“I’m going to see if I can get Barney,” Hank yelled back.
“No, you—” Joe yelled, then slammed back against the seat as Hank took off. Who was he to argue? He was only the mechanic while Hank was the owner and driver. What did it matter that it was his neck too? Hank did what he wanted.
Joe held on to the side of the car as Hank revved up the car to forty, fifty, sixty. Joe saw the turn that led back toward the road where Barney’s car was wrecked and he prayed Hank wouldn’t try to take the corner at—
Joe knew he aged twenty years on that turn as Hank took it at seventy miles an hour, barely missing the boardwalk on the far side. Joe smelled rubber and cursed as Hank pulled on the brake as he approached Barney’s Metz.
“Get the gun!” Hank yelled.
Joe obeyed as he reached for the pistol that Hank kept lashed to the floorboard but he knew that his hands were shaking too hard to use the thing.
There were only three citizens standing near Barney, who was now limping out of his car. His mechanic had quit on him two days before. Barney was dazed, but as he saw Hank and Joe, then saw a furious mob turning the corner behind them, he knew what was going on. Without a backward glance to his destroyed car, he jumped into Joe’s lap as Hank sped ahead.
It was difficult trying to get around the little town, driving over prairie-dog holes, dodging cactus, stopping to open and close gates. Joe complained about Barney’s weight while Barney bragged about how he would have beaten them except that he swerved to miss a dog and rammed into the side of the building.
Joe was thinking Barney wasn’t so bad after all.
“Damned animal bones are hell on tires,” Barney said.
Joe and Hank exchanged looks, and an hour later, about six miles outside another little town, Hank stopped the car and told Barney to get out.
“You can’t leave me here!” Barney said. “I’ll die of thirst.”
“Only if you’ve forgotten how to walk,” Hank said as he put the car in gear and started moving.
Joe leaned back and sighed. “Never felt so light in my life. Where to now, boss?”
“To the finish line!”
Hank Montgomery won the Harriman Derby and flicked mud off of himself as he walked to the platform and accepted the three-foot-tall silver trophy from the mayor of Phoenix.
Joe stood at the bottom of the stairs waiting for him. They had been racing for eight days, with no sleep to speak of, and all Joe wanted was a bath and a bed. “You did get us rooms here, didn’t you?” he asked wearily between people congratulating them.
“I got you a suite and me the top floor of the Brown,” Hank said, grinning.
“Top—?” Joe began, then stopped. Sometimes he forgot that Hank was loaded, but then he guessed that was a pretty good compliment to pay to someone. Hank didn’t act like a rich guy—nor did he act like a college teacher.
“Well, I’m going to bed. You comin’?”
“In a while,” Hank said, removing his leather cap and doing his best to neaten hair that was dark blond when it didn’t have five or so pounds of mud in it.
Joe followed Hank’s eyes to a very pretty young woman standing by the edge of the crowd. “You’re going to get into trouble,” Joe warned, then shrugged. What Hank Montgomery did was his own business. He paid Joe well and he shared the winner’s purse with him, and that’s all Joe wanted. He turned and made his way through the crowd.
Dr. Henry Montgomery gathered his papers and books, slipped them into the heavy leather satchel and left the classroom. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man and his dark brown suit fit him perfectly, showing off the muscular body he had developed through years of exercise. Very few of his colleagues and, he hoped, none of his students, knew his background. To them he was an economics professor with excellent credentials who gave difficult tests and expected a great deal from his students. Some of the other teachers didn’t like his ideas on labor and worried that he might anger some of the richer alumni, but since Dr. Montgomery remained quiet and wasn’t involved in any scandals, they accepted him. They did not know of the wealth in his family or that during his holidays he raced automobiles, nor did they guess there was another side to Dr. Montgomery.
Hank walked the mile and a half to his house, a pretty little brick building set at the end of a quiet dirt lane, heavy shade trees towering over it and everywhere lush greenery growing beautifully in the California sun. Hank smiled as he saw the house, as he was looking forward to its tranquillity and the hovering, maternal care of his housekeeper, Mrs. Soames. He had student essays to read and grade and he was working on his second book about labor and management.
As soon as he opened the door, Mrs. Soames came rushing into the room, a heavy cloud of powdered scent hovering about her, her face bursting with smiles—as was the rest of her bursting. Mrs. Soames was an excellent cook but she “tasted” the dishes a little too often.
“You’re home,” she said happily, then held out a letter to him. “It’s from those people up north, the ones the governor wants you to take care of.”
“That’s not what he said,” Hank began. “He—” Hank stopped because it was no use explaining again to her what his job was to be. He opened the letter while Mrs. Soames stood there and watched, knowing it was no use asking her to leave.
He frowned when he finished reading.
“It seems the Cauldens want me to come and stay with them. They want me to be their guest until after the hops are in.”
“They’re up to something,” Mrs. Soames said suspiciously.