Page 269 of Devil’s Disciples

100

Porter

I connected the linkage to the carburetor and checked the cable, making certain it was smooth and without any kinks in the travel. After double-checking electrical connections, I looked at George.

“I think we’re ready to give it a try.”

He looked the car over, exhaled a slow breath, and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve got this thing ready to run in two weekends.” He glanced at me. “Do you really think it’ll start?”

“What do you mean?”

He nodded toward the engine. “Do you really think it’ll run?”

“I know it’ll run,” I said. “Get in and turn the key.”

“Fucker’s been sitting in here for four years.” He opened the car’s door and climbed inside. “Seems like more of a dream than reality. Had this thing shipped here from Okinawa Island, Japan.”

He’d twice told me the story about a Colonel who bought the car stateside during the onset of the Vietnam war, and then had it shipped to the Marine base on the island of Okinawa. Then, over the years, it had been sold to multiple Marines, one of which blew the engine in a drunken display of tire burnouts. He purchased the car with the blown engine and in need of bodywork, later shipping it home immediately prior to retiring.

Beaming with pride, he got in the driver’s seat, crossed the fingers of his left hand, and turned the key. On the third rotation, the sound of raw horsepower echoed off the walls of his garage.

“Hold it at one thousand RPM for a minute or so,” I shouted, reaching for the oil pressure gauge.

“Holy shit!” he howled. “She runs!”

While I verified the oil pressure, he stared at the tachometer. A face-splitting smile gave hint as to the pleasure he derived from finally having the car in operating order. Personally, I got my satisfaction out of building the engine from scratch.

Knowing that I took hundreds of parts and assembled them into a running engine with my bare hands gave me a sense of worth. The engine would extract three times the horsepower of a Detroit manufactured equivalent and be ten times as reliable.

“Take it to about eighteen hundred,” I shouted.

The engine’s RPM increased. The vintage metal signs he’d hung on the garage walls began to vibrate and shake. A quick check of the gauge confirmed we had great oil pressure.

“What’s the temp?” I asked.

“Two hundred,” he shouted.

I visually checked for oil and water leaks and found none.

“Shut her down,” I said.

He turned off the engine and opened the door. “Look,” he said, extending his arm. His hand was shaking. “I’m shaking like an infantry private in a combat zone.”

“What are you nervous about?” I asked.

“Shit,” he scoffed. “This isn’t nerves. I’ve got nerves of steel. This is sheer excitement.”

“Let me look her over for leaks and you can take her for a spin.”

“I’d tell you to feel my heart,” he said. “But that’d be weird. Fucker’s about to jump out of my chest.”

“Wait till you romp this fucker at a twenty mile an hour roll,” I said.

“What’ll she do from a stop light?” he asked.

“If you don’t have a sticky tire, it’ll just send you sideways,” I said. “This thing’s going to be a monster on horsepower with the cam I chose. You said you wanted it hot, so it’s hot.”

He tried to hide his smile but didn’t even come close. “What if I put some sticky tires on it?”