Chapter 16

It was incredible to be sitting in Frank Blixter's office in his Ford agency after being out of contact all these years – it seemed like they'd fallen away in a flash.

"So, what happened to the MMSA?" I asked.

"That got a little complicated, too," he shrugged. "Like I said, we were really juggling things at the time. I spent most of the winter going back and forth with the guy Jerry had come up with to buy it. His name was Ron Bush. You know how that goes. Bush wanted me to just give it to him, and I needed every nickel I could get out of it. To top it off, Jerry warned me to not actually transfer anything until this guy's check cleared, if you know what I mean. We finally settled on a price that was really more than it was worth, and sure as hell I had trouble getting the check through the bank. It wasn't until after it did that I had Spud take him to the warehouse where we'd stashed the cars and stuff."

"Carnie ... I mean, Jerry hit it right on the nose, huh?"

"Oh, yeah, he doesn't miss many tricks. Never has. Well, by that time most of the winter had gone by. Spud and I had agreed not to spend any more money on fixing up the cars than we had to since it wasn't long after we got back from the 1954 season that it was clear that we might not be going on the road again the next spring. We just kept them parked all winter. So, as it worked out, Spud and Dewey and Pepper agreed to go out on the road with this Bush to show him the ropes, so to speak. That didn't work worth a damn. Bush came up with his own drivers, all right, but they were truck drivers and like that, not a racer among them. He and Spud fought like two cats in a burlap bag, and they didn't make it a month before Spud said, 'Fuck it, ' and walked away. Dewey and Pepper went right with him, and for practical purposes, that was the end of the MMSA."

"Darn shame," I shook my head. "It was a good deal while it lasted."

"That it was," he agreed. "I didn't pay any attention after that, since I was up to my ass in alligators getting my feet under me at the agency while I tried to keep up with Vivian's ideas. But I got a lot of calls from people we'd dealt with for years complaining about this Bush joker. The tracks dumped him within the first few months, but he kept it going on fair dates for a while. But well, then, you remember that Frenchman that ran his car into the crowd at Le Mans back in 1955?"

"I remember reading about it," I said.

"I'll tell you what, when that came down I was so happy to be out from under the MMSA it wasn't funny. There were a lot of fairs that didn't want to take the risk of having race cars right in front of the spectators, or couldn't get the insurance, and well, after everything else that asshole Bush had saddled himself with, that was about the killer. I didn't find out until quite a while later that some bank showed up and repossessed the whole deal, and Bush was glad to let them have it to get out from under it. They wound up scrapping everything for pennies on the dollar. I wish I'd known about it, I might have been tempted to buy some of that stuff back. There were some good race cars and parts there. The MMSA cars wouldn't have made frontline regular midgets, but with a little work they could have been turned into some pretty decent hobby cars for guys that just wanted to mess around."

"All gone, huh?" I shook my head. "That's kind of a shame. I mean, those days are in the past, but it would at least be nice to know that they're still around."

"Well, mostly all gone," Frank shook his head. "You remember that pile of spare parts out in my uncle's barn? It's still there; in fact, it's a little bigger than it was, since that asshole Bush didn't want to take all of the spare parts collection. There's one complete car – well, more or less – out there, although pretty well banged up, and there are enough parts to get started on fixing it. Hell, there might be enough parts there to build a second car. I can't imagine why anyone would want to, though. My uncle was bothering me just the other day about getting his barn cleaned out, but I haven't figured out what to do with it. Maybe just scrap it, I guess."

"Jeez," I shook my head. "I wouldn't mind just looking at that stuff, just to remind me of the old days."

"Hell, I haven't been out there in several years myself," he shrugged. "I probably ought to take a run out there some time just to see what's left and how much of a pain in the ass it's going to be to get it cleaned up." He glanced at the pile of paperwork on his desk. "The hell with it," he said. "This shit can wait. It's too damn nice a day to be sitting inside. Let's take a run out there. Hell, let's take a convertible. This is a ragtop day if there ever was one. Maybe we can stop for lunch some place."

"I'd like that," I said. "It's good to see you again, and I have to admit to some curiosity about what happened to some of the other guys."

"Don't know myself, a lot of them," he said, reaching for the phone and hitting several numbers. "Perry, Frank," he said. "Have we got a ragtop sitting around with dealer plates on it? ... Well, how about setting one up? ... Yeah, that'd do fine. See you in a few." He clicked the hook on the phone and dialed another number. "Joyce? Mel and I are going to take off running for a while. If Viv calls, tell her that Mel Austin showed up out of nowhere, we're busy going over the old days." There was a pause. "Well, if I don't get to it today, I'll get to it tomorrow. We'll be leaving in a couple minutes if something absolutely can't keep."

The conversation went on for another couple minutes, mostly talking about business details. In spite of a huge change in his life, there seemed to be a lot about Frank that hadn't changed. He was still a friend, I discovered a little to my surprise; I wouldn't have bet on it. It was good to see that he'd made something of himself, not that I'd ever figured that he wouldn't have.

After a few more moments, he was off the phone. "I swear," he said as he put the receiver in the cradle, "Most of my life consists of doing what women tell me to do. If it isn't Vivian, it's Joyce, or Alice, our bookkeeper. I'll tell you what, Mel, there are some good things to say for just being out racing. I don't have much to do with racing anymore, except for giving small-bore sponsorships to some local short track racers, but I sure miss being out on the road and looking forward to the next race."

"There are times I miss it, too," I admitted. "I'm sorry I never thought to try to get back with you sooner, but Arlene and I had pretty well agreed that we were going to turn our backs on racing and just stay away from it, or we'd just find ourselves getting sucked in again. I really didn't want to look you up for a while for fear that I was so addicted that you'd suck me right out of a good teaching job into the seat of the 66 again."

"You made your break, and you made it at a good time, as it turned out," he sighed. "It's a damn shame that we've been out of touch, but that's over with, now. So, I take it you're not doing any racing?"

"No, not really," I said. "There's a kids' go-kart league around, a pretty casual thing, I guess, but both the boys need to be a little older before I get them involved with it. I was involved as a track official at the local track for a while, but that turned sour. While I was doing it, I managed to make a few hot laps in economy stock cars, so maybe I haven't totally lost the touch."

"The bug is still there," he smiled. "You may have hidden it, but it's still there. Let's go check out this Mustang that Perry's rolling out for us."

We got up and headed out of his office, then out a side door, where we discovered the young salesman who had greeted me at the door just pulling up in a blue '64 Mustang convertible with a black top, which he put down as we stood there watching. "Boy, that is some sweet car," I shook my head. "It's hard to believe that it was built by the same people who came up with the Edsel a few years ago."

"Yeah, no fooling," Frank replied. "We got a real hard push from the company about the Edsel, and the minute I laid my eyes on the first one I realized that it was a fire hydrant waiting for a dog to come by. But it wasn't long before Ford got on the performance bandwagon, and they're putting out some pretty decent cars these days. I think they got this one right. Would you like to drive?"

"Yeah, sure," I said. "I haven't had a chance to yet, although I've wanted to give one a try."

Frank glanced at the vehicle's description sheet. "Great, this is one of the hot ones," he said. 289 with a four barrel and a hot cam, 271 horsepower. This thing will get up and scat, probably better than one of the old midgets."

"Frank," I sighed, "Perry's already tried to sell me a car today, and now you're trying, too."

"Good," he smiled. "That's his job, and it's mine, too. Boy, this is a long way from that old '37 coupe you used to have, isn't it?"

"I still have it," I grinned. "The first year I was in Bradford, I set the Auto Shop II kids to working on it. We've pretty well restored it to like-new condition. I don't drive it much, but it sure brings back the old days when I drove it all over the country. I think I got a pretty good deal out of it for five bucks, which is what I paid for it originally."

"Yeah, but how many times did you rebuild the engine?" he laughed. "As I recall, it was always in one of two conditions, just rebuilt and needing a rebuild real bad."

"That was all those MMSA days' miles we put on it," I said, opening the convertible's door and getting behind the wheel. "I seem to recall that you were involved with that."

"Yeah, we put some miles on," he agreed as he got in the other side. "Perry, Mel here is the best driver I ever had back in the old days. I imagine we'll be out a while since we've got a lot of old days to rehash."

"I think 'best driver' is stretching the blanket a little bit," I told him. "Frankly, I think Squirt Chenowith was the best driver I ever saw in the old midgets, and Arlene wasn't half bad."

"Yeah, but you were with me for years and won three championships," he said. "Squirt was only with us for a couple months, but I'll agree, he could flat drive those things."

"I wonder what ever happened to him." I observed as I started the car. It came alive with a roar; it idled rough, but you could tell just from the sound that there was a serious engine under that hood.

"Oh, he's still around the last I heard," Frank said, speaking a little louder over the engine noise. "He drove for Spud several years, and then I guess he decided to hang it up. He was running some short track in New Jersey the last I knew."

"You're going to have to tell me where we're going," I told him. "I remember being out to the barn plenty of times, but things have changed so much that I'm not sure if I could find it in less than half a day."

"No problem, go right out of the driveway," he said. "I'll keep you going."

I dropped the four-speed into first and let up on the clutch. That car was ready to go, and it was ready to go right now. I sort of pussyfooted out onto the street in front of the agency, and then giving in to the racer under my skin, I floored the Mustang.

Frank was right; that thing was hot. There was a hell of a squall as the back tires lit up – that thing had power to burn. I was already over the speed limit, so I just dropped it from first to fourth. "Holy shit!" I said once I had it back under control.

"Yeah, right," he said. "Believe me, you aren't the first person to light up the tires on one of these things right out of the driveway. In these days of four-hundred-horse engines, 271 doesn't seem like a whole hell of a lot, but those big side oilers are mostly in things like Galaxies that weigh a ton or so more than this thing. But this isn't hot. You want hot, we had one of those Shelby AC Cobras with the 427 in here for a while. That's what a sports car is supposed to be all about, except for the fact that we had cops stopping off to write speeding tickets while it was sitting on the showroom floor."

"I can believe it," I shook my head. "That's a lot of engine in a car that small. I haven't ever seen one in the flesh, but in the pictures that's one hell of a sexy car. So, what happened to Spud, anyway?"

"Oh, he's around, too," Frank said. "He's got a shop down in Indianapolis where he builds cars, mostly sprint cars and midgets, and the odd modified. He also built half a dozen Indy cars, but he said he's not going to get into all the hassles of these new rear-engine cars. Can't say as I blame him, either."

"So, did he ever get to drive the 500 like he used to talk about?"