Charlie Jayson. He’s cheated us out of a bundle. You know what I’m talking about.” “No. I have no idea, eh—” Hooks stumbled. “We answered one of his phony ads!” Lonny said. “Listen, Hooks. Why do you want to get mixed up with such a character? You’re a good engine builder and racer, too. Don’t let Jayson get you into trouble now, or you’ll end your racing career before it begins!” Hooks sat quietly and listened. “Okay, I’ll think it 53
over. Let me out of here now.” He left, and the boys lingered over coffee. “I hope we put our point across,” Lonny said. “Okay. Now let’s get the police,” Wynn said. “We know for sure that Jayson’s our man.” The boys went to the telephone, and in a few minutes a flashing roof light signaled the arrival of a prowl car. They hastened over to it and went into the motel with the officers. Now the clerk was more cooperative. A Mr. Jay, with a white streak in his hair, had been registered. “But he left just a few minutes ago,” the man said. “What address did he give on the registration?” one of the officers asked. The clerk checked. “New York City. No street or number.” “I think you misjudged Hooks,” Wynn said after the police had gone. “My guess is that he ran right over here and warned Jayson!” “You’re probably right,” Lonny admitted glumly.
54
CHAPTER VI
Careless Archie
Putting Hooks and Jayson out of their minds, the two racers concentrated on grooming Beetle Bomb. Early one Friday evening Inky phoned. “What are you hermits doing these days?” she asked. “Fussing with our baby,” Wynn said. “We want to race in the Mexicali 1000.” “Then get baby out on the desert for some exercise,” Inky advised. “What do you mean?” She told them about a practice race area near Las Vegas, which would give them a chance to check out their equipment before the grueling Baja run. “I’m going there tomorrow,” Inky said. “I want to test my new single-seater Sandmaster.” “Are you entering the Baja race, too?” “Sure. Will you come tomorrow?” “Maybe we will.” 55
“All the great off-road drivers will be there, including Parnelli Jones.” Mention of the former Indianapolis champion and reigning king of Baja thrilled Wynn. “Okay,” he said. “See you there.” Lonny shared Wynn’s excitement, especially when he was told about Parnelli Jones. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I never dreamed I’d ever see him race. And now old Beetle Bomb will be on the same road as Parnelli’s Ford Bronco!” The boys told Crawford about their plans. Teddy begged to go along and got permission. He could take care of Archie while he watched the racers. Early the next morning they packed an ice chest full of refreshments, loaded special off-road racing tires into the car, and were on their way by daylight. On the long ride across the desert, they saw an occasional wooden shack with no windows, where some old recluse might have retreated to escape the city life of Los Angeles. Decrepit car hulks sat rusting and sinking, slowly being covered by the wind-driven sand. Although there was some sagebrush and cactus, the wind blew across the desert unhampered, making sanddrifts on the highway and peppering the open buggy with sand. The boys and Teddy wore goggles while they moved through the yellow dust cloud. Blinking, Archie covered his eyes with his paws. 56
At the race site, the boys unloaded their tool box and racing wheels, leaving Teddy to watch their possessions. Archie pulled at his leash, eager to break away and loosen up his limbs in a run across the burning sand. Lonny warned the boy to keep him in tow, because he might disturb the racers that were already on practice runs. The site of the practice session was much like the area they had crossed to get there, except that there was a course marked with pylons to keep the cars traveling safely within bounds. Repeated use had caused the once-flat desert to drift and shape into dunes, giving the drivers a variety of hills and valleys on which to test their cars. Lonny jacked up the buggy and put on the special desert-racing tires marked with a deep tread for traction in the sand. He stacked the four street wheels that he had removed and lifted Teddy on top to give him a better view, handing him the end of Archie’s leash. Other competitors were trying out the course. Buzzing over the dunes, the cars spun out frequently, often tipping up on two wheels as the drivers tried to find the limit of adhesion in the loose sand. Lonny instinctively looked around for emergency vehicles and when he spotted an ambulance and tow truck, he knew they were well covered. 57
At the edge of the track he watched a buggy come over a hill. It was fitted with driving lights that resembled eyes, and the roll cage towered like antennas on a strange insect. All four wheels left the ground, causing the engine to race loudly as the car leaped from the crest of the hill down the side. The wheels moved loosely on the suspension, adjusting the vehicle to the potholes in the course. But the driver and passenger were bounced mercilessly in their seats, even though they were strapped across their laps and shoulders. Both wore bandannas across their mouths for protection from the dust. Lonny called to his partner. “Hey, Wynn. This is what it’s going to be like on the moon in a few years. Buggies everywhere.” The boys climbed aboard Beetle Bomb and buckled their belts. Wynn was in the driver’s seat. They waved at Teddy and took off for a few runs over the dunes. All cars were going in one direction to prevent mishaps in the dust that was now rising and reducing visibility. Wynn noted that it was like moving on a cloud. The dust hung in a pall, completely covering everything 3 feet off the ground. Lonny coughed. “You could run over a cactus here and never see it!” Wynn struggled with the wheel as the buggy hit 58
potholes pounded out by the cars ahead. “Inky had a good idea, though,” he said. “We needed a taste of this!” He grinned and wiped dust off his mouth. “Got to remember to add some items to our list for the Baja—bandannas and good, heavy driving gloves, for instance.” Time and again the steering was wrenched from Wynn’s grip as he sped along, the back end of the buggy fishtailing in the loose sand. He increased his speed to prevent wheelspin and avoid getting stuck. Now the dust was thicker than ever. Suddenly Lonny screamed. “Wynn! Look out! It’s that crazy Archie!” The hound leaped up through the dunes, his leash trailing. Wynn swerved and missed him, but the buggy dropped the left rear wheel into a deep hole, tipped over on the driver’s side, crashed to the sand, and stopped with its wheels turning in the air! Wynn’s body fell against the ground, and Lonny was pressed tightly against him. The seat belts had held fast, and when all was still, Lonny struggled to get out of his harness. While fumbling for the buckles, he heard Wynn moaning. People were surrounding the buggy. Someone lifted Lonny out, and he dropped to his knees beside his partner. “Wynn, where do you hurt?” The injured boy groaned again and looked up at his friend. “My side. Real bad.” 59
While Lonny undid the harness, two men pushed through, carrying a stretcher. They slid Wynn gently onto it and lifted him into the waiting ambulance. Just then Teddy ran up breathlessly with a rope tied to Archie. “I couldn’t help it, Lonny! He got away from me after those crazy road runners!” Teddy stared at the ambulance and was near tears. “I know it wasn’t your fault,” Lonny said. “Don’t worry too much now. Wynn’ll be all right.” The two waited beside the ambulance for word on Wynn while watching the rescue crew right the buggy. It was rolled off the course and back to the starting area so the racers could resume their practice. From a distance it appeared unharmed. Finally the attendant emerged from the ambulance. “Relax. Nothing’s broken,” he told Lonny. “But he’s got some pretty serious bruises on the ribs. We’ll take him back to L. A. for a few days in General Hospital.” Lonny went to the ambulance window and tapped on the glass. Wynn looked up. “Hey buddy. You okay?” “It only hurts when I laugh, and I don’t plan to do much of that for a while. How’s the buggy?” “Looks good as new, but I haven’t checked it over yet. We ought to weld a side brace into the roll cage. If this had happened in rocks instead of sand, 60
both you and Beetle Bomb might have been writeoffs.” The ambulance driver climbed in and started the engine. Lonny waved to Wynn and called out, “See you tonight!” Then he and Teddy went to change the wheels on Beetle Bomb and gather their gear. After a cold lunch, they set off on the return trip. Beetle Bomb, only slightly scratched and dented, was in running order. On the way out Lonny looked around for Inky Larsson but could not spot her. Parnelli Jones was not in sight, either, among the dozens of practicing racers. That evening Lonny checked on Wynn at the hospital. He found him comfortable but somewhat wan. He needed quiet for a few days, but was only bruised. Lonny assured his friend that Beetle Bomb was no worse off than he was, just a few bangs on the paint job that could be repaired by the time Wynn was ready to try again. “Archie’s thoroughly ashamed of himself,” Lonny said, laughing. “He may even give up watching races. Too dangerous.” Lonny had just left the hospital when Inky Larsson popped her head in the door. “How you doing, kid? First you, then the car—in that order.” Inky explained that she had arrived for 61
practice late and had learned of Wynn’s accident from the other drivers. Wynn told her what happened, and Inky said, “You hillbillies are pretty rugged people. But you’ll never win the Baja with your wheels in the air!” Wynn made a face. “Very funny.” To cheer him up, the girl related some tidbits about Baja that she had picked up at the desert course. Finally she said, “Well, I’d better get back to work on my car. Can’t let the competition distract me with their fancy driving techniques.” “Inky, no kidding. I really appreciate your coming by—and the tip on the practice course.” She grinned and patted his hand. “I didn’t figure you’d want to practice turning over, but I guess it takes all kinds.” As she rose to leave, Wynn said, “Stop by the shop next week if you get a minute. I’d like you to see the setup and meet Mr. Crawford.” “Sure will. I’d be very proud to meet him. He’s a respected man here in California. By the way, Wynn, speaking of meeting people. Nancy-Rae sends her best!”
62
CHAPTER VII
Lonny’s Victory
Wynn sat up, wincing from the pain in his side. “Where did you see her?” “At Willow Springs. She talks just like you all.” “Where does she live?” “She didn’t tell me. But she said she might enter a motorcycle in the Baja race. See you.” Inky disappeared down the hospital corridor. Before her footsteps had reached the end of the hall, Wynn had his note pad in his hand and was writing a letter to Bud Eubanks. Wynn knew Bud had been checking the mailbox for some word on her whereabouts every day since they left. In the letter, Wynn assured him he would try to talk to Nancy-Rae after he was out of the hospital. He felt their paths would cross soon. Then he told Bud about their adventures, including being swindled by Jayson. “He’s planning some more 63
phony ads, the kind that suckered Lonny and me,” he wrote. “Be on the lookout for them and send me a copy by air mail, special delivery, as soon as one appears.” Lonny worked on the buggy late the next night in the garage under their apartment. Teddy was at his side constantly, asking questions, washing parts, and polishing. “You’re getting to be good help, Teddy,” Lonny told him. “I think we’d better start counting you in on our crew.” The boy beamed as he scrubbed wheel bearings in a tub of solvent. He had been around his father long enough to know the importance of perfection in racing and the care that must be taken with every auto part. He had talked Crawford into letting him go along to greet the boys in La Paz at the end of the race. The garage door opened. “Well, I never have any trouble finding Teddy these days,” Crawford said cheerfully. “Are you about to make a mechanic out of him, or is he getting in the way?” The boy’s frown changed to a grin as Lonny answered, “He’s topflight, Mr. Crawford. As meticulous and careful as any racing mechanic I’ve ever known. Checking and double checking everything. And he pays attention. All he needs is a little experience.” 64
Crawford patted his son on the head, as the boy scrubbed the shiny metal with an old toothbrush. “Speaking of experience. All my drivers are tied up, testing the sports cars at Willow Springs the next few days. I wonder if you’d like to drive a midget in a rookie race tomorrow. I just bought it and would like to see what you think of it.” At the thought of racing a smaller version of the sprint car, Lonny felt butterflies in the pit of his stomach. “Me drive?” “Why not? You can take it easy and not get in over your head. I want some feedback on the car. We can use the race for a test session. I like my mechanics to drive occasionally.” “Sure. I mean, don’t think I don’t want to try it. And I’ll be careful. I just never thought of myself as a driver. Something about the difference between the nut who turns the wheel and the one who turns the wrenches.” “Suit up tomorrow by six and we’ll go out for practice before the race.” Crawford walked out the door, and Teddy began to jump around. “Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy!” “Hold it, kid. Don’t get too excited yet. Your dad will put me out to pasture if I run his car into the wall. I can get a bolt on straight, but right now I’m not so sure about my head.” 65
The next evening, under the lights of Ascot Park, Lonny took the car out for a few warm-up laps. He let it out a little more each time, like a frisky colt, as he adjusted to the wheels sliding in the mud in the turns. When he threw the front wheels sideways, the car slowed and side-slipped through the turns. Nick Warren instructed him carefully during each break period. “Gradually throw the car sideways and slide it hard. That’ll scrub off more speed and you’ll be able to go down the straights faster. I want you to get the feel of everything first. Then we’ll see how you do when the traffic gets tighter out there.” After his qualifying run, Lonny found that he had placed in the center of the pack. His head throbbed from concentration and the alcohol fumes that filled his nostrils. After the push start, he moved around the track in the group and realized for the first time that he could not hear his own engine over the roar. He felt propelled and moved in rhythm with the other cars through the turns as they attempted to line up for the green flag. The helmet was closed tight around his ears, and his shield was becoming speckled with mud from the wheels of his own car and those in front of him. Crawford had rigged a stack of tear-off shields for his goggles that could be snatched free on the straightaway when visibility dimmed. 66
The midget pounded up and down as the speedsters roughed up the track, and it seemed to surge forward in spurts as it reacted to the potholes. The green flag was in the starter’s hands as Lonny came around the turn before the straight. The roar of the engines rose. It was going to be a start! When the flag dropped, Lonny put his foot to the floor, and his car lunged with the pack. In the first turn, he moved past two other drivers and took the high line through the turn. But one of the cars passed him again on the exit. After the first lap, he realized that the speed and concentration at the moment would be too great for him to see the pitboard in Teddy’s hand, indicating his position. He could think of nothing but the track in front and the cars beside him. The race instantly narrowed down to a fight between Lonny and whoever happened to run alongside. It didn’t matter whether they were racing for the first or last place. The competition felt the same. As Lonny approached the first turn on the fifth lap, he saw a car ahead of him go sideways—too far sideways—and the number flashed in his face as it spun around, once, twice. He moved low to the apron, clearing the spinning car. The yellow flag was out, indicating no passing. All contestants had to hold their positions until the vehicle was restarted. 67
The deafening noise and rising fumes subsided briefly while the midgets moved slowly, maintaining their positions. Lonny passed the pits, and now he could see Teddy. A five was on the board! Impossible! How could he be in fifth place after passing only one car? Lonny looked in the pit lane and saw a row of steaming midgets. There was his answer. Many of the front runners had dropped out! The green flag waved again and they were off once more. Traffic grew sparser as the number of competitors decreased. Lonny pulled away a tear-off goggle shield, and everything became brighter. This time, as he passed the car in front, he held his position coming out of the turn. He started a mental count. Fourth. If Teddy was right, he was fourth. As he passed the pits, the row of boards was now visible. L-4—four laps to go. Lonny counted them as the leaders pulled far ahead. He drove hard, feeling the heat of the man behind him trying to regain his lost position. Then it happened. The lead car spun. The other two slowed to go around, and Lonny found himself sailing through a hole between the sprawling competitors. It was almost as if he could hear the nerf bars on the side scraping as he sprang into the clear. One rear wheel touched another midget slightly, but he controlled the bobble by putting his foot on 68
the throttle. As he emerged from the last turn and looked into the starter’s box, he saw the checkered flag folded in the man’s hand. He waved it, snapping it above Lonny’s head. The boy thought he heard a cheer, but he wasn’t sure. Had he won? Was he the first to get the flag? His head was too full to think clearly. Lonny pulled into the pits and saw Crawford running up to him. “Hey buddy, don’t come in here,” his boss shouted. “They have a special place for the winner.” “You’ve got to be kidding!” “No, sir. You won it. Get over to the victory circle and kiss the race queen.” With a chuckle, Crawford added, “I thought I told you this was just to be a test session.” Stunned, Lonny climbed out of the midget, and it was pushed to the winner’s circle. Teddy ran up to him, squealing. “Maybe you shouldn’t spend all your time being a mechanic, huh?” “That’s what I say.” Lonny turned to the speaker. He was the owner of the car that had run first and spun on the last lap. “I’m looking for a driver who can keep it all going in the right direction,” he continued. “Are you interested?” “A driver? Me? No thanks. I mean I know I’m a driver. Well, sort of. But I work for Mr. Crawford, and that’s where I want to stay.” 69
A pretty girl presented him with a silver cup, and the kiss she planted on his grimy cheek made Lonny show pink through the dirt. Teddy grinned as they walked back to the pits, where Crawford shook the winner’s hand. “A guy tried to hire him already, Daddy,” Teddy reported. “But he wouldn’t go.” “If you want more driving time, Lonny, maybe you should take it,” Crawford said kindly. “I have to stick to contracts with my drivers for the rest of the season and can’t guarantee you much—” “I like it where I am, Mr. Crawford,” Lonny said. “Today I just had a lucky break. But I’ve got a lot to learn and I think you’re the person to teach me.” Crawford patted him on the shoulder. The next day, at the hospital, Lonny told Wynn of his victory. “Great going, old buddy,” the patient said. “I can’t believe how much I’ve missed in just a few days. I’ll admit it, Lonny, I’m jealous. I’ve got to get out of this place. No medicine in the world would be better for me now than a little action.” As he spoke, an interne entered the room. “Hi, Dr. Kildare,” Wynn said. “Meet my friend Lonny.” The physician smiled and shook hands. “Another auto racer?” “Yes. But not an amateur like me. He won the 70
rookie race at Ascot.” “And came out in one piece, I see. Well, let’s look you over, Joe Crashcog.” The doctor swung the curtain around Wynn’s bed, and Lonny waited for the verdict. In a few minutes the curtain hissed open again. “How’s he doing, Doc?” Lonny asked. “Fine. Want to take him home?” “Sure. When?” “Tomorrow morning. Between ten and eleven.” “What beautiful words!” Wynn said. “Listen, Lonny. Let’s mosey down to Baja for a look-see and a little relaxation.” The doctor gave him a sidelong look, and Wynn laughed. “Don’t worry, Doc. It’s all in the interest of racing.” Just then, Inky came in and heard their plan. She wanted to go along. “In Wynn’s condition,” she quipped, “he needs a racing nurse to look after him.” By the end of the week, the friends were packed and on their way south. Wynn had fully recovered, and the carefree trio drove happily through the teeming border town of Mexicali. Streets were jammed with honking cars, and every inch of space was filled with wriggling humanity. They stopped in a restaurant for enchiladas to escape the crowds and to eat real Mexican food. 71
Over a platter of sopapias, Inky said, “I forgot to tell you before, but I hope you guys know about the entry fee for the Mexicali 1000. It almost floored me when I found out. Three hundred dollars per car.” “Three hundred dollars!” Lonny exclaimed. “Oh, no!” Wynn said. “I feel like a dunce. We were thinking so much about the car that we didn’t bother to ask about the fee.” Inky nodded. “I cleaned out my savings account,” she said. She pulled a cooling mouthful of Coke through her straw and glanced up at an approaching figure. “Señores and Señorita,” a husky man with a mustache said, towering over their table. “I am Señor Gavilan and could not help but overhear your conversation. If you need money, I can help you!”
72
CHAPTER VIII
Baja Adventure
“How can you help us?” Wynn asked the smiling stranger. “By giving you a chance to make big money,” he replied. Inky wrinkled her nose in an expression of distrust. “I’ll give you five seconds to name ten honest ways to make big money,” she said curtly. The Mexican looked confused for the moment. Lonny asked, “What do you want us to do?” “I need someone to drive for me a big truck up from La Paz. I am getting old. My back, it cannot take the rough roads.” Inky’s nose wrinkled again. The man did not look much over forty. “What’s in the truck?” she asked. “Contraband?” “Oh no, no!” said Señor Gavilan. “You do not cross the border. I just want you to drive the truck to 73
Mexicali.” “Marijuana?” Inky asked quickly. Señor Gavilan laughed nervously. “The señorita is a very suspicious person. There are many ways to fill trucks that are not illegal. This will bring pleasure to many little children. It is a load of animals collected in the Baja territory for the zoo in Mexicali.” Inky’s face softened a little, and he added quickly, “I will pay you seven hundred dollars.” “Seven hundred?” Wynn asked. “For driving a truck a thousand miles? Why don’t you get a professional trucker for the job?” “I have tried,” Gavilan replied. “But the few who are available say it is too hard work. I overheard you say that you are auto racers. What better could I hire?” “He’s probably right,” Lonny said. “It takes a lot of driving experience to horse a truck over the worst roads in North America.” Wynn said, “We’ll talk it over, Señor Gavilan, and give you an answer in a few minutes.” The man smiled and went to the bar. Inky watched him light a cigarette and say something to the bartender. “What do you think, Inky?” Lonny asked. “You don’t trust the guy, do you?” “Not completely. On the other hand, seven 74
hundred dollars would cover your entrance fee and we could consider the trip a prerun for the Baja. The best route to go is over the course laid out for the race. I’ve been there once before with my father and know the area a little.” “That’s right,” Lonny said, getting excited. “And we could make a set of navigational notes. You know, like, ‘bridge out, water here, boulder there.’ Then we’d know what to expect up ahead.” “It can’t hurt to see the area at a casual pace anyway,” Wynn added. “I understand Baja is a fascinating place to explore.” “If Mr. Crawford will let us off for a few days, I’m for the job,” Lonny declared. “Okay with me,” Inky said. “What have we got to lose?” Lonny nodded and beckoned to Señor Gavilan. The boys told him of their decision. “Bueno! Gracias!” the Mexican said, as he pulled up a chair. Then, taking out pen and paper, he drew a map, showing them where to find the truck in La Paz. On their return, they were to bring it to this restaurant. “What about the money?” Inky asked. “How and where do we get it?” Señor Gavilan showed his teeth in a big smile and nudged Lonny with his elbow. “Women,” he said jokingly. “They always look to 75
the money. You will receive three hundred-fifty at La Paz, and the rest when you deliver the shipment. Saben?” “Okay,” Wynn said. “When shall we start?” “Monday. And don’t bother with the check.” He motioned to the waiter and spoke rapidly in Spanish. The waiter nodded, and Inky said something in Spanish. Gavilan smiled, waved, and left. “Hey, we didn’t know you could speak that lingo,” Wynn said. “What’d you tell him?” “Just thanked him for his generosity,” Inky said. “And told him I expect him to be on the level!” On the way back to Mr. Crawford’s house in Los Angeles, the boys discussed their new adventure. As soon as they arrived, they asked their boss for a few days off. He was eager for them to make the prerun, and Teddy thought it would be great fun. But like Inky, Crawford was not altogether sure that the deal was honest. He told them about some gold mines that he once owned in Baja. According to the natives, they had mysteriously stopped producing. After a trip across the border to check on this, he found that gold had been mined, but there was no record of its shipment. “Who was responsible for the theft?” Lonny asked. “Bandits, or gangsters, I suppose you’d call 76
them.” Crawford frowned. “I hired an investigator, who uncovered the information and got shot at while doing his job. He learned that there are several competing bandit gangs in Baja that operate with impunity.” Inky said, “I’ve read that the natives are vulnerable to outsiders because they are unaware of the wealth of their country. For years they’ve been victimized by opportunists, often never knowing they’ve been hoodwinked.” “That’s true,” Crawford said. “Let me tell you about Scammon, the whaler. There’s an inlet in Baja named Scammon’s Lagoon, after the scoundrel. He used to bring in his boats and kill the mother whales when they stopped off in the quiet waters to give birth to their young. He nearly caused the extinction of the California blue whale.” “What a pity,” Inky said sadly. “But there’re more whales now,” Teddy reassured her. “Last year Daddy and I went out in a boat and watched them pass the California coast on the way south.” They chatted until late that night, Crawford and Inky exchanging Baja stories, until she had to leave. “We’ll set off tomorrow,” Wynn said. “You can leave your car here.” Crawford supplied the boys with maps, warning that after they went from the Baja state into the Baja 77
territory at El Arco, the roads were not marked. “It’s not unusual,” he said, “for a bridge to be washed out and no signs posted. So be careful.” Early the next morning, Inky arrived at the boys’ place just as Lonny was lifting an extra can of gasoline into Beetle Bomb. “You have another container or two?” she asked, tossing her duffel bag on board. “What for?” Wynn asked. “Water. We should have two five-gallon cans.” Wynn wondered why, but decided not to ask. Inky usually knew what she was doing. He filled two cans and added them to the load the car had to carry to La Paz. When all was ready, Inky and Archie squeezed into the back. “I guess Archie and I will have to take turns sitting on each other’s laps,” Inky said. “There’s just not enough room!” They waved to Crawford and set out. On the way, they obtained Mexican tourist cards and proceeded from San Diego over the border into Tijuana. The travelers were amazed at the similarity of Tijuana and Mexicali. As soon as Beetle Bomb passed through the gates into the town, they seemed to move back in time. Cars were suddenly ten years older, and most of the streets were not paved. Many of the merchants carried their wares on burros. Archie yelped when Beetle Bomb’s wheels 78
dropped into an unmarked pothole, but Wynn expertly dodged through the traffic and around jaywalking pedestrians who ignored automobiles. Some new buildings were sandwiched between old, dilapidated structures. Peddlers ran beside the car, trying to sell pottery, shiny birdbaths with squares of mirrors embedded in their surfaces, and upholstery fabrics. “Make your car look like a million bucks!” a young Mexican boy called. “Put leopard-skin covers on seats. Look like real.” “No thanks,” Lonny said. “Our buggy isn’t that ferocious.” They passed by the cardboard city of the Tijuana poor in the river bottom, houses pieced together with boxes and scraps of junked autos.. Children ran from the hovels to polish Beetle Bomb with their shirts and begged for coins. Inky handed them candy, pencils, and pads she had brought along. “I was told to give them little presents,” she said. “If you give money, it’ll be taken away from them.” Almost immediately they reached the edge of the city and were moving down the beautiful Baja coast. Overpopulated Tijuana seemed to lean against the border, waiting for a chance to pop into the United States, while the rocky beaches remained empty. The sky was filled with gulls and pelicans, and the waves flashed clearly as they broke against the 79
cliffs. “Look at that water!” Lonny said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen an ocean that clear.” “You’re telling me,” Wynn said. “I think we’re getting a lesson on the pitfalls of progress.” “What a shame,” Inky added. “The choices seem to be to live in a cardboard box and have a beautiful ocean that you never have time to swim in, or to live in plenty in a place where the sea looks like an oil slick.” “I wish there were an in-between,” Lonny said wistfully. “Let’s quit philosophizing,” Wynn said, “and go for a swim.” He pulled Beetle Bomb to the side of the road, and they scrambled down the hill to the water. The shore was covered with egg-shaped rocks worn smooth by the surf. “I’ve heard about walking on eggs,” Inky said. “Now I know what it means!” She picked up a rock and tossed it into the waves. Archie bounded after it, looking perplexed when it disappeared. Using some brush for cover, they quickly changed into their swimsuits and plunged into the cool blue surf. Inky swam out and the boys followed. Soon all three were rollicking in the Pacific, with Archie joining the fun. Half an hour later, they were on their way again. Wynn drove past the dock city of Ensenada and 80
went deeper into Baja, through fields of bright-red chili peppers, until the road ended, giving way to a dirt trail. As the sea wind freshened, it blew clouds of dust over everything. Suddenly Wynn felt the wheels sink into loose sand, and up ahead he dimly saw the thin outline of a stone railing. He pushed hard on the brake, and at the same time Inky cried out, “Careful, Wynn! A bridge is out!” Now he saw it, too. All that was left of the wooden span was some rickety 3-foot-wide planking over a deep arroyo. “Hold on!” Wynn swerved down the bank onto the rock-covered dry bed and came to a jolting stop. They all sat quietly for a few minutes before Inky said, “Nice driving, Wynn.” “Oh yes? I think I’ll resign before we all get killed.” “It’s not your fault,” Lonny said as they got out. The sun had nearly settled on the western horizon by the time Beetle Bomb had been pushed, tugged, and hauled out of the arroyo. “At least the old buggy’s still purring,” Lonny said. “Want to drive a spell, Inky?” “Okay. You read the map.” As it grew dark, Wynn said, “We’d better hit the next station for a fill-up. So far as I can tell by the 81
map, it’s the last public station. From now on we’ll have to get our gas from the ranches.” It took three days of jouncing, choking on dust, and baking in the copper sun before they arrived at La Paz. Their skin was bronzed, eyes bloodshot, and hands blistered. “Oh, boy,” Wynn said. “I’ve got lots of respect for the race drivers who can make this trip in twenty-four hours!” “Fellows, I don’t mind telling you,” Inky said, “that I’m ready for a little civilization. A hot bath, a good dinner, and eight hours of sleep will do me fine. And with a bit of luck, the truck we drive back will be air-conditioned and I can watch you eating dust in Beetle Bomb.” “Amen,” Lonny said. “Let’s pick up the truck, collect our money, and find a hotel for the night.” Following Gavilan’s directions, the trio drove through the dingy streets to the spot where the truck was located. Off to the side of a sweltering plaza, partially shaded by a stunted tree, stood a parked vehicle. “That can’t be it!” Inky said. “The saints help us if it is!” They parked, put Archie on a leash, and walked slowly to the truck. It leaned over to one side, the springs broken and rusted. The left front tire was almost flat and the windshield was cracked, held 82
together with adhesive tape. The driver’s door was tied shut with a rope. There was no door on the passenger’s side. The trio stood there silently until Archie began to bark at the noises coming from the back of the truck. “Let’s look at our cargo,” Lonny said dejectedly. “If the animals are anything like the truck, they’re a pretty moth-eaten lot.” He went to the back, twisted an iron latch, and peered inside the smelly interior. “What’s in there?” Inky asked. “Bobcats?” “Good grief, no!” Lonny said. “Turtles! Giant sea turtles!”
83
CHAPTER IX
Contraband Turtles
Wynn and Inky peered at the cargo of giant turtles, while the barnacle-backed reptiles climbed atop one another. Two had rolled over, and their pink, green, and orange feet were waving in the air. While the Americans watched in amazement, a man walked up behind them. Archie barked sharply, causing them to snap around and look at the fellow. He was tall and gaunt, with a cadaverous face and drooping black mustache. “Buenos dias,” he said, bowing slightly. “My name is Carlos Chevez. You are the ones who have come to deliver the turtles?” “Yes sir. I guess we are,” Lonny said. “Are you sure this heap can make the trip back up the Baja?” “Si, si. It is very good, señor. Do not worry. The roads in Mexico make a truck look old very soon.” He patted the battered vehicle. “Good. Never break 84
down.” Lonny looked at his companions. “I suppose these roads could age anything. But I guess we’re committed.” “Where did the turtles come from?” Inky questioned. “Very near La Paz, there are a great abundance of sea turtles,” Chevez said. “Fishermen complain they get into the nets and cause damage.” The girl was not to be put off that easily. “Sea turtles are an endangered species,” she started. “Like the whale and the pelican.” “Maybe in the United States, señorita, there are not many. But here we have more turtles than people.” The mustache rose in a patronizing smile. “I thought it was illegal to capture them,” Wynn pressed on. “Oh, no. That is not true. The police are very glad we capture them. But we are not to eat them in soup any more. It is allowed to take them to the zoo. These are for Mexicali.” “All right,” Lonny said finally. “Where’s the cash?” As agreed earlier, Chevez gave him $350, bowed unctuously, and recommended what he called a good hotel. Lonny drove the truck, and the others followed in the buggy. The hotel faced the water and was 85
surrounded by palm trees, giving the place a pleasant ambiance. The travelers looked out over the bay, where sailboats floated like moths on the blue water. Inky noted there were porpoises at play in the wake of a ferryboat headed toward the Mexican mainland. White gulls cried behind the boat, diving for the flashing fish churned up by the propellers. On the masts of the sailboats rocking at anchor sat a flock of birds, the now rare pelican seemingly in abundance. “Maybe old Carlos was right,” Inky said. “I’ve never seen so many pelicans in one place. Look at them riding the draft of the waves!” “You’ll never get a hot bath, looking at birds,” Wynn said. “Come on in and register.” The lobby, furnished with dark mission-style chairs and desk, was decorated with portraits of bemedaled Mexican patriots. Beneath the largest picture, a general mounted on a white horse, was the reception desk, behind which stood a pale pimplefaced youth. After assigning the visitors two rooms on the second floor, he gave them the keys and said, “Buenos noches.” “Same to you,” Wynn replied, and they climbed the stairs. The boys found their quarters first. Inky headed for her room farther down the hall, but before Lonny 86
could unlock the door, she screamed in fright. “What’s happened?” Wynn asked. They ran to Inky’s assistance, only to find her staring through an open door. “I knew we weren’t checking into the Ritz,” she said, “but I didn’t expect to find my room occupied.” “Occupied?” Lonny glanced around the seemingly empty room. “Look on the floor!” Inky said. It was alive with roaches that were running under the beds and into the chest of drawers. Wynn chuckled. “They won’t bite you.” “I’ll have to take your word for it,” Inky said doubtfully and went inside. Later the three met for dinner, scrubbed and refreshed in clean jeans and shirts. Inky had pulled her hair into a ponytail away from her sunburned face and looked feminine, which the boys approved in secret nods. After a good meal, shared with Archie, they walked along the bay, then tied the dog to Beetle Bomb’s steering post for sentry duty. “Yap if anybody tries to cart off the buggy,” Lonny instructed him. He patted the dog’s head, and the trio retired for the night, hoping for a good refreshing sleep. Wynn and Lonny put their knapsacks on the chest of drawers, hoping the roaches wouldn’t crawl inside. Both fell asleep to 87
the clicking sounds of the bugs scurrying across the floor. At about two o’clock in the morning, Archie suddenly began to bay. The boys sat bolt upright. “What do you think it is, Lonny?” “Don’t know. Let’s look.” They hurried to their balcony and saw the dark figure of a man running down the street. “Good work, Archie,” Lonny called. “Hang in there, old boy. We’re coming right down.” The two raced to the street and checked the car with flashlights. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. “Maybe just a nosy native,” Wynn suggested. “Or a burglar who got chased off by Archie.” Over breakfast the next morning, Lonny said what everyone had been thinking. “You know, I’m beginning to feel this trip is worth double what we’re getting for it.” “I don’t like it at all,” Inky said. “It gives me a funny feeling.” After they had paid their hotel bill, the threesome started for the next gas station, where they fueled up, changed the oil, and checked the truck’s tires. Lonny opened the hood and shook his head. “This thing looks like an explosion in a spaghetti factory!” he said, frowning at the tangle of patched wires. 88
He worked on it for a while, exchanging parts and checking performance. Finally he said, “That’s all I can do without replacing the whole motor. Hope it’ll work.” They started out in the soft morning air. Wynn and Inky drove the first leg in the truck, while Lonny and the dog brought up the rear in the buggy. But Lonny’s hopes were soon shattered. After only 30 miles out, the old vehicle sputtered to a halt. All around a desolate desert glistened. Tropical La Paz lay far behind. Lonny lifted the hood to look into the mechanical nightmare that would have to transport them and the turtles back to Mexicali. It would not stay open, and Wynn climbed on the fender and used a sturdy branch for a prop. “What do you think the trouble is?” Inky asked. “There are probably fifteen things wrong with it. The question is which one of them made it stop running.” Lonny examined the wiring, searching for a break in the electrical system. He checked until he discovered the problem. “The coil wire,” he said finally. “And there’s a crack in the distributor cap. This engine looks like a pre-World War II model. I’m afraid it’s back to La Paz for parts, and we’ll be lucky to find any. Do you mind staying here alone, Inky?” 89
“Not at all. Bring back an ice-cream soda.” After several hours of searching in La Paz through all the junked cars they could find, Wynn and Lonny gathered a collection of parts that might repair the truck and serve as spares for the rest of the trip. When the boys returned, they saw Inky waving from the top of the old vehicle. “I was afraid you wouldn’t see me and might go right by. I haven’t spied a single soul. Just that buzzard that keeps circling overhead. Do you think one of the turtles is dead?” “Golly, I hope not,” Wynn said. He climbed inside, crawling over the shells that sat like boulders. The turtles had all retreated inside their armor. “There’s some movement in all of them when I poke,” Wynn reported. “In fact, I think these fellows are better off than we are, with a shell to hide in.” “You can say that again,” Inky added. “The top of my head feels like a fried egg, and poor old Archie hasn’t had his tongue inside his mouth since we left La Paz.” Lonny worked on the truck for some time, with Wynn handing him parts over the giant fenders. “Okay,” he called finally. “Crank it up. I think I’ve got it.” Wynn turned over the starter and the truck rumbled to life, blowing out a cloud of fresh smoke 90
that settled to the ground in the dry air. Soon the caravan was on the road again, inching toward Villa Constitución. When they arrived at the first settlement, made up of a few scattered mud shacks and ranches, a Pe Mex service station appeared ahead. Wynn stopped to get gas. But when he pulled up to a pump, the attendant surprised them by running down the street. “I guess we’d better wait,” Lonny said. “This is the last gas stop for a long way. Wonder what got into that guy.” The man returned shortly with a tall darkishblond Mexican police officer. “Oh, oh,” Inky said. “More trouble.” Speaking Spanish slowly enough for the girl to understand, the policeman ordered them to line up beside the truck. Inky noticed that one of his eyes had a long, horizontal pupil, like the eye of a cat. “You are under arrest,” he said. Inky translated for the boys and asked, “What for?” “Contraband turtles.” “These are not contraband. We are delivering them to the zoo in Mexicali.” The policeman and attendant began to laugh. “A zoo? There is no zoo in Mexicali,” the officer told them. “That is an old story. You expect us to fall for it?” “No, I suppose not,” Inky mumbled. “You have 91
to be as dumb as we are to fall for it.” She related the conversation to the boys. The policeman would put them in jail unless they paid a fine. It was $350. “I wonder if that’s the standing rate for driving a load of turtles,” Inky said bitterly to her partners. “There seems to be a plan afoot to keep the money in Mexico.” To the officer she said, “All right. We’ll pay it.” Lonny gave him the cash. Before they were allowed to continue, the policeman searched through their belongings, even probing around Beetle Bomb’s underside. He grinned and gave a limp salute as they drove off. No one felt like talking. All their hard work was lost. “I’m surprised he let us keep the turtles,” Wynn muttered. Inky studied the log she had prepared carefully on the way down, listing all the bad spots. Suddenly she asked Wynn to stop. Lonny and Archie pulled in behind. “What now?” Lonny asked anxiously. “Follow me, comrades!” The boys walked to the side of the road behind Inky. Suddenly a grin spread over her sunburned face. “Right here,” she said. “Dig a big hole for me right here!” 92
CHAPTER X
Cactus Ghosts
Wynn got his camping shovel, scraped away some gravel on the surface, and began digging in the hardpacked sandy soil. Lonny said, “Do you expect to find gold here, or are you going to bury a dead body?” “No questions till it’s two-feet deep,” Inky said, and she hunkered down beside the pile of dirt. In a while she added, “Okay, Wynn, that’s enough.” The boy dropped the shovel and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Now what?” “Lon,” Inky said, “get those two five-gallon cans of water, pronto!” “So that’s it!” Wynn grinned. “Caching a supply of water for future use. That’s using your little blond head, Inky.” Lonny lugged the shiny tins from Beetle Bomb and placed them side-by-side in the hole. 93
“Rest in peace,” the girl said impishly as Wynn covered them over with the loose earth. Inky marked the location on her map. It was near an outcrop of smooth marble rock, not far from a cluster of mud and stick shacks. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, the truck chugging along the rocky road. As the sun began to set, they stopped to view the giant cardon cactus that grows only in Baja. Inky showed them how to judge its massive height by comparing the length of its shadow with one’s own. After a supper of sandwiches and fruit, the weary travelers camped in a small clearing in the middle of some rabbit brush and cactus. The velvet-black sky was thickly spotted with stars and a thin sliver of the moon. For a while they lay in their sleeping bags and chatted. “Boy, I see stars I didn’t even know existed,” Wynn said. He pointed out the drinking gourd, or Big Dipper, that slaves had used to find their way north before the emancipation. “I thought you were close to the sky in the mountains but I’ve never seen anything like this.” A soft breeze came up, bearing the fresh salt scent of the ocean. “How close are we to the water, Inky?” Wynn asked. “Couldn’t say exactly,” Inky answered. “The road gets closer at some places than at others. Where the 94
peninsula is narrow, the tide comes in pretty far. Sometimes the Baja cars have to plan their route with the tide so as not to sink.” Lonny said, “How far are we from where old Scammon the whaler trapped his prey?” “Not very. In fact, his ships were discovered from the desert, not from the sea. His masts were sighted from just about here.” “Tomorrow,” Lonny said drowsily, “we should take time off for beachcombing. Maybe we’ll find a treasure.” “That wouldn’t be hard to take,” Wynn said. “I’m nearly flat broke.” “I’ve an idea,” Inky said. “Let’s go to the police and deliver Señor Gavilan’s cargo. Maybe they’ll give us a reward.” Lonny shook his head. “After thinking about it, I don’t believe those turtles are contraband. The cop would have kept them.” “You mean the policeman was not a policeman at all?” Wynn asked. “I think he was a crook who posed as a cop to line his pockets.” Inky nodded. “I’m with you. As a matter of fact, I feel like letting the whole bunch of turtles loose in Scammon’s lagoon!” “Now, would that be honest?” Wynn asked her. “We promised to take them to Mexicali.” 95
Silence finally blanketed the campers as one-byone they fell asleep. Some time later, Wynn was wakened by a sound. Was it Lonny’s gentle snoring? The boy sat up and looked around. Then he saw them. Six, eight, ten figures. They seemed to be moving toward the campers. But Archie lay strangely quiet. Wynn roused his companions. “Lonny, Inky I Do you see what I see? We’re surrounded!” “There must be a dozen of them,” Lonny noted with alarm. “What could they want? We don’t have anything left but that rattletrap truck and a dozen turtles!” “And I’d fight for Beetle Bomb with my life!” Wynn said. He crouched and clenched his fists. The tension snapped like an elastic band when Inky started to giggle. She jumped from her sleeping bag, picked up a stick, and pitched it at the lead figure. It hit with a thump and Archie raced off to retrieve it. He dropped the stick beside Inky and wagged his tail. The strangers in the dark did not move. “Good grief!” Wynn said. “What are they?” “Ghosts,” their companion replied. “Big dumb cactus ghosts. Under the moonlight they seem to take on the shapes of people. Back to sleep, fellows!” 96
The boys felt silly and admitted it. Inky yawned. “Forget it. You’re not the first tender-feet to be fooled. Good night.” How long he had been sleeping Lonny did not know. When he opened his eyes the sky had lost some of its blackness and the stars looked dim. Archie stirred and whined. “Maybe a pack rat woke us,” Lonny thought. His eyes scanned the desert and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Lights!” Small lights flickered in the distance. They appeared to be coming closer. Was this another desert illusion? He waited a few minutes to give his sleepy brain time to clear. The lights approached faster, and Archie howled. The other two awakened sharply. “More ghosts?” Wynn asked. “Real ones this time, I’m afraid,” Lonny said. Inky rubbed her eyes in disbelief. The sky turned pale with the dawn, and now they could see the ghosts. Someone carrying candles. They winked out one at a time, and small people emerged. They were children, seven of them, with ragged clothes, spindly legs, and huge brown eyes. The youngsters approached quietly, with hands held out. They begged more shyly than the waifs at Tijuana. “Oh, those poor little dears,” Inky said. “They must live in those shacks over there on the hillside.” 97
A tiny girl stepped forward and smiled at Inky. She spoke a few words very softly. “Her name is Carmelita and she’s hungry,” Inky said. She spoke Spanish with the children for a while, then turned to the boys. “Rustle up all your spare coins, fellows, while I give these little urchins some of our food.” When the children had eaten most of the fruit and all the sandwiches, a woman called from the distance. Inky cupped her hands and shouted that she should not worry. The children were no trouble. The woman approached, smiling, and Carmelita gave her the coins in her brown fist. The boys listened to the women speaking. Inky knew how to make friends! The natives said grateful good-bys and trudged back through the cactus toward their home. The young racers set off in good spirits. They had helped some poor people and looked forward to collecting the balance of their fee from Gavilan. “Maybe he’ll even give us the three-hundred andfifty we got gypped out of on the way,” Inky said with a twinkle. “Dream on, fair lady,” Wynn said. Finally Mexicali loomed ahead like a blob on the landscape. The caravan pulled through the crowded streets, with the boys in the truck and Inky driving the buggy. Archie nuzzled his head on her lap. 98
When they reached the restaurant, parched from the long drive, Lonny ordered Cokes. The waiter looked at them strangely and hurried to the telephone on the wall beside the bar. Five minutes later Señor Gavilan arrived in the company of a policeman. Neither was smiling. “They’re the ones,” Gavilan said loudly, and pointed. “They’re the ones who stole my truck!”
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CHAPTER XI
Tricked!
Lonny and Wynn looked stunned at the accusation, while Inky’s eyes flashed and her chin thrust forward. “What do you mean stole your truck?” she said hotly. “You hired us to drive to La Paz and pick up a load of turtles!” “Young lady,” the policeman said, “Senor Gavilan is not in possession of the turtles. They belong to these young men, who were driving the stolen truck!” “That’s a lie!” Wynn said. “And hand over the money you owe us!” Lonny stormed. “Officer, we have heard enough, do you not think?” their accuser said with a sneer. The policeman nodded. “Come with me!” he ordered the Americans. 100
“I demand to see the United States Consul,” Wynn declared. “Demand? Are you not aware that you are addressing an officer of the law? I can put you in jail here, and your fancy lawyers will not be able to get you out until you are a very old man. This is not the United States, you know!” Wynn hushed and Lonny spoke up, trying to reason with the policeman. “If we return the truck to Señor Gavilan and plan to leave Mexico, what’s the next step? Are you saying that we are under arrest?” The officer looked at Gavilan. “I suppose it is up to this gentleman to press charges.” Gavilan’s face was thoughtful. “Well, considering the age of the culprits, why don’t we let them off with a warning?” “You can bet we’ll be wiser!” Inky said. “Easy does it,” Lonny said quietly. “Let’s get out of this place first.” But the girl’s wrath colored her pretty face. “Our friend here has found the perfect way to cheat us out of the whole seven hundred dollars. He has a miserable job and finds some bright-eyed kids to do it. Then he stations thugs along the way to make sure they don’t even get to keep their down payment!” “Thugs?” Gavilan glanced at the policeman. “What do you mean by that?” 101
“Oh, forget it!” Inky said in disgust. Wynn pressed hard to get her off the subject. No use to antagonize the cheat any longer. “Are we free to go now?” he asked. “Yes. But you have only twenty-four hours to get out of Mexico,” the officer said. “Don’t worry about that,” Lonny said. “Well set a record driving to the border!” Gavilan walked with them to the buggy, where Archie sat guard. Seeing the Mexican, the dog gave a low rumbling growl. “Archie’s a good judge of character,” Lonny said under his breath. They got in and drove off, still angered by the injustice. “Boy, we’ve been royally flimflammed!” Wynn grumbled. “I feel like a dummy. Thank goodness you were along, or I’d be convinced I’m completely crazy.” “Cool it,” Lonny said, “and pay attention to your driving. If we get a ticket now, we’re sunk!” At the border station, they stopped to report the incident to the American authorities. The officer with whom they spoke took them to a private office. “I’m glad you’re back safely,” he said, concern in his voice. “You might have gotten into serious trouble. Gavilan is one of the most dangerous men in Mexico. That name, by the way, is one of several 102
aliases. He is a smuggler and a killer!” Wynn let out a low whistle. “We have no authority to control his activities,” the man went on, “unless we catch him on this side of the border.” “I guess we were lucky,” Lonny said. The man smiled. “You learned a lesson. Be careful of strangers.” “That’s what my mother used to tell me,” Inky said. Then she added seriously, “What about those poor turtles?” “We’ll alert our men in Mexicali to prevent their transport across the border.” “I wish,” said Inky, “we had set every one of them free in Scammon’s Lagoon!” When they left the station, Wynn bent over and pulled off a boot. “A little trick Bud Eubanks taught me,” he said, unfolding a twenty-dollar bill. “At least we have gas money back to Los Angeles. And if there’s no objection, I’d like to stop for a hamburger.” They found a place close by, left Archie on guard in front of the glass door, and went into the shiny eatery. The aroma of broiling beef made their mouths water. “Good old U. S.! Home sweet home!” Lonny said, as they found seats in a booth. Inky did not share his exuberance. She sat quietly 103
and let the boys order for her. When double hamburgers with all the fixings were set before them, the girl nibbled, while Wynn and Lonny devoured theirs. “Come on, Inky,” Wynn said. “You need energy. This is delicious.” “She’s thinking about the turtles,” Lonny said, and the girl nodded. “We didn’t do right by them,” she said. Inky managed to drink a glass of milk and saved the rest of her hamburger for Archie. On the way out, she went on ahead while the boys paid at the cash register. Suddenly she was running back. “Wynn! Lonny!” she called. “A man’s under Beetle Bomb, and Archie is howling his head off!” By the time the three got outside, the stranger was gone. “Look, Archie has part of his clothes,” Inky said, pointing to a shred of cloth. Wynn took it from the dog’s mouth. It was a frayed khaki pocket. “Nice try, Arch,” Lonny said. “Now let’s see what that guy was up to.” He slid under Beetle Bomb and carefully examined the underside. Nothing seemed to be amiss. “Another mystery,” Wynn said. “What’s so interesting about the bottom of our car?” 104
It was evening when they arrived at Crawford’s house. He saw them coming up the driveway and called to his housekeeper to prepare a hot supper. During the meal the young people told him about their adventure, much to Teddy’s delight, who kept looking at Inky admiringly. When he heard about the water cache they’d stored for the race, the boy said, “You’re pretty smart!” “And she speaks Spanish, too,” Wynn added. After dessert Crawford said, “You all had a narrow escape, and it poses a future problem when you race in the Mexicali 1000. Just don’t run into that scoundrel Gavilan again. He’s a mean one, and might give you more trouble.” “We’ll keep our eyes open,” Inky promised. Since it was late, Crawford invited her to spend the night in his guest room. She accepted. When the boys left for work the next morning, she said, “See you all at the Baja. I’m going to be awfully busy on my car till then!” She drove off as the mailman brought a specialdelivery letter addressed to Wynn. It was from Bud Eubanks and contained ad clippings from five weekly Carolina newspapers. The wording in each was identical. Rosario Longo had room for a few more students in his famous racing school. Checks or money orders were to be sent to a Los Angeles substation Post Office box, and applicants should 105
arrive in two weeks. “Good old Bud!” Wynn said. “He sure was on the ball. No doubt Jacques Breve and Rosario Longo are the same man—Jayson!” Lonny nodded. “These ads appeared only three days ago. We have a chance to catch Jayson redhanded!” “Or Hooks,” Wynn replied. The boys showed the clippings to Crawford, who sent them to police headquarters immediately. “Nice work,” a detective lieutenant said. “We’ll stake out the Post Office and let you know what happens.” Two days went by without word from the police. At noon on the third day, a detective phoned Crawford’s garage and asked for the boys. Wynn took the call. “We nailed the guy who picked up the mail,” the officer said. “He claims his name is Henry Miller. If he’s the fraud, can you identify him?” “Sure can.” “Then come on down. We’ll put him in a lineup.” On the way Wynn and Lonny wondered whether the prisoner was Jayson or Hooks Conway. “I hope Hooks didn’t fall for that lousy deal,” Lonny said. At headquarters the boys were ushered into a room by the lieutenant. The lights were dimmed and 106
five men were led onto a dais, where a strong beam illuminated them sharply. Was one of them the culprit? “Be careful,” the detective warned. “No snap judgment. Study them thoroughly.” The boys scrutinized each face. Hooks was not there. One of the men had Jayson’s build, but he wore a mustache and had no streak in his hair. “Well?” the officer asked after a while. “I think that’s him, second from the left,” Wynn said. “He’s grown a mustache and dyed his hair.” “Right,” Lonny agreed. “Okay,” the detective said. “We’ll take it from here. Thank you.” In his office, he told the boys that the mail had contained two money orders and a check from boys in North Carolina. They would be held as evidence and returned later to the victims, along with explanatory letters. “What about our dough?” Lonny asked. “If Jayson’s convicted and has any assets, you’ll get it back.” With a smile the detective added, “The other four guys in the line-up were two plainclothesmen, the custodian of this building, and a news reporter.” Wynn chuckled. “I’m glad we didn’t pick one of them!” Next day Lonny decided to stay in the shop, 107
beefing up Beetle Bomb in spots where he thought the body could stand more rigidity. He had noticed hairline cracks forming in the fiberglass, and many welds had been weakened by their trip to La Paz. Wynn, meanwhile, was to meet Crawford at the Willow Springs race track to clock one of the sports cars his boss was testing. He drove alone in Crawford’s station wagon. The day was very sunny, and the glare from the sandy expanse beside the road forced him to pull down the visor and put on sunglasses. He mused about the assignment as the miles flew by. Near the desert, he sighted a large group of cyclists in his rearview mirror. Their images swirled as the heat rose over the pavement, reminding Wynn of a herd of tops spinning toward him. He had read of outlaw cycle gangs that rode throughout California and was warned by men at the shop to steer clear of them. They usually rode large Harley cycles and wore no helmets. Soon Wynn could see the approaching group more clearly. They were helmeted, and now he recognized the distinct sound of two-cycle Japanese bikes. “They don’t seem to be the bad kind,” he thought with relief. As the pack moved around him on a straight stretch, Wynn realized that some of the boys had girls riding the buddy seats. At the edge of the pack 108
was a small girl riding a gold Kawasaki 175, her high leather boots planted solidly on the pegs. She wore a denim jacket, padded leather pants, and a black helmet. On the back of it was an emblem, the white dogwood—the state flower of North Carolina! Her hair, spread across the back of the blue jacket, was bright red. The same as Bud Eubanks’s. Wynn’s pulse quickened. Could this be Nancy-Rae?
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CHAPTER XII
The Dogwood Helmet
Wynn floored the gas pedal, trying desperately to close the gap between himself and the girl on the golden bike. Suddenly he heard a siren. A highwaypatrol car whizzed past him and the officer inside pointed a finger, indicating that Wynn should pull over. He and the whole motorcycle group were brought to a halt at the roadside. Just then the red-headed girl turned sideways into a ditch and gunned her engine. The bike fishtailed in the sand before taking off like a streak. The patrolman watched helplessly as the rider vanished in the distance, leaving only a trail of dust. “Okay,” he said, stepping out of his car and addressing the group. “Let’s have some explanation of the speeds you were turning. I clocked you at ten miles over the limit back there!” 110
One of the boys spoke up. “We didn’t mean to speed, sir.” “We were heading out to the park for some trail riding,” another added. “Must have gotten a little eager.” “And what’s your excuse?” The policeman looked at Wynn. “You probably won’t believe this,” the boy said, and he swallowed hard. “I was trying to catch up with the bike riders because one of them might be a girl I know.” “That’s a pretty poor excuse for speeding.” The officer pulled a packet of summonses from his pocket. “But, sir,” Wynn said, “she’s not an ordinary girl. She just proved it by that little excursion off into the desert.” “That was a girl?” The cyclists nodded, and Wynn went on, “I’ve been trying to locate her for her father back in North Carolina, where I come from.” The policeman shook his head. “Well, I wish you luck. California’s full of runaways. A lot of them end up in the morgue with Jane Doe tags. And if that one keeps riding that way, she might be next!” He turned to the riders, while putting the tickets back in his pocket. “I’m giving you fair warning. Save your stunts for the woods and keep it down on 111
the public roads.” “Yes, sir,” the boys murmured. “And something else. The police are always suspicious of large packs of bikes because of past experience with gangs. Whenever you ride in a group, remember that you’re being watched even closer. And tell that lone wolf who got away she could have been locked up for resisting arrest!” When the officer left, one of the boys turned to Wynn. “I think we owe you some thanks. Your story sweetened him up.” Wynn laughed. “I thought I was in hot water with you. How about stopping up the road for a soda? I want to ask you a few questions about the hotshot with the dogwood on her helmet.” “You mean the Carolina kid?” “That’s the one.” After parking their machines under a tree beside a refreshment stand, the cyclists told Wynn about the girl. She lived somewhere on the desert, they said, and nobody knew her name. “She wouldn’t even tell me,” one girl reported. “And I’m her best friend. But you talk just like you could be her brother. I never heard such a drawl as C.K.’s.” “She may talk slow, but she can really turn it on with that bike,” one boy said admiringly. “C.K.’s going to enter the Baja, and we think she’s got a 112
good chance if the bike holds out.” The others agreed. “She can last longer than most guys,” her girl friend said. “And that limp doesn’t seem to bother her at all—” “Limp?” Wynn asked. “Yes. She got it in a pile-up when she was still in diapers.” That clinched it, Wynn thought. No doubt about it now. The Kawasaki daredevil was Nancy-Rae I Aloud he said, “She’s the girl I’m looking for, all right. Next time you see her, tell the whiz to write her dad. He’s really worried. And ask her to get in touch with me, too.” He jotted down his name, address, and phone number and left. After four hours of running a stopwatch while they tested the sports car, Wynn went to the Western Union office and sent a telegram to Bud Eubanks. NANCY-RAE OKAY. RIDING CYCLE IN MEXICALI 1000. MORE LATER. WYNN.
He checked at the shop on the way to Crawford’s and found Lonny still hard at work on Beetle Bomb. He had the buggy almost completely disassembled. “Hi, old buddy,” Wynn blurted out. “I found Nancy-Rae!” Lonny dropped his wrench and slid out from 113
under the car. “Where?” “Hightailing it across the desert to get away from a policeman. And get this, she’s riding a bike in the Baja. Sent Bud a telegram and told him.” “The Baja? On a motorcycle? I hope she’s rugged enough!” “Don’t worry. You should have seen her go!” “Well, maybe now we’ll catch her.” “I don’t know, Lon. She’s awfully elusive.” He stared at the car. “Hey, what’s the idea? Are you putting Beetle Bomb back into a kit?” Lonny gave a mad scientist laugh, and in a German accent said, “I am going to create a monster! When I am finished, it will be indestructible. You can drive it off a cliff—over boulders—” The boys finished working on Beetle Bomb several days later. The car’s stability had improved after Lonny’s rebuilding, and he had coaxed even a little more speed from the highly tuned engine. As for the entrance fee, the North Carolinians pooled their earnings, and Crawford gave them an advance on their salaries to make up the rest. Further excitement was added when a letter to Nancy-Rae arrived in care of Wynn. It was from Bud, who had written “URGENT” on the back flap. After an enthusiastic send-off from Crawford, Teddy, and the men at the garage, Wynn and Lonny 114
set off. Archie, who would stay with Teddy, barked and the others waved. Soon they were on their way south through El Centro and across the border into Mexico. At Mexicali they drove the car to the impound station for inspection. According to the rules, it had to be left in a locked area until it was time to leave for the start line the next day. “I’ll feel sort of lonesome tonight without old Beetle Bomb,” Lonny said. “But I guess we’re going to see plenty of each other in the next few days.” “There are enough buggies to keep him company,” Wynn added. “Speaking of buggies,” Lonny said, “why don’t we see if we can find Inky—and Nancy-Rae. Inky said that she was going to paint the Sandmaster chartreuse. A car that color shouldn’t be too hard to spot.” They walked into the mass of waiting race cars that were being carefully inspected. Hoods were open, and men with clipboards checked off each safety item on the list and also made a surface examination for possible illegalities. As Lonny had predicted, it wasn’t hard to spot Inky’s car, which she had named Froggy. She stood beside it, already dressed in khakis for the trip, with high-topped sneakers and a tiny shoulder bag for her belongings. There was no room in the single seater for nonessentials. She had braided her hair and 115
carried a chartreuse helmet in one hand. “Wow! Are you stylish!” Wynn said, as they hurried up to her. “A woman has to look the part,” Inky teased. “How’s old Beetle Bomb?” “Just panting to go,” Lonny said. “Listen, have you seen Nancy-Rae? Wynn’s got an important letter for her.” “She’s here,” Inky said. “I saw her tinkering with her bike. She didn’t act too friendly, but my guess is that she’s having some last-minute mechanical trouble.” After Inky’s car was impounded, all three searched for Nancy-Rae, but with no luck. “She may have taken her machine to some garage to have it fixed,” Inky conjectured. “We’ll have to get her in the morning,” Wynn said. “Where are you staying tonight?” “At the new motor lodge.” “So are we. How about supper together?” “Best offer I’ve had all day.” During the meal, Inky brought up the cache of water by the roadside. “There’s a can for each of us if the emergency should arise,” she said. “Remember the location?” “It’s marked on our map,” Lonny said. “We’re all set with food and drink. Are you stocked up?” “I won’t need much to eat,” Inky said with a 116
smile. “I’ll be too nervous.” “Now there’s a joke!” Lonny said. The cars and bikes started moving up to the starting line early the next morning. The Mexican crowd began to close in on the machines, and children ran up to touch the cars and wish the racers luck. As the onlookers pressed against the daredevil drivers, Wynn and Lonny heard a familiar voice above the babble. “Hey! Over here!” came Inky’s voice. “I found Nancy-Rae!” “Where is she?” Wynn asked. “Over by the parking lot. She hasn’t moved her cycle up to the line, because she’s taken the engine apart.” “You stay here, Lon,” Wynn said. “I’ll find her and deliver Bud’s letter.” He and Inky fought their way through the crowd, past the row of cars that glistened like tropical melons against the white dust of Mexicali. The helmeted drivers were poised to go, waiting for the first entrant, Parnelli Jones, to depart in thirty minutes at ten. From then on, cars would leave at fifteen-minute intervals. “See! There she is,” Inky said, pointing. Wynn saw the red ponytail. He noticed that her helmet was on the ground beside her, the dogwood flower smudged with grease from the disassembled 117
engine. “Hi, Nancy-Rae,” Wynn called out. The girl looked up and dropped her tools in surprise. She wore leathers and knee-high racing boots. Tucked in her belt was a spare set of heavyduty gloves. Tight goggles and a loosely tied bandanna around her neck completed her costume. “I heard you were looking for me,” Nancy-Rae said. “I won’t go back!” The small pert face was set in a frown. “Now this rotten luck. I’m going to miss the race!” “What’s wrong?” “My bike’s messed up.” She switched from one anxiety to another. “Is Dad coming after me?” “You know your father better than that,” Wynn said. “He sent you this letter.” The girl took the envelope and limped off to find a private spot. When she returned, she looked like a different person. The frown lines had disappeared from her forehead, and her mouth was turned up at the corners in a happy smile. “Am I lucky,” she said, “to have such a nice father! He sent me a check and wished me luck in the race!” “That’s Bud,” Wynn said. “He’s always been generous.” “Maybe I can buy a new bike,” Nancy-Rae said excitedly, “and ride the Baja after all. See you later, 118
Wynn, and thanks for finding me, you all!” She walked off with a big grin, and the young racers returned to their cars. In less than an hour the boys saw Nancy-Rae rolling up a new bike. She had bought a spare cycle from one of the other riders. “Look what I’ve got!” she called. “That’s a real beauty!” Lonny said. “A Rickman!” “The guy who sold it to me figured a girl wouldn’t give him much of a run, anyway, and told me not to bend it up on the starting ramp. Well, I’ll show him!” “You’re not driving the whole thousand miles yourself, are you?” Wynn asked. “You can’t on a bike. At San Ignacio, my co-rider takes over. She’s terrific. And I’ll be taken to La Paz by helicopter.” With a little time to spare before the start, Lonny helped her set the bike up with a final tuning. People gathered around, watching the mechanical preparations with wonder. Nancy-Rae revved the engine and Lonny said, “That’s a terrific sound, isn’t it?” He lowered the handlebars to fit the girl’s reach. “Shift your weight back on the seat a second,” he commanded. “I want to get the chain fixed. The fellow you bought this from must have been twice as 119
heavy, which should give you an edge. The whole thing’s set up too stiff—” All at once Inky ran up to them, panting. “Wynn! Lonny! Some dude’s trying to get the gas cap off Beetle Bomb!”
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CHAPTER XIII
Down the Ramp!
Lonny jumped through the crowd, jostling aside the onlookers surrounding Beetle Bomb. He grabbed the shirt of a teen-aged Mexican and yanked him back. The buggy’s gas cap rolled to the ground and Wynn, close on Lonny’s heels, snatched it up. “What are you doing?” Lonny demanded. He shook the terrified youth violently, and two small packets of sugar fell from his shirt. “Sugar! You miserable wretch! Do you know what a mess that could make of our engine?” “Of course he knows,” Wynn said. He glared at the boy. “Who do you work for?” The Mexican did not answer, and the curious crowd pressed even more tightly against the car. In a minute or two, a policeman arrived and asked what the trouble was all about. “We just caught this character trying to put sugar 121
in our gas tank!” Lonny exclaimed hotly. The policeman made no move toward the youth, who was still struggling in Lonny’s grip. “Well, aren’t you going to arrest him?” “Do not get excited,” the officer said. “People are always keyed up before this race. It is possible the boy was only trying to get a close look at your car.” Lonny felt as if he would burst with exasperation, but he knew anger would do them no good. “Your line is going now,” the policeman said. “Do you want to lose your place?” A driver broke through the mob and told Wynn the buggy would have to be pushed ahead or moved to one side. Lonny rolled it forward. The policeman turned around and led the young Mexican away. As they guided Beetle Bomb through the mass of people, Wynn and Lonny looked about for NancyRae. But the girl and her cycle had vanished. “I guess we’d better get on with the race,” Wynn grumbled. “No time to press charges against that guy.” “Wouldn’t do any good anyway,” Lonny added. As the car approached the starting ramp, small children were hoisted to their parents’ shoulders for a better view. Beetle Bomb, its once-shiny paint smudged with fingerprints, inched ahead. A grinning boy moved beside the car and polished the last specks of dust from the headlights. 122
“Thank you. Muchos gracias,” Wynn said, and the boy jumped up and down with glee. “You give us good luck!” Wynn started the engine, and the buggy climbed to the top of the starting ramp. The chief starter, a gray-haired, bearded man, moved over to talk to the boys, explaining the rules and wishing them luck. The traffic would be heavy both ways, he said, until the first checkpoint at El Crucero. The racers should be careful to avoid hitting curious spectators on the road, as well as farmers hauling produce to the Mexicali markets. After El Crucero, they would make a sharp right inland and proceed over the farmlands and hills to checkpoint number two at Camalu. Wynn and Lonny tightened their seat belts and instinctively reached for their helmet straps for a final check. Waiting for the fifteen-minute countdown between them and the car ahead, they tied their scarves loosely at their throats, where they would be ready to use when the paved road turned to dust. Goggles were pulled down to protect their eyes from insects and dirt, and Wynn put on driving gloves while Lonny opened the map in his lap. The racers waited intently. A short distance down the road, they must turn off the pavement and start the first long stretch across the mountains that divide the Baja. On this section, which would lead to 123
pavement again at Camalu, over 30 percent of the entrants would be eliminated because of breakdowns. The starting signal was given. Their pulses throbbed, and the buggy dived down the ramp into the race. It roared through the tunnel of humanity and out into the open country. Just south of Mexicali they began to pass cars with mechanical failure. It seemed only a short time before they were waved into the first checkpoint, their number recorded by a girl holding a clipboard. Beetle Bomb was refueled and was on its way again. Then they turned sharply west toward the hill country. Lonny warned Wynn to be cautious this early in the race and avoid damaging the car. Windblown dust was thick even on the paved section, making it very difficult to see the cars and motorcycles ahead. “Look out, Wynn!” Lonny screamed. Wynn spotted the flashing brake lights of a jeep that had slowed to ford a small stream at the bottom of a hill. The boy swerved. The buggy splashed into the water and across jagged rocks that had been torn loose by a previous flood. Then there was an ominous POP! “Oh, no!” Wynn groaned. “Oh, yes,” Lonny said. “There goes a spare, and we just started!” 124
They climbed out and hastily began to change the tire. Using rocks, Lonny blocked the wheels to keep them from rolling, and they raised Beetle Bomb with the noisy stream running between the wheels. Lonny dropped down to his knees in the water to lift off the tire. Minutes later he let the jack down. Wynn tossed the punctured tire aboard. Then they secured the tire and tools and Wynn started the engine. Soon they left the farmlands and moved over the pavement that ran along the coast to the second checkpoint at Camalu. While Beetle Bomb was being inspected, a boy approached them with a jug of Gaterade. “This is from Teddy,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine. Told me to be sure you got this.” “Thanks,” Wynn said. He and Lonny took long swigs, gave the boy their flat tire, and asked if he could have it repaired and delivered to the impound area in La Paz. The pavement soon ended, and they plunged into empty country. The sun was sinking behind the yellow hills, turning them a deep red in the dull light. At the roadside they noticed more graves than people in the sparsely populated area. Two mud shacks made up a town. Once they had passed El Rosario, smoke coming from the tops of roofless kitchens told them the Mexicans were preparing dinner. 125
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Wynn called through his kerchief. “You bet. What’s your pleasure, beef jerky or Vienna sausage?” “Whichever is closest.” Lonny unbuckled his belt and leaned over the seat. “Don’t do anything fancy for a few minutes or I’ll be the first Baja participant to go through the windshield rear first.” Lonny put his hand in the box of packages in the back seat. Something was wrong! The bungee cords holding the flaps down had been undone. The containers were empty! “Wynn! Somebody’s stolen our food!” Wynn groaned over the sound of the engine. “That must have happened in all the commotion. Wow! My stomach is growling!” Lonny poured him a cup of water from a container that had been pushed underneath the seat. It splashed down the front of Wynn’s jacket as he tried to drink while driving over the bumpy road. At the next checkpoint, Rancho Santa Ynez, they were unable to get food and they decided to see if they could find something at one of the little shacks. At each place they ran into the same problem. Either people could not understand them or they ran away at the sight of the buggy. Finally they spoke to an old man who appeared to 126
be cutting some sort of melon. A closer look revealed that it was cactus, which he offered them with a snaggle-toothed smile. “Might as well try it, Wynn,” Lonny said. “I’ve heard of these cactuses. A lot of them are edible. Looks like a watermelon, anyway. Just use your imagination.” He ate the cactus hungrily. It was bright red and dotted with small black seeds. The juice dropped on his hands and stained his fingers red. “I think I’ll pass it up, Lonny. Maybe we can get something at the next checkpoint. You don’t know what you might be eating.” “Sure tastes good.” Lonny thanked the old man, who nodded his head—still smiling—and they set off again. Thus far no one in their class had passed them, and even with the time lost for the flat tire, they had a good average speed. At the checkpoint at Punta Prieta, they saw Nancy-Rae on her motorcycle. She roared in behind them for a quick service check and moved on her way, waving happily. The Mag-7 crew, a group that serviced the cars at the checkpoints, gave Wynn and Lonny a sandwich and apple before they headed back into the race. Wynn looked over at Lonny as he munched. To his surprise, his friend was not eating. “Hey, what’s the matter? This is the best 127
sandwich I ever tasted!” “I think I’ll hold mine. Don’t feel so good.” The cactus! Wynn thought apprehensively. Had Lonny been poisoned? If so, the old man no doubt was in league with their enemies! Lonny grew pale as they headed into the rough country to checkpoint six at El Arco. Soon he became so ill he could not read the map. Wynn offered to turn back to Punta Prieta for help at a paramedic station, but Lonny refused. “Keep going!” he commanded weakly. “But we’ve got to do something for you!” Wynn said in despair. He had great difficulty following the road in the darkness. His memory of the prerun was dim, and he stopped to read the map with his flashlight. “How you doing, buddy?” he asked. Lonny did not reply. Wynn shined the light in his face. His eyes were closed and his mouth twisted in a grimace. He was breathing heavily. “Lonny!” Wynn shook the limp body. “I’ll have to find help!” he thought frantically. “Lonny might be dying!” He drove slower in search of a house that might offer assistance, but no one lived in that waste. Suddenly his headlights caught a form some distance from the road. It was running, with arms waving. Wynn lifted his dusty goggles. A shoulder 128
bag swinging, the figure moved closer, stumbling over the rocks in the darkness. It was a girl. Then he recognized her. Inky!
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CHAPTER XIV
Desert Rescue
Wynn stopped the buggy beside the frantic girl. “Am I glad to see you!” Inky blurted. “You won’t believe what’s happened to me!” She climbed into the buggy beside Lonny and shoved his shoulder. “Hey, wake up! Some naviga—” “He’s real sick, Inky. I think it was some cactus he ate.” “Cactus? Why did he eat that?” Wynn told her the story, and Inky took a closer look at the comatose boy. She took the map from his lap. “I’ll try to figure out where we are,” she said, “and navigate us out of here.” Inky reasoned they had to find help before the natives blew out their candles and went to bed. She wriggled into Archie’s spot beside the gas tank and read the map by flashlight, while Wynn moved on at reduced speed. 130
“What happened to your car?” he asked. “It was a zany experience,” she replied. “I got off the main road by mistake when darkness fell, and the Sandmaster dumped down the side of a ravine.” “Were you hurt?” “No, thank goodness. But poor Froggy got hopelessly stuck in the mud at the bottom of the gully. I went looking for help, and finally located the main road by following the sounds of the other racers.” “Did anybody stop?” “No. Two cars passed me, the rats! I suppose they thought I’d try to hijack them.” Inky said she had decided to return to her Sandmaster for a drink of water, but could not find it. “Imagine, losing your car!” she said. “So I tried to hitch a ride to the next checkpoint. Then you came along.” “What a story!” Wynn said. “You could sell it to Autoweek.” Inky soon figured out where they were. No settlements were shown on the map, and Wynn increased his speed until they came to a smoother section of road. “Oh, look!” Inky said. “There’s a fire up ahead.” Wynn pulled the buggy to a stop by a raging bonfire surrounded by young Mexicans, who greeted them with enthusiasm. They said they had built a 131
series of fires to guide the racers around a wash caused by recent floods, and had chosen to stay up all night to help the cars pass safely. Inky jumped from the buggy and spoke Spanish with them. “Si, si,” one of the youths replied, and he beckoned her to follow him. “Be right back,” she told Wynn. “We’ll get help.” Wynn watched with some apprehension as Inky disappeared into the night. But the girl showed no fear. Her eyes became accustomed to the darkness and she saw that they were following a path leading to some mud-and-stick shacks. Stopping before one of the shanties, the young man called out, and a woman appeared with a candle. As its light flickered over Inky’s face, she cried out in delight. “You have come back to visit Carmelita?” “Oh, for goodness sake!” Inky said. “You’re her mother! No, I didn’t come to visit, because we’re in the middle of a race. But I’m glad I found you. I need your help!” Inky explained what had happened to Lonny, and the woman went back into the shack. She returned with a small cup of fluid and walked Inky to the fire, talking all the while. At the bonfire, Inky said to Wynn, “Remember Carmelita’s mother? She knows about the cactus that Lonny ate. It looks like an edible kind that the 132
kids like. But it’s poisonous. She’s very ashamed that one of her countrymen did such a terrible thing.” “What’s in the cup?” “An antidote.” Wynn held up Lonny’s head as the woman poured the thick liquid down his throat. He swallowed with an “ugh,” and Carmelita’s mother smiled and spoke to Inky. “She’s sure he’ll recover,” Inky translated. “Don’t worry if it takes a while.” In the background, the young men cheered each time a racer passed their bonfires and sped safely on its way. Then the woman poured the remainder of the antidote into a small bottle that Inky held, urging her to make him drink all of it before dawn. Wynn offered the woman a few bills, but she steadfastly refused the money. The racers gave their heartfelt thanks, and Wynn drove carefully back onto the dark road around the washout, with firelight flickering in his rearview mirror. “Let’s pool our resources,” Inky suggested. “I’ll navigate while we try to get out of this mess together. We can find my car later. I told the woman I’d give her children a reward if they discovered it and brought it to their house. It can’t be too far from here.” Wynn nodded and picked up speed. The road 133
grew rougher as they drove deeper into the Baja territory. Beetle Bomb’s quartz-iodine driving lights reached far, revealing shadowy boulders that Wynn had to dodge continually. “You’re sure this is the right way?” he asked Inky. “Yes. It shows here that the going will be very rough for a while, but soon we’ll be on the smooth surface of a muddy dry lakebed. Oh-oh!” “I heard it, too,” Wynn said. “The engine missed. Maybe a wire has been jarred loose.” They listened carefully to the sound of the motor mixed with the crunch of rocks underneath the wheels and the ping of loose pebbles hitting the undersides of the fenders. As the engine miss began to occur more frequently, Lonny stirred. “I think he’s coming out of it,” Wynn said. “He must be getting distress signals from Beetle Bomb.” Now the engine ran even rougher, the forward speed slowing and the power dying on hills. Wynn decided that conditions would not improve, and they would have to repair the car before it stopped completely. He pulled over to the side and they both jumped out, Wynn holding a flashlight. Much to their surprise, Lonny climbed shakily from the buggy. Inky steadied him as he bent over to undo the latch on the cover. He moaned and hesitated. “Don’t push yourself too hard yet, Lonny,” Wynn 134
warned. “You be the foreman on this job and tell me what to do.” Lonny directed Wynn to the distributor, and he discovered the trouble—the points. With Inky holding the light and Lonny leaning against her, Wynn replaced them in about twenty minutes. Back in the driver’s seat, Wynn felt the first signs of real fatigue in his legs, and when he turned the next curve, he realized that his reflexes were dulling. To be safe, he moderated the speed. Each time the wheels hit a rock, the shock would travel through his arms like a knife point. Lonny was still in no condition to take over. “Inky, I’ve just about had it,” Wynn finally confided. She wanted to help, but that would result in almost certain disqualification, since the boys were the legal entrants. “Hang in there,” she encouraged. “You can do it.” Soon they came to a sandy part of the course. Inky noted that this area could be under water if the tide were at a certain level, and told Wynn that she had been warned by a Mexican that recent rains had turned some of the dry lakes into pools of mud. Illuminated by their beams, the earth glistened in the darkness. Inky pointed out ominous squares of mud, indicating that standing water had recently been absorbed, causing the soil to crack in the sun. 135
Wynn struggled to steer around the worst spots, but the mud stuck under the fenders. Beetle Bomb strained to turn its wheels. Now the brakes were filling with thick goo! “The map says to go through here,” Inky said, “but I think we should try for the high ground.” No sooner had she spoken than the wheels spun and the car slowed. The tires kicked up mud that splattered against the back of the buggy, indicating that they were getting nowhere. Lonny stirred again and looked around. “Cool it, Wynn. I smell the clutch burning. We’re stuck in a big way.” They all climbed out, sinking ankle-deep into the mire, and unpacked the sand ramps, two metal strips that Crawford had urged them to take. While the boys shoved them under the rear wheels, Inky shined the light out ahead, looking for higher ground. Then she sat behind the wheel to guide the car along the ramps 2 feet at a time, as the boys continued to replace the strips again and again. Lonny seemed to be regaining his strength, while Wynn, by his own admission, was getting “woozy.” They labored for more than an hour, listening occasionally for the sound and lights of other cars that might have discovered a safer route. If they heard wheels spinning, they made note to avoid that direction. Periodically Beetle Bomb’s engine was 136
shut off to let it cool, while the trio rested from the seemingly impossible task of finding solid ground. “Listen, fellows,” Inky said. “Let’s walk on ahead and see where we’re going. It may be into more of this soup.” So much time had already been lost, she pointed out, that it would be hard to finish high up in the class unless their competition had made the same mistake. “All right. We’ll try it,” Lonny said. They went in the direction she suggested. Their jeans, heavily caked with mud, were now drying in the desert air. “Hey, stop!” Inky held up her hand. “What is it?” Wynn asked in a weak voice. “More cactus people?” “Somebody’s calling. Listen!” The three stood, and from far off heard, “Ho-la! Ho-la!” “I guess we’re not the only ones lost,” Lonny said. He cupped his hands and bellowed, “Hello! Over this way. We need help!” Wynn was too weak to continue, and Inky took up the cry. “I wonder who it is,” Lonny said. “Maybe they’re stuck like us.” There was no further response to their calls, and a few tense minutes dragged by. Finally half-a-dozen 137
figures became dimly visible. “I hope they’re not wild Indians,” Inky whispered. “They’re still around, you know. Roam naked from waterhole to waterhole.” Wynn wondered if fatigue had finally gotten to Inky, and tried to make a joke. “Don’t they even wear sombreros?” “Nothing.” “Well, the person in front has a sombrero,” Lonny said. The Mexicans came close, and in the oblique light beam of Inky’s flashlight they stopped and looked at the racers. The ragged, shoeless group included four men and two women. Inky spoke to them quietly, and the man with the sombrero replied in Spanish. “What did he say?” Lonny asked. “They heard our spinning wheels and came out to help!”
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CHAPTER XV
Copter Attack
“What luck!” Lonny said. “These are really kind people!” Inky said, “Many of the natives talk about the Mexicali 1000 from one year to the next. They feel that having a hand in the race is a great honor.” She spoke to the men in Spanish, making motions with her hands. The Mexican smiled and nodded. “I told them what happened to us,” she said. “They’ll be glad to get us out of the mudhole, even if they have to pick up the buggy and carry it!” The group trudged back toward the spot where they had left Beetle Bomb, with Inky chatting on the way. “I knew we should have paid more attention in Spanish class,” Lonny said. “That Español textbook might have done me more good than the automotive magazine I kept hidden in it!” 139
When the car was sighted, the Mexicans stopped to talk among themselves. They examined the onceyellow Beetle Bomb from all sides, pointed to the hubs buried in mud, and argued on how to get it out. Wynn grew impatient. “Why don’t they do something?” he whispered fretfully. Inky calmed him, explaining that this was the Mexican way. They must not be rushed. After a while the natives swarmed around the car and bent their backs to the task. With a great sucking sound, it began to move forward. They slogged along slowly and steadily, the mud up to their knees, until they found higher ground. Finally the buggy sat triumphantly on dry terrain, mud and water dripping from its underside, while thanks and congratulations were showered on the grinning natives. Lonny strapped the sand ramps back in place, in case they should run into more trouble ahead. One of the men assured Inky that they were through the worst of it. The area ahead, he said, had not had rain for more than a year. This was the strangeness of the Baja—one part had suffered a flood, and only a few miles away there was drought. The racers thanked their friends once more and headed into the night. Lonny was still feeling ill, but he offered to take over for a while so Wynn could get some rest. “Thanks, buddy,” Wynn said. “I sure need it.” “I can see much better now,” Lonny said. “The 140
stars look like lamps instead of blurred loops of fire.” Inky passed out Vienna sausages and crackers to her hungry companions. As soon as he had eaten, Wynn fell asleep in the seat beside the gas tank. Fatigue dulled their spirits until they stopped briefly at checkpoint San Ignacio. There the flurry of excitement roused them as the workers cheered their approach and took flash pictures. “What a reception!” Lonny said. “I feel like we’re important people!” “You are!” replied a safety inspector. “You’re all important to us.” More men were available to service the car than before, because Beetle Bomb was the only vehicle at the checkpoint except for a solitary motorcycle. Inky collected food from the generous mechanics, and hoped it would last until they reached La Paz. Wynn asked about Nancy-Rae. Had anyone seen the girl with the dogwood on her helmet? “You bet we have,” replied a mechanic. “That spunky little cricket arrived here fine. Her cycle was running strong, and she was relieved by her co-rider. She’s asleep in the bunkhouse and plans to fly to La Paz at daybreak to meet her partner.” “Wow!” Wynn said admiringly. “They’re the only girls left in the race,” the man added. 141
Wynn was wide awake by now. He glanced at Lonny, who looked pale and had trouble keeping his eyes open. “You’d better rest,” Wynn told him. Lonny nodded. “I feel a bit lightheaded.” He moved into the back while Wynn slid behind the wheel. Inky marveled at the expertise of the Mag 7 crew, who gave the car a thorough going-over. Some examined the engine to see if any of the electrical connections had been shaken loose. Others checked the lug nuts for tightness and made a quick survey of the wheel bearings and suspension parts. Even the muddy light covers were scrubbed, and the windshield was washed inside and out. “Okay,” one of the mechanics said finally. “You’re all set!” Hours went by. When the morning light grew brighter, Wynn cut off the driving lights and pulled into La Purisima. From there they moved toward Villa Constitución, the last checkpoint before La Paz. They noticed one airplane after another flying over them. Lonny said, “I wonder if Mr. Crawford and Teddy are in one of those on their way to La Paz to meet us for a victory celebration.” Inky mumbled something about counting one’s chickens. Thirty miles farther on they heard the 142
clapping sound of a helicopter blade, and Lonny and Inky squinted up into the sun. The copter appeared to be following Beetle Bomb, flying low over the dirt road. Three men were in it. “I guess they’re filming us for television news,” Wynn said. “As long as they don’t fan up so much dust that we can’t see the road,” Inky said cautiously. She shielded her goggled eyes and studied the chopper. “I don’t see any cameras,” she declared. “Maybe it’s someone we know but don’t recognize.” The copter flew lower, and Inky rubbed her glasses while Lonny worked to get the dust off the inside of the windshield so Wynn could see the road ahead. Wynn slowed down, trying to find his way in the dust, but soon he couldn’t see anything. Seconds later there was a loud crunch and the buggy spun to a halt, a heavy grinding under the front end. The boys pressed hard against their seatbelts, and Inky bumped against the back of Lonny’s seat. “What now?” Lonny yelled. “Can you see what we’ve hit?” Wynn jumped out with Inky behind him. They coughed in the thick yellow haze that the copter continued to generate and felt around the front of the car. “Here’s the trouble!” Wynn said. “We hit an abandoned motorcycle.” 143
No serious harm had been done to Beetle Bomb beyond a few tears in the fiberglass, but the motorcycle was worse off than before. The helicopter disappeared. Lonny shook his head. “This is getting serious,” he said. “Somebody wants us out of the race.” “It’s worse than that,” Inky added. “I think someone’s out to kill us. Sugar in the tank is one thing, but crashing the car is another. We might have hit another vehicle, or a ravine—even hurt another driver.” “But why such vicious attacks?” Lonny wondered. “There are more expensive cars in this race with a better chance of winning. Could somebody want to make a few hundred dollars so badly that he’d murder a team for it?” “I think the prize they’re after is bigger than the race,” Inky reflected. “And speaking of the race, we’re not finished yet. Let’s move!” Again they started down the rocky road. Other competitors were a rare sight now. Beetle Bomb passed an occasional car, and vice versa, but none of the vehicles running seemed to be fully intact. Many groups were stalled by the road, doing makeshift repairs in an attempt to limp into La Paz. Other drivers were thumbing rides along the way, but Wynn indicated that they had a full house. They passed occasional farms, and the landscape 144
became greener with small oases. Chickens pecking by the roadside scattered, squawking, back to their farmyards when Beetle Bomb roared through. Wynn sighted two large rocks ahead and steered to avoid them. But at the last moment, he saw that his right wheel might drop into a ditch. He straightened the wheels and straddled the rocks. Bang! They slammed against the underside of the chassis. “Oh brother!” Lonny moaned. “That couldn’t have done us any good. The lesser of two evils, though.” “There was nothing else he could have done,” Inky added, “without wrecking us.” Suddenly Wynn braked to a stop and put his head on the wheel. “Wynn, are you sick?” Lonny asked urgently. “I’ve had it. If I keep on driving, we’ll all get killed.” Lonny gave him a shove on the shoulder. “Here. I’ve goldbricked enough. I’m up to taking over for the rest of the trip. You get some rest.” Wynn did not resist, as he was guided into the space Inky had occupied beside the gas tank. She folded her coat to make him a pillow. He toppled over and was asleep before the car was on the move again. Soon a new problem arose. “Inky, have you been 145
noticing the gas gauge?” Lonny asked. “Either it isn’t working right or we’re very low. I switched to the reserve tank and nothing happened.” “Oh, no, Lonny! They must have filled only one tank at the last stop. We were so busy finding out the news, I forgot to tell them.” She thumped the tank, and it rang with an empty sound. “Let’s see how far we can make it,” Lonny said. “Maybe we can siphon some fuel out of an abandoned car.” He was now in complete control of his wits. The long sleep induced by the poisonous cactus had left his head strangely clear. It was not long before they spied a racer beside the road, the radiator spewing over. When they stopped, they found that a broken hose had cost the occupants their full load of water. The driver and navigator were exhausted, their faces burned red by the desert sun. Lonny offered them their drinking water when suddenly Inky remembered something. “The cache, Lonny! Remember, it’s up the road. Be back in a minute!” She jumped aboard the buggy and drove to the hiding place. When she returned, she was frowning. “It wasn’t gone, was it?” Lonny asked. “No, it was there. But I just looked at our gas gauge and took a measurement with a stick. We haven’t enough to go another mile!” “That we can take care of,” the other driver said. 146
“One good turn deserves another.” Lonny quickly rigged up a siphon and drew enough fuel to go on. Their exhilaration and new hope was short-lived, however, when Inky spotted a log in the road ahead. “Pull up, Lonny,” she cautioned. “We’d better not try to go over that one.” When he halted, they both jumped out. Inky took one end of the log, Lonny the other. As they rolled it out of the way, Inky had the prickly feeling that they were being watched. She wheeled around to see three men peering at them from behind a huge boulder across the road. “Look, Lonny! Those are the ones from the helicopter!” Inky whispered. “I remember them!” “They have guns,” Lonny said. “Come on. Let’s make a break for it!” He grabbed her by the arm and dashed toward the buggy, but the men, brandishing pistols, ran forward to intercept them. They were swarthy-skinned and fashionably dressed in business suits. No ordinary bandits these, Inky thought. “Who are you and what do you want?” Lonny demanded. “Okay, enough games,” the tallest of the three said in a heavy accent. “Where is the package? Give it to us!” “Package?” The riders were dumbfounded, and Inky said, “Just what are you talking about?” The noise had stirred Wynn from his sleep, and 147
he sat up. “What’s going on?” “So you pretend not to know?” the leader said. “Liars! We have orders from Señor Gavilan to kill you unless you turn over the package!”
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CHAPTER XVI
Mexican Stand-Off
Wynn noticed the guns now and was suddenly wide awake. “We don’t have a package for anyone!” he exclaimed. “There must be a mistake,” Inky added. “No mistake. This is the car! Our agent hid the package under it when you were in La Paz with the truck. When you crossed the border back into the United States, another representative looked for it, but it was gone. So now will you tell us what you did with it?” “If you hid anything under Beetle Bomb,” Lonny said, “it must have fallen off between La Paz and Mexicali. How could we know about the package anyway?” Wynn climbed from the buggy and walked over beside his friends. “I get the picture,” he said. “Remember the prowler that night in La Paz?” 149
“That’s right,” Lonny recalled. “The one Archie scared off. He must have been the agent they’re talking about.” “Ah. Now you understand,” another of the bandits said. “So maybe you can tell us how it disappeared between La Paz and the border.” He lifted his gun, pointing it in Wynn’s face. “That’s why everyone was out to get us!” Lonny exclaimed. “It had nothing to do with the race!” “We were the fall guys for a bunch of smugglers. Gavilan set us up with his zoo story!” Inky stormed. “If the package didn’t fall off,” Lonny reasoned, “someone must have taken it. But where—and when? It had to disappear before we got the buggy back to the garage, because I went over it completely, underside included.” “We didn’t leave the car until we got to the restaurant on the other side of the border,” Wynn added. “Wait!” Inky broke in. “Remember the time the policeman searched the truck and wanted to arrest us for hauling the turtles? He looked over Beetle Bomb, and under it, too!” She turned to the men. “Maybe he took your package.” “I think you have it!” One of the bandits scowled. “Wait, José,” the leader said. “What police? Where?” 150
It was evident that they were becoming alarmed. “Just outside of La Paz,” Wynn said, “before we got to Villa Constitutión.” Inky wrinkled her nose. “That policeman was probably a fake anyhow, or he wouldn’t have let us keep the turtles after fining us.” At the bandit’s insistence, the boys described the man. “He was very tall,” Lonny said, “and had darkish-blond hair.” “Don’t forget the eye,” Inky reminded him. “He had one cat eye.” “Ojo de Gato!” the leader fairly spat out the name. “Young fools! That was Gavilan’s enemy, no policeman! How did he learn of our plans?” “We don’t know,” Inky said. “Is there some kind of feud between Gavilan and Ojo de Gato?” “Shut up!” The bandit boss mumbled, and they began talking rapidly in Spanish, gesticulating all the while. Inky smiled and remained silent until they had finished. “What was in the package, heroin?” she demanded. The men laughed, and José said, “Maybe we should kill you anyway.” The third man spoke up. “Kill the racers. I’ll take the woman.” He tucked his gun in his belt and approached Inky. But the girl’s hands were quicker than the eye. She karate chopped him and snatched 151
the gun before anyone could move. Then she pointed the weapon at the two men, who stood with mouths agape, still fingering their guns. A real Mexican stand-off! No one spoke. Wynn and Lonny felt their skin grow clammy despite the desert heat, but Inky remained steady. She did not back down. Finally the leader mumbled something. The men turned away and walked toward a stand of scrubby palm trees. On the other side, the Americans noticed for the first time, stood a helicopter partially hidden by the foliage. The racket started and the copter lifted. Minutes later it had disappeared from sight. “Whew!” Wynn mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Inky, you looked steady as a rock, holding that gun.” She laughed. “I should get the Academy Award for acting because I’m deathly scared of weapons.” She leaned back and flung the gun into the desert. They climbed into Beetle Bomb, eager to make up the lost time and to report the holdup to the authorities in La Paz. Mile after mile passed, and pebbles spewed up from the whirling tires. Lonny slid into the last checkpoint before the finish. The crew cheered louder than those at earlier stops. “Not much left for you people to do now,” Lonny said. “I guess there aren’t too many racers around anymore.” The crew worked quickly to fill the buggy’s gas 152
tanks and give the tires a hasty check. “You’re one of the top runners in your class!” a young mechanic called up from the front wheel. “But another buggy’s been sighted close on your tail.” “You’re kidding!” Wynn couldn’t believe it. “No. We have a report from the north that more than half the field is stranded in the middle of the muddy lakebed, trying to get unstuck.” “If it weren’t for six nice Mexicans, we’d be stuck too!” Inky squealed. “Let’s get this show on the road again. Come on!” As they headed back into the race on the final leg to La Paz, Wynn and Lonny gave bloodcurdling yells. Beetle Bomb seemed to run with a second wind as they bounced down the road, dodging a melon truck on the right. Then it happened. A loud pounding noise came from under the front of the buggy. “Oh, no!” Wynn moaned. “After all we’ve been through, Beetle Bomb is giving up.” Lonny stopped, jumped from the car, and crawled under it. When he wriggled out, his disappointment was obvious. “We’re finished,” he said. “Torsion bar’s broken and without welding equipment, we can’t even do a makeshift repair. There are no spares. I was sure I’d beefed up the suspension enough, but I guess I goofed.” 153
“It was those rocks I hit,” Wynn said dejectedly. “I’m to blame.” “No, you’re not. It was me and that phony watermelon that got us into trouble in the first place.” The threesome sat disconsolately on a roadside bank, and at every repair suggestion from Inky and Wynn, Lonny only shook his head. They waited for the competing buggy to pass. This time, they thought, there would be no friendly exchange. “Guess that’s them now,” Wynn said, looking back down the road. “We ought to wave and be good sports about it.” A spiral of dust appeared in the distance, and soon a grasshopperlike shape appeared. “That’s no buggy!” Inky said. “You’re right! It’s a Ford Bronco,” Lonny agreed. The driver, a scarf over his mouth, slowed, came to a stop, and sat looking at the dejected trio for a few seconds. “Do you think he knows us?” Lonny whispered to Wynn. The racer climbed from his car, at the same time pulling down his scarf. “It’s Hooks Conway!” Inky exclaimed.
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CHAPTER XVII
La Paz Fiesta
Hooks Conway climbed out of his car and approached Beetle Bomb, which appeared to be kneeling on its left front wheel, the suspension hopelessly collapsed. “What’s the trouble?” he asked, walking toward the stranded riders. Lonny gave a weary shrug. “Don’t rub it in, Hooks, will you?” “Did you hear his Bronco?” Inky asked Wynn with a rueful grin. “Sounded strong as a stallion.” “No kidding,” Hooks went on. “Can I give you a hand?” “As you undoubtedly see, we broke a suspension part,” Lonny told him. “And we don’t have a spare.” “Why don’t you go back up the road and take one off the buggy someone rolled behind the cactus?” 155
“We decided to wait,” Wynn said, “and ask Santa to bring us one for Christmas.” “I wish he’d go on his way,” Lonny grumbled, “and quit rubbing it in.” “I guess he’s out to trick us into something,” Inky added, “but my tired brain can’t figure out what.” Hooks pushed the Bronco off the road, out of the path of the cars that might be approaching. “All right,” he said. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.” “Here it comes,” Lonny murmured. “I want to thank you for the warning you gave me about Jayson.” Inky looked up and wrinkled her nose. “It took me a while,” Hooks went on, “until I realized how deep I could get involved with someone like him. He’s in with the smugglers. I want nothing to do with that!” “Smugglers?” Inky said. “That seems to be the favorite racket of the day.” “Yeah,” Hooks said. “But if the Feds hit you, man, you’re hit! Did you know Jayson’s a big-time crook? He’s out on bail right now.” Hooks paused for a minute, then added, “Besides, three Carolina folk should be good to one another.” Wynn jumped to his feet. “Oh, cut it out. Can’t you see we’re defeated? Just leave us alone in our misery.” 156
“Look. If it’ll make you believe me,” Hooks insisted, “I’ll take you back to the car I saw and prove I’m not lying.” Lonny rose wearily. “We have nothing to lose. Let me get some tools.” He turned to his companions. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, figure I’m dead in a gully somewhere.” Lonny got into the Bronco beside Hooks, who turned the racer around and sped along the deserted road. “I have a score to settle with you, Hooks,” Lonny said. “What’s your beef?” “You kicked my dog. He hurt for a long time.” “No, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I like animals.” “And something else. Did you break into Crawford’s garage?” “No. Jayson did. He tried to steal plans for a shady associate of his.” They rode along in silence for a minute. “Okay,” Lonny said. “I’m ready to let bygones be bygones.” He held out his hand, and Hooks shook it. “I hope I can make it up to you,” he said. “See over there? That’s where the wreck is.” They came to a large stand of prickly pear and stopped. Lonny looked through the flat cactus faces and noticed the driving lights atop the roll bar of a buggy. It had been hidden in a gully, probably until 157
its owner could find a way to retrieve it. Both got out and carefully pushed through the growth. A closer look revealed that the engine was blown and had expelled a large black puddle in the sand. A trail led from the road to the hiding place. “Looks as if he’s got a blow at the bottom end,” Lonny added. “Yeah. Crankshaft. Probably not much left worth saving.” The two engine buffs began making a painstaking examination of the destroyed machine until Lonny blurted, “Why am I wasting my time doing this? Engine parts I don’t need!” He climbed down the gully to look at the front suspension. “You’re right, Hooks,” he said. “It has the spare we need. I’ll leave the guy a note and tell him I’ll replace the piece when we get back to Los Angeles.” Lonny looked up at his former enemy, who was smiling. “Thanks, Hooks,” he said. The big fellow replied with a wave of the hand. “The only reason I caught sight of it was because I was looking for a Bronco to see if I could borrow carburetor jets. I misjudged on the air density down here.” “We were right about ours,” Lonny said, “but we had the benefit of a prerun.” “If you get to work on that fast, I’ll wait for you. 158
At the last checkpoint, I found the closest car to me is two hours back and I’m an hour and a half behind Parnelli Jones. Fat chance of catching him, huh?” “Guess so. But it doesn’t hurt so much to be beaten by the best,” Lonny said, and he began to disassemble the suspension. When he had the bolts undone, Hooks lifted the buggy away from the torsion bar and Lonny picked it up. When they reached Beetle Bomb, Inky was jumping with glee. “They haven’t come by yet, Lonny. You’ve got the spare! Wow! Wynn lost a bet and owes me a steak dinner!” “You bet on me?” Hooks asked with a wry smile. “Thank you.” With that he gunned his machine, and it growled away, toward the finish line. During the repair work, Inky reported on every dust cloud that approached, trying to alert the boys on the passing of their competitor. A car roared by. “Wasn’t him,” she said, as Lonny tightened the last bolt. He threw the tools on the floor of the buggy, and they leaped back in with Wynn at the wheel once more. When they neared La Paz, Mexicans were lined up along the road, cheering the racers as they went by. Inky laughed and waved. “I didn’t know there were this many people in Baja!” she exclaimed. Ahead, they sighted the finish line. There was a 159
row of pennants and the white-bearded man with the checkered flag, the same one who had started the race. Wynn passed the line and stopped. They shook hands with several waiting officials and were told to report to the impound area and leave the car for a check. “What was our finishing position?” Wynn asked anxiously. “Results will be unofficial for a while, but at present you’re third in your class.” “Whoopee!” Inky screamed at the top of her lungs, and Wynn’s face was one big grin. “It was worth it after all!” Lonny cried. They drove through the familiar streets of La Paz to the impound area, letting Beetle Bomb glide along while they breathed the clean salt air. At the designated spot, they climbed out to face the photographers. “Imagine. At a time like this, I can’t find my comb,” Wynn joked, running his fingers through his tangled hair. Their clothes were the color of the desert, with dried clumps of mud hanging to their jeans. Their eyes were bloodshot, and only after they had stopped did the boys notice the sore spots in the palms of their hands. On the far side of the impound area, Lonny spotted Nancy-Rae’s bike. “Her team made it!” he said. “I wish Bud could be here to see this. He’d 160
forgive her for everything on the spot!” Then Teddy Crawford ran up and wrapped his arms around Lonny’s legs. “You won!” he screamed. “Well, not exactly, Teddy. But from what we’ve been through, you’d think we had. And thanks for sending Gaterade with your friend at Camalu. How’s Archie?” “Fine,” Teddy replied. The boys shook hands with Crawford, who was close behind. “Did we ever have an adventure!” Wynn said. He began to relate the story, which was taken up by Lonny and Inky. Teddy listened saucereyed, and when they mentioned the mysterious package, he exclaimed, “Boy! That’s better than TV!” “And you still don’t know what was in it?” Crawford shook his head. “I wonder if we’ll ever find out.” “It will be known as the Mystery of the Mexicali 1000,” Inky said, “and may become a famous unsolved case.” Crawford gave the boys the name of his motel, where he had reserved rooms for them. “If you want to go to the police first, I’ll meet you there later,” he said. “And I’ll get a room for Inky, too.” “We’ll all have a table together at the victory dinner tonight,” Teddy announced. 161
At police headquarters, the captain in charge sat stiff-lipped and impassive as the trio spun their story of the smuggling intrigue. He made a few notes and when they finished, he said politely, “Gracias.” “Do you have any ideas about who our attackers were, Captain?” Lonny asked. “Gavilan’s men, obviously. But who?” the officer shrugged. “And what of the bandit called Ojo de Gato?” Wynn asked. “What do you know about him?” For the first time, the officer allowed himself to smile. “We know many things,” he said. “But understand, this is an internal matter. I will file your report. Good day!” On the way back to the hotel, Wynn spied NancyRae waiting in line at the one available pay phone on the main street. “You two go on ahead. If NancyRae’s phoning her father, I want a word with Bud, too.” “Why don’t you invite her to sit with us tonight?” Inky suggested. “Great idea. Will do.” Nancy-Rae seemed embarrassed when Wynn spoke, and he was glad he had approached her alone. “I guess you know who I’m calling,” she said, the color rising in her cheeks. “I’m kind of scared after all this time.” “When you’re through, let me have a word, too. 162
Okay?” She nodded, and he stepped out of earshot. He stole a glance at the girl now and then. Her freckled face was full of joy, and tears trickled down her cheeks. When she had finished, Nancy-Rae looked at Wynn. “Here,” she said with eyes glistening. “Your turn now.” Bud Eubanks’s congratulations and thanks came through the wire. “Wynn,” he said, “I feel like a new man. Nancy-Rae’s coming home!” “She’s really proved herself,” Wynn said. “You can be proud of that girl, Bud!” After he had hung up, Wynn invited Nancy-Rae and her co-rider to join them at the victory dinner. “If I can come in this outfit,” the girl said, a little embarrassed. “It’s all I have here.” “Of course.” Wynn laughed. “This is the costume I’ll be wearing, too.” By that evening, the boys’ third place had been declared official. Winners and near winners were introduced, including Hooks Conway, and when the master of ceremonies briefly described the WynnLonny team with their hitchhiker Inky, the guests clapped and cheered. Teddy said, “Now you’re all famous!” Nancy-Rae and her friend, a tall girl in her midtwenties named Joyce, were given an ovation for withstanding the grueling cycle ride. They stood up 163
and took a bow. The next morning La Paz was bustling with racers preparing for the trip back to the United States. Wynn and Lonny made plans to take the ferry to the mainland and drive Beetle Bomb from there. Nancy-Rae would do the same with her motorcycle. “What about you, Inky?” Wynn asked at breakfast. “I’m getting a ride back to find Froggy,” she said. Just then Crawford entered, holding a newspaper. “Where’s Teddy?” Inky asked. “Still asleep. Tuckered out after a big day. But look at this!” The paper was from Los Angeles. Its front page carried the headline: BANDIT CHIEF OJO DE GATO SLAIN IN BAJA. “Oh, no!” Inky exclaimed. Chills ran through the young racers as Wynn read the article. During a confrontation, de Gato’s rival Ernesto Gavilan shot him in the head. Gavilan was arrested for murder in Villa Constituci6n along with an accomplice, Charles Jayson, an American. “And all on account of the missing package,” 164
Lonny said. “Read on, Wynn. What was in it?” “Diamonds! Over a million dollars in stolen diamonds!” The article said that the contraband had been smuggled from Europe to Mexico, where it was fenced to Gavilan. He brought it to La Paz, where he arranged to have it smuggled across the border at Mexicali. “Through us!” Inky squealed. “Go on! What happened next?” “The diamonds were hijacked by Gavilan’s arch enemy Ojo de Gato. When Gavilan found out about this, the shoot-out followed. Details of the hijacking have not yet been brought to light.” “Wow!” Lonny said. “We know the details!” “Goll-ee!” Inky said. “It makes me nervous to think we were sitting on top of a million dollars worth of gems!” The trio reread the article several times, still tingling over the role they had played in the smuggling plot. “And riding the Mexicali 1000 at the same time!” Crawford said. “I’d say you’re all super kids!” It was early afternoon when they broke up to go their separate ways. Inky kissed Wynn and Lonny. “Y’all take care now,” she said. “Y’hear?” “Sure thing, Inky,” Wynn said. “See you at the next race!” 165
Crawford and Teddy, who would fly back in a couple of hours, waved to the girl. “Come to the shop some time!” the jovial man invited her. Shortly afterward the boys and Nancy-Rae stood wistfully on the deck of the ferryboat as it crossed the Gulf of California. Silently they watched porpoises playing in the frothy wake. Beetle Bomb, now shiny yellow after a bath, was on board too. “I don’t think we need to worry about Inky,” Wynn said. “Do you?” Lonny shook his head. “I’m sure she’ll have no trouble finding her car. Listen, how about something to eat? I’m hungry.” “That reminds me,” Wynn said. “I owe her a steak dinner!”
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