42
Why Johnny Can’t Speed
“A Cad, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” He was leaning over the mechanic’s shoulder, better to follow the loading process. Never could tell what you might have to do for yourself on the road. “What are you giving me? Explosive or armor-piercing?”
“Mixed.” Hector slammed down the box-load cover on the heavy gun. It clicked shut, locked. He moved away to get a small, curved ladder, wheeled it back. At the top he began checking over the custom roof turret. “Both, alternating sequence. True, it’s more expensive, but after all your son’s car was destroyed by a Marauder. A black one?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Frank, only mildly surprised. “How’d you find out?”
“Oh, among the trade the word gets passed along. I know of this particular vehicle, I believe. Owner does a lot of his own work, I understand. That’s tough to tangle with, Mr. Merwin. Might you be thinking of—” Frank shrugged, looked the other way. “Never know who you’ll bump into on the roads these days, Hector. I’ve never been one to run from a dogfight.”
“I did not mean to imply that you would. We all know your driver’s combat record, Mr. Merwin.There are not all that many aces living in the Valley.”
He gestured meaningfully at the side of the car. Eleven silhouettes were imprinted there. Four mediums, four compacts—crazy people. Gutsy, but crazy. Two sportscars—kids—a Jag and a Vet, as he recalled. He smiled in reminiscence. Speed wasn’t everything. And one large gold stamping. He ran his hand over the impressions fondly. That big gold one, he’d gotten that baby on the legendary drive out from Indianapolis, back in ’83—no, ’82. The Imperial had been rough and, face it, he’d been lucky as hell, too young to know better. Ricochet shots were always against the odds, but hell, anyone could shoot at tires\ So he’d thought twenty-odd years ago. Now he knew better—didn’t he?