Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [58]
Clutch, heel-toe, crank wheel (not too much this time), come off the brake, into the gas, clutch coming out straight into second gear, rear wheels catching, sheriff’s car whirling into view through the windshield, jolting forward, teasing wheel to right as sheriff brakes and jerks left, correcting wheel for fishtail, left rear quarter panel banging sheriff’s left rear quarter panel as we pass, correcting again, and blasting back north on 33. Just like Jim fucking Rockford. The sheriff’s car gets turned around and is on me with full sirens and lights as I brake hard, take a right off of 33, and ease over the train tracks onto Las Palmas.
EAST LAS Palmas Avenue shoots northeast out of the center of Patterson and straight into ranch country until it bends due east and becomes West Main Avenue around the almond orchards, then turns into West Main Street as it passes through Hatch, and finally crosses the 99 just outside Turlock. It’s a fifteen-mile shot all the way out, but the first mile and a quarter is the tricky part, the stretch where the avenue is lined with huge palm trees, one every ten yards. You hit 100 mph there? The trees look like a wall. When I was a kid, we’d drag here when we thought we could get away with it. Right before getting into your car, you always said the same thing to your opponent: “Don’t fuck up.”
The Monte Carlo was clearly put together with an eye toward on-track drag racing, but it’s currently geared for street use. That slows down the acceleration a bit, taking your 0-60 sprint time from a flat six seconds to something around seven. Ho-hum. I lead-foot the pedal to the floor.
The dual carbs make a huge sucking sound as they fly wide open, the rear end bites down hard, smoke spews out from under the tires as I leave fifteen-foot twin stripes. The animal under the hood screams and I explode forward, the cop lost in the cloud of wheel-smoke behind me. I’m still in third when the speedometer hits 100.
I am not prepared to control something like this. No one is prepared to control something like this. I’m just trying to keep straight. If I waver I’ll lose traction and spin into the wall of massive palm trees flipping by on either side. I ease off the gas. The needle peaks at 110 and starts to drop. I want to check the rearview for the sheriff, but don’t dare move my eyes from the road. The last of the trees blinks away behind me and an ounce of tension leaves my shoulders. The sign in front of me announces that my lane must merge left due to road construction.
I take my foot off the gas and tap the brake. It works just fine. I scrub a couple mph off, down to about 90. There’s the lane shift. I tap again, again, blip the steering wheel left. Too much, I’m headed for the center divider. Tap, blip right to keep from slamming the divider, and shoot into the left lane too sharply. Orange traffic cones hammer off my right fender, and rocket, wheeling into the sky. I keep my feet off all pedals as the Monte Carlo scrapes past the five-hundred-yard gouge on my right where the tarmac has been carved away. I’m down to 70 by the time the road widens back out. I hear the siren behind me again.
The sheriff’s car is entering the construction lane. What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t a monster, it’s a car. I get back on the gas, pop into fourth, and the engine rumbles happily back up to 80. The last of the streetlights disappear behind me as our chase clears the town line. I see the next sign, the one that warns about the sharp turn up ahead that you should take at 30