Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 32, No. 13, Mid-December 1987

SuperSport by Doug Allyn

Chris cranked the leather-covered wheel hard left, skidding the Morgan into the turn at sixty-plus. He eased off the gas pedal for a split-second, power-shifted into fourth, and then mashed it again. The carburetors whistled, sucking air, and the car responded with a surge of power that jammed his shoulders back into the seat as he gunned it through the curve. Sunlight was glinting off the mountain face, dancing across his windshield, and the rhythm of the road hummed through him like a heartbeat.

For an instant Maraschal’s Alfa Romeo flashed into view in the comer of the rear view mirror, at least a quarter-mile behind. Good. But Buchek’s roadster had disappeared around the curve ahead and Chris slammed the wheel with his palm in frustration. Second place. Unless he really poured it on.

He kept the pedal floored longer than necessary through the next curve, pushing the car to the limit, punishing it for being too slow to win. The course was tricky, a fourteen mile sprint up Mount Lemmon to Windy Point, but he was beyond caring about risk. He was running on the edge, fueled by anger and exhilaration, his spirit fused with the low-slung roadster, snaking through the blind curves, pedal to the metal, half man, half machine. Blind to the beauty of the mountain beside him and the desert below, he was totally focused on the road and the tachometer. A few seconds. Buchek couldn’t be more than a few seconds ahead.

He caught a glimpse of something yellow as he powerslid into the third curve in the series. A warning flickered in the back of his mind but he ignored it, invincible now, invulnerable. He downshifted into third, the engine howled in protest and the tires screamed, barely clinging to the asphalt as he stormed out of the curve. And saw the huge auto-hauler rolling slowly backward across both lanes of the road ahead.

Instinctively he cramped the wheel hard over, trying to squeeze past the truck on the right, but the car bucked when it hit the narrow shoulder. It skidded broadside into the steel guard rail and went shrieking along the barrier, grinding itself to pieces in a white-hot river of sparks. A rear wheel hooked on a guard post, snapped off, and suddenly the Morgan went airborne, plunging over the railing into space, cartwheeling on the highway, two hundred feet below.

There was a moment’s hush, broken only by the rattle of pebbles raining down the mountainside onto the pavement around the wreck. And then there was a shout, and then another, and the sound of footsteps as spectators and judges sprinted toward the accident. But Chris didn’t hear them. Dazed, and broken, he was still struggling feebly with his safety harness when gasoline from the smashed carbs trickled onto the exhaust headers. The fuel ignited with a gentle whuff, enveloping the shattered roadster in an intense, ochre shroud of flame that sent a twisted ribbon of ebon smoke coiling lazily upward into the steel blue Arizona morning.

“no..."

Five hundred miles away, in a darkened hotel room, Andy McMahon lurched suddenly upright in bed. Groggy, barely awake, he groped for the telephone, listened numbly to the dial tone for a moment, then fumbled the receiver back on its cradle and switched on the bedside lamp. His battered travel alarm clock read eleven forty-five. The glow rimming the room-darkening shades told him it was nearly noon, and after a moment he remembered where he was. Los Angeles. He’d flown into LAX late the night before and taken a room at the Marriott.

He massaged his eyes with his blunt fingertips, then buried his beefy face in his palms, trying to recall the subconscious signal that had dragged him up from the depths of the darkness.

Nothing. He couldn’t remember a thing about it. Still, a feeling of foreboding seemed to linger in the room, skulking like a jackal just beyond the halo of light from the bedside lamp.

He slid the blankets back, levered his bulk out of bed, and padded silently to the door. He stood there a while, listening, a pallid, pudgy giant in baggy white boxer shorts. He cautiously released the lock, opened the door a crack, and peered out into the hall.

An elderly Oriental couple with matching leather trench-coats and maroon cowboy hats were chattering with a uniformed bellman as they checked into a room a few doors down, but otherwise the corridor was deserted.

McMahon eased the door closed, leaned his back against it, and took a deep breath. A dream. That’s all it was. He brushed his thinning sandy hair back with his fingers, still not entirely awake. Only a dream. But a bad one. Its dark tendrils were still roiling and twisting at the edge of his memory like oily smoke. A warning? He tried to shrug it off. But in the end he lumbered back to the night-stand, and picked up the phone.

The Stone Street squad room of the Tucson City Police Department was sunlit and deserted, a warehouse for sleeping typewriters and empty desks, wrapped in Sunday morning silence. The office door at the far end of the room opened as McMahon walked in, and Lieutenant Art Gomez glanced out. Their eyes met in a wordless exchange, and then Gomez grinned.

“Andy Mac,” he said, “I’ll be goddamned.”

“No doubt,” McMahon nodded, “you got a minute, Art?”

“Sure, sure,” Gomez said, waving him in, “come in, lemme buy ya some coffee.” McMahon followed him into the tiny cubicle where Gomez spent most of his working hours. The room was a shambles, files stacked in every corner, nondescript sport-coats dangling from hooks on the door, Styrofoam coffee cups everywhere. It was a decorator’s nightmare, but it suited Gomez. He was mid-fortyish, rumpled and round-shouldered, with coarse dark hair worn unfashionably long, and a melancholy man-in-the-moon face. He looked exhausted, and one cheek was reddened, as though he’d been sleeping at his desk.

McMahon was wearing a polyester navy blazer over gray slacks, plain white shirt, no tie. His large, amiable face was a bit flushed, as though he’d tipped a beer or two too many the night before, but he looked presentable otherwise, an over-the-hill jock, a stranger you might sit next to in a bar if you felt like talking.

The orange plastic office chair squeaked a protest as he eased down on it. Gomez passed him a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, and McMahon sipped it cautiously, wincing at the bitterness.

“So what brings you back to sunny Tucson, Andy? Business or pleasure?”

“Definitely business,” McMahon said, “a murder.”

“Yeah?” Gomez said, his smile fading. “Anybody I know?”

“Chris Wilde, the writer. I understand it’s your case.”

“It’s ours,” Gomez said cautiously, “what there is of it. It only happened yesterday. But I don’t get it. Why’s the DEA interested? Is there a narcotics angle I should know about?”

“The DEA’s not interested, Art. I am. It’s strictly personal.”

“No kidding?” Gomez grinned. “You into the gay scene now, Andy? You coulda fooled me, I never—”

“He was my brother, Art,” McMahon interrupted coldly, cutting him off. “Wilde was a penname he started using back in college, in honor of Oscar Wilde, I guess. Had it changed legally as soon as he was old enough. But his name was Chris McMahon once. And he was my brother.”

“Madre de Dios,” Gomez swallowed, “I’m sorry, Andy. I had no idea—”

“It’s not your fault. We ah, didn’t exactly brag up our relationship. Hell, I haven’t seen him in years, but — anyway, I want to know what went down, Art. All my mother could tell me was that Chris was killed in a race at Mount Lemmon. And that it apparently wasn’t an accident.”

“No,” Gomez said, “it wasn’t.”

“What happened?”

“There were support vehicles parked in the cutouts along the road up the mountain. One of ’em was a truck, an auto-hauler. Somebody broke into the cab and released the emergency brake, just as Wilde’s car was rounding the turn. The truck rolled into his path. And he—” Gomez swallowed. “His car went over the guard rail, Andy. Down the mountain.”

McMahon looked away. “God,” he said softly. Gomez said nothing. McMahon rose slowly out of his chair and refilled his cup from the grubby coffeemaker in the corner. “Did ah, did the car burn?” he asked quietly.

“There was a fire,” Gomez said, “but the medical examiner said Wilde was probably unconscious when it happened.”

“Thank God for that at least,” McMahon said, staring down into the dark brew. “How did the killer get down off the mountain? There’s only one road.”

“We don’t know for sure. Dirt bike, maybe. Some of the spectators were running around on ’em. And there was a lot of confusion after the crash. Woulda been easy to disappear in the crowd. Have you got any candidates, Andy? Any idea who mighta done this?”

“Sure,” McMahon shrugged, “about half my relatives, every Joe Sixpack in Arizona who figures gays ought to be shot on sight. Chris got national media attention because of his newspaper so you can probably add a few million more bigots to the list. How’s that for openers?”

“It’s a start,” Gomez sighed, “but I was kind of hoping for something more specific.”

“Chris told me once he’d been getting death threats since he founded the paper back in ’78, a dozen or so a week, and that every time he did a talk show about gay rights his hate mail doubled. He never took any of it seriously. Maybe he should have. Victor will know more about the threats than I do. Like I said, I haven’t seen much of Chris lately.”

“Victor Lasky, you mean? The guy who got burned?”

“What do you mean, burned?”

“At the mountain. He tried to — pull your brother out of the car. Got burned pretty badly, third degree on his arms and chest.”

“Sweet Jesus,” McMahon said softly.

“This Victor, was he your brother’s... boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend, lover, whatever. They’ve been together since college. I always thought — never mind. Where is he?”

“Tucson Medical Center, he — hold on, Andy. Where’re you going?”

“To see him. He’ll know about any death threats, and—”

“Andy, I’m sorry,” Gomez said gently, “I can’t let you do that. There’s no way this is a DEA case. You’ve got no jurisdiction here.”

“Hell, I’ve got no jurisdiction anyplace, Art. I quit the narcs almost two years ago. I’m retired now.”

“Retired?” Gomez said, openly skeptical. “You? What happened?”

“I got shot at in Panama and passed over for promotion in the same week, and it occurred to me it was time to pack it in. I was burned out, Art, sick of standing there like the Dutch kid with his finger in the dike while the dopers sailed by in their yachts. Counting service time, I had my twenty-five in, so I took an early out. At three-quarter pay and full bennies. The wonders of civil service, Art. You oughta try it.”

“And now you’re doing what? Fishing?”

“Nope, I work out of Detroit tracing witnesses for a couple of law firms. Everybody’s suing everybody these days. Business is good and I’m good at it. I can help, Art.”

“No, you can’t. Look, your brother was a national figure, maybe the preeminent spokesman for gay rights in the Southwest. By tomorrow I’ll need a bulldozer to get past the reporters in the lobby. I can’t cut you in. You know department policy on involving private citizens in an open investigation.”

“Actually I don’t,” McMahon said mildly. “What I do know is that a few years back I busted some gunrunners down in Nogales, and ah, one of ’em got away from me. He was just a kid, and losing him made me look bad. Real bad. Maybe it even cost me a promotion. By the way, how’s your nephew, Art? Still in law school, is he?”

Gomez stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable. McMahon took a sudden interest in his coffee cup.

“Damn,” Gomez said, shaking his head slowly, “I must be gettin’ old. When you walked in here I was actually glad to see you, Andy. I really was.”

“Come on, Art, you know I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that’d jam you up, but you owe me one, and I’m calling it in.”

“What do you want, McMahon?”

“To give you a little help, that’s all.”

“All right,” Gomez nodded, “I’ll tell you what. Other’n the preliminary work out at the mountain, nobody’s been assigned to this yet, and won’t be until tomorrow. So you’ve got today, Andy, or what’s left of it, but that’s all. And that’s the best I can do.”

“Then I guess I’d better get started,” McMahon said, crumpling his coffee cup and tossing it in the general direction of the wastebasket.

“Not quite yet,” Gomez said. “Just so we understand each other, McMahon, one, if you get anything, you forgodsake turn it over to me. And two, if anything comes unglued, we never had this conversation.”

“What conversation?”

“Yeah,” Gomez sighed, “right.”

“Hello, Victor,” Andy said quietly.

The man in the hospital bed swiveled his head slowly toward the sound of McMahon’s voice. His large, myopic eyes were watery, clouded with pain. His forearms and hands were wrapped in strips of greasy yellow gauze, and his forehead was bandaged. The normally tangled mass of his semi-Afro was scorched to the scalp in several places, and spiky with salve. His slender, patrician face was a raw, angry red, spotted with smears of white medication.

“Andrew,” he said at last, “it’s been a long time. I’m surprised you came. Or were you just in the neighborhood?”

“No, actually I’m here on official business, Victor,” McMahon said, sliding into the white plastic chair beside the bed. “We want the person who did this to Chris. And to you.”

“Do you really? Why? To give him a medal?”

“Look, I know how you must feel—”

“No, you don’t. You have no idea how I feel, Andrew. Or how Chris felt either, about anything important. And I doubt very much that you care, even now.”

“Victor, he was my brother.”

“No, he wasn’t. Not in any real sense. You were never there for him, Andrew, and your absence spoke louder than words. Chris had many brothers and sisters in the gay rights movement. But you were only a relative, and a distant one at that.”

McMahon flushed, swallowing a retort. He rose and crossed slowly to the room’s only window and stood there a while, arms folded, staring sightlessly down at the steady stream of Sunday afternoon traffic below. “Maybe you’re right,” he said at last, “maybe we weren’t as close as we could have been, I don’t know. Things... happened. Chris had his crusade, I had my work. And our schedules never seemed to be in sync. And we... lost touch, I guess. But it wasn’t intentional, Victor, at least on my part. We were close as kids. Maybe we would have been again. I... thought we had time. I thought we had all the time in the world.”

“Maybe you did have. Once. It’s a moot point now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” McMahon said, turning to face him, “I suppose it is. Look, I know you’re hurting, Victor. Well, so am I, so let’s keep this brief. Are you willing to help me?”

“I don’t — yes, of course I am. If I can.”

“All right, what can you tell me about these races?”

“The races? Not much. It was just a hobby, really. Chris enjoyed driving and the press coverage was good for the cause.”

“What about prize money?”

“There isn’t any, only some ghastly trophies, and occasional expense money. Small change. Nothing worth, ah,” he swallowed, “nothing worth killing someone for, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Maybe not, but whoever did this chose to do it in a race, maybe hoping it’d pass for an accident, maybe for some whacked-out reason of his own. Either way, I’m going to focus on the race. I don’t have the time or resources to look anywhere else. Did Chris have any enemies involved in racing?”

“Too many to count. They’re all over-the-hill macho types playing out their little fantasies in antique cars. Most of them hated the idea of a gay driver being the big winner. It upset their sense of propriety.”

“I can see where it might, but can you narrow it down a bit, Victor? I need a place to start.”

“Maybe you could begin with the VRVC board. They tried to force him out, you know.”

“What’s the VV — whatever?”

“VRVC. The Vintage Racing Vehicle Conference. It’s the governing body that arranges the meets, sets standards, that sort of thing.”

“And you say they tried to force him out? How?”

“I’m not really clear on the details, but after Chris won the championship last year, the board changed some of the rules, something about equipment, to disqualify his Morgan from further competition. It didn’t work, though. He just borrowed another car and kept right on winning.”

“You mean he wasn’t driving his own car yesterday?”

“No, he was driving the other one, a red Morgan SuperSport.”

“I don’t understand,” Andy said, frowning. “If both cars were Morgans, why was one eligible if the other wasn’t?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about cars. I doubt it matters.”

“Where did he get this other car?”

“From a member of the movement. Chris did a humorous piece in the paper about what the board was trying to do. A gentleman from Dallas, a Mr. Avery Radmore, read it and called to offer him the use of the red SuperSport. Gratis.”

“Quite a gesture,” Andy observed.

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

“All right, the board tried to force him out, and failed. Were any of them angry enough about it to arrange the — accident?”

“I... don’t know. I doubt it.”

“What about the other drivers? How did they feel about Chris?”

“I think they all resented him, but some more than others. At the banquet after the Mid-Ohio meet, a driver named Buchek made some remarks about Chris’s driving and — other things. They had words, Buchek suggested they step outside, and Chris obliged him. Buchek left in an ambulance. He was a stubborn man,” Victor said, smiling grimly at the memory, “he wouldn’t stay down. He didn’t appear to hold a grudge about it afterward, but who knows?”

“Do you know Buchek’s first name? Where he’s from?”

“Chuck Buchek, probably Charles. From Phoenix. He was in the race yesterday.”

“I’ll check him out. Who else?”

“Last February, after Chris won the meet in Nassau, a driver named Maraschal accused him of — I don’t know, unsportsmanlike conduct or something. Anyway, he challenged Chris to a runoff, just the two of them, for a side bet of twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty—? What happened?”

“Chris won and Maraschal paid off.”

“I thought the paper was running on a shoestring. Where did Chris find twenty thousand to put up? And how could you two afford to get to the Bahamas in the first place?”

“The trip to Nassau was free. The Bahamian government picked up the tab for shipping the cars and expenses for the week. And Chris didn’t put up the money for the bet either. He ah, he bet the SuperSport.”

“He bet a car he didn’t own?”

“At the time no one knew it wasn’t his, although it’s become common knowledge since. I’m sure Maraschal’s heard about it. But then I suppose he couldn’t complain even if he wanted to. Code of the caballero and all that macho nonsense.”

“Caballero?” Andy echoed, frowning thoughtfully. “Is this Maraschal a Mexican national? Gerardo Maraschal? Ciudad Juarez?”

“Gerardo. Yes, I think that’s the name. Do you know him?”

“I know of him,” he said, “if it’s the same man.”

“He and Buchek are the only two with whom Chris had any real trouble. For the most part we were just ignored. And not very politely. And that’s really all I can tell you.”

“I want to know more about the business end of things, Victor, and about that rules change. Who can I talk to?”

“I... suppose Colonel Galmont would be your best bet. He’s a member of the board, and one of the ones who pushed for the change. He has an estate in the Catalina foothills, or rather his wife does. He married one of the Mandeville Industries heirs. Probably for love.”

“Why for love?”

“I’ve met her,” Victor said, with a wan smile. “If he married the woman for her money, she couldn’t possibly have enough.”

“I’ll tell them you send your best,” Andy said, managing an answering smile. “Do you know how long you’ll be in here?”

“A few days, they tell me. Why?”

“I ah, I thought you might like to attend the funeral. I can pick you up if you like.”

Victor glanced up at him a moment, then looked away again. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t imagine it would please your family if I came. The movement will undoubtedly hold a separate memorial service for Chris. I’ll feel more comfortable there. But... thank you for offering.”

“De nada,” McMahon said. “Is there anything you need?”

Victor’s numbed gaze wandered around the small, anonymous room, as though his future was written on its sterile walls. And perhaps it was. “No,” he said quietly, “nothing, thanks.”

The Galmonts lived in isolated splendor north of the Patano Wash near the very private Tucson Country Club. The gateposts were hammered bronze, and the long driveway was cobblestone, but McMahon didn’t really get an impression of multiple millions until he parked his dusty beige rental Ford in front of the house and realized that most of the home was underground, built into the side of a carefully groomed foothill. The building’s front façade was smoked glass a story and a half high, a broad dark mirror that reflected the empty desert beyond. He pressed the doorbell but the only sound was the dry October wind whining down from the Santa Catalinas.

A stocky Mexican woman in a frilly black and white maid’s uniform answered the bell.

“I’m Sergeant McMahon,” Andy said, flashing his honorary DEA shield at her. “Is Colonel Galmont in, please?”

The woman didn’t respond. She stood blocking the half-open doorway like Horatio at the bridge. “Policia,” Andy repeated, “Coronel Galmont, por favor.”

The woman shrugged and stepped aside. The long, open living room was cool and pleasantly dim after the heat of the afternoon. The furniture was Spanish style, dark exquisitely carved wood with subtly patterned upholstery in turquoise and black.

A tall, whipcord thin gentleman in a powder-blue short-sleeved jumpsuit unfolded himself from an easy chair, tossing his Wall Street Journal aside. His steel gray hair was worn short, as close to his skull as a helmet. He had striking, ice blue eyes set in a seamed hawk’s face, with deep creases guarding a narrow mouth. “Gracias, Marinda,” he said, dismissing the maid with a nod. “I’m Jack Galmont, sergeant. What can I do for you?”

“I understand you were at Mount Lemmon yesterday, at the race?”

“I was one of the course judges, yes, but I was up near Windy Point. I told the officers at the scene I didn’t see anything, if that’s why you’ve come.”

“Actually, colonel, what I need is some background on the race itself. I was told you were the man to talk to.”

“About racing?” he said cautiously. “Well, I suppose — forgive me, I’m forgetting my manners. You look like a man who likes a drink now and then, sergeant; will you join me?”

“You’re a good judge of character,” Andy sighed. “Anything wet’ll do fine.”

He followed Galmont across the stadium-sized room to a massively carved bar of black walnut. Real walnut. Galmont stepped behind the bar, came up with two clear bottles of Corona Cerveza, and filled a pair of pilsener glasses.

“All of the servants but Marinda are in Acapulco with my wife,” he said, as though pouring his own beer required an explanation. “Let’s see, the racing. To tell you the truth I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t know much about police work, of course, but I doubt that Chris Wilde’s death had anything to do with vintage vehicle racing. More likely it was over some homo spat.”

“He was killed during a race,” Andy pointed out, easing onto a horsehide barstool.

“Well, yes,” Galmont conceded, resting his elbows on the bar, “but — look, I don’t mean to tell you your business, sergeant, I’ll help in any way I can. What do you want to know?”

“For openers, why don’t you think his death is connected with racing?”

“Because there’s nothing serious about it,” Galmont said. “There’s no prize money, no real prestige. Most of the people involved are twice as old as their cars. It’s a gentleman’s sport, nothing more.”

“Some people seem to take it pretty seriously. I’ve already heard stories about fistfights and rules changes and heavy betting. Sounds a little more exciting than collecting stamps.”

Galmont stared at him in frank appraisal for a moment, then nodded. “You’ve been doing your homework,” he said.

“We try,” Andy said. “Can you tell me a little about the sport? For instance, what are the rules?”

“They’re simple enough. The races are either endurance runs on Grand Prix courses, or sprints on closed sections of highway like the one yesterday. The cars must be at least twenty years old and in stock condition. There are different classes, of course, determined by engine displacement, one litre, two litre, et cetera. That’s basically it.”

“I was told there was a rules change a while back, supposedly to force Wilde out.”

“Sad but true,” Galmont nodded, smiling ruefully. “You’ve got to understand that the people who founded this sport in our area are — mossbacks, old money looking for new games to play. The first races were on private estates, by invitation only. Things expanded, and eventually anyone with a vintage racer was allowed in. Then, two seasons ago, the commission found that most of the races and all of the press coverage was going to the — rather flamboyant editor of the Wilde Weekly. This was not the kind of publicity we wanted, so we decided to try to disqualify him.”

“We?”

“I’m a member of the rules committee, sergeant. I’m not ashamed of it, or proud of it either, considering how things turned out.”

“What happened?”

“How much do you know about cars, sergeant?”

“I change my own plugs, that’s about it.”

“Then I’d better give you a little background. Originally the rules allowed the cars to be modified, souped up if you will, as long as the parts used were available for purchase at the time the car was built. Wilde owned a British roadster, a ’64 Morgan, that he’d modified with Weber carburetors, an oil cooler, that sort of thing. He was an excellent mechanic and a better driver, and in that car he was almost unbeatable. So we changed the rules to ‘factory stock condition’ only, no modifications allowed. Without the extra equipment, his car would have been a marginal performer, and we hoped he’d quit.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No. He carped and whined in that damned paper of his and then showed up at the next race with a Morgan SuperSport.”

“I don’t understand. What was the difference?”

“The SuperSports were limited production models designed specifically for racing, and were sold with Weber carbs, et cetera, as standard equipment. The car was perfectly legal under the new rules. And Wilde was still unbeatable. Or at least he was until Chuck Buchek came up with a ’65 SS of his own. It’s been touch and go between them ever since.”

“I understand they got into a scuffle a few months ago.”

“After Buchek blew his engine in the Mid-Ohio,” Galmont nodded, sipping his beer. “Buchek’s a bit of a hothead. I’d ah, rather not comment on the scuffle. Didn’t actually see it.”

“Fair enough,” Andy said. “Who would have benefited most from the rules change if Chr—, if Wilde had dropped out?”

“Buchek. And Maraschal. And I would have as well. I was a consistent winner before Wilde began racing, though I’ve been less active recently.”

“Nobody likes losing,” Andy observed.

Galmont glanced at him sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You’re right,” he said evenly, “no one does. And I was a Marine for twenty-five years, in Vietnam, and in Beirut, so I know all about lost causes. But just for the record, sergeant, racing had lost its appeal for me anyway. I’d already won all there was to win, and when you’re on top, the only place you can go is down again. So I quit a winner. And it was the best move I ever made.”

“Really?” Andy said, with just a hint of skepticism in his tone.

“Yes, really,” Galmont echoed, irritated. He tossed off the last of his beer with a gulp. “Come on, I’ll show you something you might find interesting.”

Andy followed Galmont down a narrow stairway that ended at a padded, soundproofed door. The colonel opened it, and they stepped into another world.

The huge subterranean room was nearly as large as the house above it, carpeted throughout and filled with automobiles, magnificent racing machines of every size, color, and description. Each of them was a vision of raw power barely restrained, sleek, gleaming steel and aluminum animals with black rubber hooves. Andy could almost hear them snarling in the silent room.

“I’m — impressed, colonel,” he said honestly. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”

“It’s not a large collection,” Galmont said, pleased at the awe in McMahon’s tone, “only thirty or so, not nearly as large as Harrah’s, or even Brant’s. But I have some really fine examples here, a ’23 12/50 Alvis, a Hispano Suiza Type 68 bis, a Talbot 105. In racing, you’re only a winner until the next race. In collecting, a victory can last a lifetime.”

“A victory?”

“You don’t build a collection like this without fighting for it, sergeant, and the competition for a rare piece can be brutal. Did you ever serve in the military?”

“Army,” McMahon said, “four years in the MP’s.”

“Then you know the feeling of being a pawn. I endured it for most of my adult life, but no more. The difference between racing and collecting is the difference between being a chess-piece and a chess player. Or in being a sergeant,” he added slyly, “instead of an officer.”

McMahon didn’t rise to the bait. Galmont seemed a bit aggressive for a man discussing a hobby, but then it was a very expensive hobby.

“What about Morgans, colonel, do you have any in your collection?”

“Only one at the moment, and I’m afraid it’s not ready for viewing now. It’s in the drying vault.” Galmont indicated a garage door at one end of the showroom with a smaller door adjacent to it. “The car’s just been painted, and aluminum can be a bear to dry properly. Have to keep the humidity constant.”

“It’s not important,” Andy said. “You do your own restoration work here, then?”

“Most of it, yes. I have two licensed mechanics on staff, as well as a paint and body man. They work in a garage area on the far side of the building. I do most of my work in the office there in the corner, chained to a computer. I have complete files on most of the collectible cars in the world, who has them, and where, and their current market value.”

“The car Chris Wilde was driving,” Andy said, consulting his notepad, “the 1962 Morgan SS. Was it valuable?”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of valuable. The market value of ah — a ’62 Morgan SuperSport could vary anywhere from ten to thirty thousand dollars, depending on condition.”

“Thirty grand? Could it have been insured for that much?”

“Probably,” Galmont said. “Do you think this may be an insurance thing? That perhaps Radmore overinsured the car, then lent it to Wilde hoping he’d crack it up? And maybe got a bit impatient?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Andy said. “Do you know Radmore?”

“Not well,” Galmont said, “but what I do know I don’t like. We’ve gone head to head a few times over auto deals, and he can be one ruthless sonofabitch. And he’s gay, of course. They’re everywhere, you know, the gays. They’re in government, in church, even in the military.”

“You sound as though that bothers you,” Andy observed.

“I’m not crazy about the idea,” Galmont shrugged, “but I’ve learned not to worry about what I can’t change. Was there anything else, sergeant? I really should—”

“Just one last question. Do you know a driver named Maraschal?”

“I know him,” Galmont nodded. “He owns several Alfa Romeos. Excellent racing machines for their time.”

“I was told he had trouble with Wilde in Nassau. Over a bet?”

Galmont shook his head slowly, smiling. “Do you know who Maraschal is, sergeant?”

“I — know of him,” Andy admitted.

“Then you know he’s reputed to be a heavy hitter in the cocaine trade, and you’ll understand why I’d rather not comment on that particular incident.”

“I’m surprised a man who soldiered for twenty-five years would be intimidated so easily.”

“Nice try,” Galmont grinned, “but no sale. If you’re interested, you can ask Maraschal yourself. He’s staying at the San Miguel, on Miracle Mile. And he’s easy to find. He always takes the whole seventh floor. He’s superstitious, they say, but then most gamblers are.”

“So I’ve heard,” Andy said. “Maybe I’d better get over there before he gets a hunch it’s time to move on. Thank you for the tour, colonel, and for your help.”

“My pleasure,” Galmont said, offering his hand. “I wish you luck. Just one thing, though, sergeant, take a little advice from an old soldier. Don’t knock yourself out on this thing.”

“No? Why not?”

“You draw the same wages either way, right? And nobody really cares about one queen more or less.”

“Don’t they?” Andy said.

The elevator hummed to a halt on the seventh floor of the Hotel San Miguel, the doors shushed open, and McMahon found himself staring into the muzzles of a pair of 9mm automatics. A heavyset Latin in a rumpled blue suit was facing him in a combat crouch, feet spread, his weapon gripped firmly with both hands. A second, younger man, wearing a khaki safari outfit, was slightly behind Bluesuit, backing him up. Both men looked professional, and very nervous. McMahon raised his hands slowly, to show he was unarmed. “Policia,” he said.

Bluesuit approached cautiously, shifted his weapon to his left hand, and patted Andy down. He found his.38 and slid it into his pocket. He also found the badge. He frowned at it, grunted, then tossed it back at him. McMahon made no move to catch it. The second man looked entirely too jumpy and his weapon was cocked.

“Okay,” Bluesuit said, “what you want?”

“Policia,” McMahon said, kneeling to retrieve his badge. “yo soy—”

“Speak English,” Bluesuit growled, “I unnerstand.”

“Good for you,” Andy said, straightening, “because after I finish talking to your boss, you and I are gonna have a nice chat downtown about pistolas y maneras.”

“I’m afraid not, señor. Luis has diplomatic immunity, you see.” A sleek, silver-maned Latin wearing an immaculate pearl gray pinstriped suit stepped into the hallway from the suite beyond. “Our embassy was good enough to send him over after the — accident yesterday. I apologize for his manners. I am Gerardo Maraschal. My man has seen your credentials, so perhaps you should see mine.” He handed McMahon an embossed leather I.D. folder. “You’ll note that I too have a diplomatic passport.”

“Very convenient,” McMahon said, glancing at it and passing it back.

“I find it so,” Maraschal said. “Your American legal system is incomprehensible, even to yourselves, and I prefer to avoid... misunderstandings. You’re here about the killing on the mountain?”

“That’s right. Why all the paranoia? What are you afraid of?”

“The killing was done well. Professional perhaps. I don’t think such skill would have been wasted on Wilde. I was following him closely in the race, and barely avoided a crash myself.”

“And you think maybe someone made a mistake?”

“It’s possible,” Maraschal nodded. “My ’59 Alfa does not closely resemble Wilde’s ’61 SS, but both cars are red, and to an untrained eye...”

“Possible,” Andy said, “but unlikely. As you said, the hit was well done. Professional. And forgive me for being blunt, Senor Maraschal, but of the people involved, you are the only one with—” he nodded toward the two gunmen “—credentials as a — professional. And I’ve been told you had difficulty with the victim over a bet, in Nassau. Twenty thousand, I think the figure was, against a car he didn’t own.”

“And you think I might have killed him?” he said, smiling with thinly veiled contempt, “at the risk of my own life? Over twenty thousand dollars?”

“Maybe not because of the money so much,” Andy said, “but perhaps because the car wasn’t his to wager.”

“What you imply might be valid if he’d lost and failed to pay off. But he did not lose. He won fairly, and I paid the bet. And I will tell you something else, sergeant. When I learned the car didn’t belong to him, I wasn’t angry. I was amused. Chris Wilde was not an ignorant man. He knew my — reputation, and took the wager anyway. Not many men would take such a risk. I felt contempt for him before, because of what he was, but afterward—” He shrugged. “He may have been homosexual, but he was no coward. I had no quarrel with him.”

“Twenty grand might be considered cause for a quarrel.”

“To some people, perhaps,” Maraschal said indifferently, “it is not an important sum to me. And if I had wished to — arrange such a thing, I would not have done it here. There are races in Nassau and Mexico City. Wilde could just as easily have died there, and I would not have been — troubled by the local policia. And now, if you will excuse me, sergeant, I have other business. Jaime and Luis will see you out. Your weapon will be returned to you in the lobby with, of course, my sincere apologies.”

“You can keep your apologies, señor. But I’d appreciate your ‘professional’ opinion on who might’ve set this up.”

“As I said, I question that Wilde was the target, but if he was...” Maraschal paused, his brow creased in thought, one craftsman considering the work of another, “if he was, then it was done with style. A lover perhaps? An old enemy? Quién sabe? Who knows? But if it had happened in the corrida, the matador would have been awarded the ears. Good day, señor.”

McMahon took his time on the run up to Phoenix. He set the cruise control on the rental Ford and loafed along at fifty-five, trying to digest what he’d learned and to make sense of it. But he was tired, and it had been a mistake to trap himself for so long behind the wheel. As the setting sun waned and flickered behind the jumbled peaks of the Maricopas, sinister images seemed to dance in the desert just beyond his headlights, a chaotic shadow show of surreal childhood memories, gleaming racing machines, and a roiling column of smoke from a half-remembered dream.

He rolled down his window, but the rush of desert air didn’t blow away the cobwebs, so he floored the gas pedal, hoping a surge of adrenaline would accomplish what the windblast couldn’t.

The rental Ford whined in protest, swaying as he crested a hill at eighty, but there was no real sensation of speed. Nothing like what Chris would have experienced in his open roadster. And it occurred to Andy that he’d never seen Chris race. Not once. He’d always meant to, but... now he never would. He’d failed Chris, and now that failure was forever. There was nothing he could do to change it, or to make amends. Nothing. Ahead of him, U.S. 10 stretched on into the night, narrow, and bleak, and empty.

Buchek’s neighborhood was a surprise. Vintage racing was supposed to be a rich man’s game, but there was nothing upscale about the enclave of crackerbox tract houses near the Salt River Reservation. They looked like they’d been built by their owners out of scrap lumber, one room at a time. Buchek’s place was a ramshackle gray split-level ranch with peeling paint, identical to its neighbors except for the large galvanized-metal pole barn that occupied most of the back yard.

It was after ten when McMahon cruised past. Buchek’s house was dark, but there were lights on in the barn so Andy eased his rental Ford into the driveway and parked beside a battered blue pickup truck with an auto trailer attached.

He could feel the pulse of the bass as soon as he stepped out of the car, country music, white man’s blues, resonating through the steel walls of the pole barn. He crunched up the gravel driveway toward Waylon Jennings’ voice. “A Rose in Paradise.”

He didn’t bother to knock. No one could’ve heard it anyway. The barn’s interior was as crude as its shell, unpainted concrete floor, naked fluorescent tubes dangling on dogchains from metal girders overhead, scarred perf-board paneling riveted to the walls. Grease-monkey chic. There was space enough for several cars, but only two were in residence, a mid-sixties yellow Corvette minus its engine, and a gunmetal gray Morgan roadster.

The Morgan’s front end was balanced on a jack post two feet above the floor, with a pair of stumpy, overall-clad legs protruding from beneath it. A grimy, simian paw was fumbling around on the cement for a wrench just out of reach. Andy slapped the tool into the palm, it disappeared under the car for a moment, then Buchek rolled out from beneath the Morgan on a mechanic’s creeper.

He was a squat grizzly of a man in grubby gray coveralls, with a stubbled, square face and hard gray eyes topped by a greasy engineer’s cap. Andy flashed his DEA badge and Buchek accepted it without question.

“Just a sec, lemme turn off the radio.”

He crossed to the workbench against the wall and punched a button on a jury-rigged car stereo, choking off Waylon in mid-groan. Andy’s ears rang in the sudden silence.

“You want coffee?” Buchek asked, pouring a cup from an oil spattered Mr. Coffee on the bench. McMahon nodded and accepted a chipped china mug with a graphite fingerprint pattern. Black, bitter coffee, strong enough to float a bolt.

“Clutch linkage is screwed up,” Buchek said, nodding toward the roadster. “Mogs are a bitch to keep slick. You here about Wilde wipin’ out?”

“That’s right. You left in kind of a hurry afterward, didn’t you?”

“I gotta punch in at eight tomorra, wreck or no wreck, mister. Some people work for a livin’.”

“Isn’t vintage racing kind of an expensive hobby for a working man?”

“Maybe,” Buchek said, scowling down at his cup, “but it’s the only one I got. Got no wife any more and I keep racin’ as much for my boys as for me. Helpin’ with the cars keeps ’em busy, ’n outta trouble. Look, I can’t tell you no more’n I already told them guys yesterday. I seen the auto-hauler there when I took the curve, but I had my hands full tryna hang onto the lead and I really didn’t pay no attention to it. If anybody was around it I never seen ’em. ’Fraid you made a trip for nothin’.”

“Maybe not,” Andy said. “I understand you had trouble with Chris Wilde after the Mid-Ohio run.”

“Some,” Buchek nodded. “I tried to take him on a outside curve and he run me off the track. Driveshaft jammed and I lunched my engine. I was really torqued, so I got in his face about it at the banquet after the race. Funny, I never figured he’d fight, I mean, the guy’s a fag, right? Only we go outside and he cleans my clock for me. Drilled me so hard they hadda haul me off in a ambulance for Chrissake. Concussion. Bad day all around.”

“Found it a little tough to live with, did you?”

“I ah, took some static from my boys about it,” Buchek said cautiously, eyeing McMahon over the rim of his coffee cup. “Nothin’ I couldn’t handle. ’Sides, it wasn’t just the principle of the thing, it was the money. Blowin’ that mill prob’ly cost me ten grand.”

“That seems like a lot of money for an engine.”

“It wasn’t just any engine. The one I blew was the original motor. All the numbers matched.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Every car’s got a serial number stamped on the engine and the frame and like that, to identify it. If the numbers match, it means the car’s in original condition, which makes it worth a lot more to a collector. The Morgan factory still builds cars by hand, so any Mog’s rare, but the SuperSports are the rarest. They didn’t make very many of ’em, and since most of ’em were raced, only a few are still in original condition. My ’64 SS wasn’t as rare as Chris’s ’61, but it was worth at least twenny, twenny-five grand till I blew the original engine. Now? Who knows, twelve, fifteen tops.”

“So having a car in original shape is really important?”

“It is to a collector. They’re fanatics about stuff like that. They count the spokes in the wheels, the rivets in the hood-scoop, that kinda crap, but it’s all important ’cause it determines how valuable the car is. It’s a big deal with them to outdo each other. Big ego trip to own the rarest. I always figured that’s why Radmore loaned Chris the ’61.”

“You’re the second person who called it a ’61,” Andy said, frowning, “but according to the title it was a ’62.”

“Nah, it was titled as a ’62 ’cause that’s when it was imported, but it was actually built in ’61. Any car freak could tell ya that, the body styles’re different. That was the point.”

“What point? I’m not following you.”

“The ’61’s are the rarest SuperSports of all. It was the first year they built ’em, and they only made a dozen or so all told. There can’t be more’n three or four left in original condition. So when Radmore loaned Chris that car, he not only helped out a buddy, he really stuck the needle inta Galmont at the same time. Like he was saying, ‘See, my collection’s so hot I can afford to risk one of the rarest cars ever built.’ And it worked, too. Galmont quit drivin’ rather than lose to Chris for another season, which he woulda done, since he didn’t own a SuperSport at the time. He’s bought a couple since, but he never raced ’em, which is fine by me. The guy was a maniac on the track. Hated to lose, really hated it.”

“You say Galmont owns a couple of SuperSports now? How do you know?”

“Word gets around when somebody lays out hellacious money for cars. I heard he paid more’n double what they were worth.”

“I guess he can afford it,” Andy said thoughtfully, swallowing the last of his coffee. “Can you tell me anything else about the cars he bought?”

“Not really,” Buchek frowned, “I ain’t into collectin’ so I didn’t pay much attention. I just heard he paid too much for ’em.”

“I see,” Andy nodded. “Would you ah, happen to remember what model the cars were?”

“Yeah,” Buchek said, brightening a little, “I think they was all ’61’s. ’61 SuperSports.”

The noise brought him down. McMahon had been sure it would. All the soundproofing in the world couldn’t muffle the roar of three finely tuned racing engines howling wide open in a closed garage.

He came prepared, of course. Dressed in an olive drab jumpsuit and carrying an M-1 carbine, he looked every inch the professional soldier he’d been. But McMahon expected that also. He waited, flattened against the wall adjacent to the soundproofed door, and pressed the muzzle of his.38 against Galmont’s temple the moment he stepped out. The colonel hesitated a moment, then lowered the carbine without being told. Very professional indeed. McMahon took the weapon out of his hands and tossed it aside.

“Evening, colonel,” Andy shouted over the roar coming through the drying room door, “sorry about the lateness of the hour. Hope I woke you.”

“Sergeant McMahon? My God, I might have shot you. What the hell are you doing down here?”

“I had such a great time this afternoon I thought I’d come back. You’ve got a terrific collection, colonel, in fact it’s even better than you said it was. You told me you owned a Morgan, but you must have forgotten a couple. There are three of them in the drying room, though they don’t seem to be drying. They’re all in perfect shape. And since Chris Wilde’s unfortunate accident in Avery Radmore’s SS, I’m guessing they’re the last mint condition ’61 SuperSports in the world.”

“Look, you can’t let them run wide open like that! They’ll destroy themselves!”

“I kinda like the sound. There’s real power there, raw power. It must be a helluva kick knowing you own them all. A — what did you call it — a permanent victory? Quite a coup. Of course you’d probably want to wait a decent interval before showing them, but it shouldn’t take long. People have short memories, and as you said, what’s one gay more or less?”

“All right, all right, I underestimated you, sergeant, but it’s not too late to remedy that. We can work something out.”

“Can we? Like what?”

“Like a million. In cash. Deposited in Switzerland or anywhere you like. You can be set for life, sergeant. For life!”

“That’s a lot of money for one dead gay.”

“You’re damn right it is, especially since he wasn’t the primary objective anyway. The car was. Wilde was strictly a target of opportunity, icing on the cake.”

“And you didn’t have to get down off the mountain afterward, did you? You belonged there.”

“I hid in plain sight,” Galmont conceded. “I was a course judge. After the crash people were milling around like sheep and I just joined the crowd. Simplicity, sergeant, the key component of any successful action.”

“You should have consulted your computer,” McMahon said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You said your computer helped you make deals. You should have checked it before you made me an offer, colonel. For background information. For Chris Wilde’s real name, for instance. It was McMahon. Christopher Ian McMahon. He was my younger brother, Galmont. And I don’t know what your computer figures the going rate for a brother is, but I know you don’t have enough. Not nearly enough.”

“Perhaps not,” Galmont said slowly, “but I have enough to make a fight of it, sergeant. You really don’t have much of a case, you know. Are you sure you won’t reconsider my offer?”

“No chance,” McMahon said, lifting the slim Sony mini-corder far enough out of his breastpocket for Galmont to see it. “And my case may be stronger than you think.”

Galmont’s thin mouth narrowed and his shoulders sagged, but only a little. He’d been a soldier a long time. And he knew about lost causes. “I guess we’ll find out in court,” he said. “Now, can I turn off the damned cars?”

“Go ahead,” Andy nodded, “no point in damaging the evidence.”

Galmont opened the drying room door, hesitated a moment as the roar of the engines and the exhaust stench met him full force, then he covered his mouth with a handkerchief and plunged into the room.

McMahon slid the recorder out of his pocket, rewound part of the tape, and played it back. Only bits and pieces of their conversation were audible. Most of it had been drowned out by the engine noise. A pity. But perhaps it was for the best. As the colonel said, simplicity...

He slammed the drying room door and jammed a chair against it. Then he went into Galmont’s office to type the colonel’s confession/suicide note into the computer.

It was quiet in the office, peaceful. He could barely hear Galmont pounding on the drying room door.

And after a while, the noise stopped.