Death Is a Lap Ahead

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Whitey Edison turned in the seat and looked out the rear window of the sedan at the sleek yellow flanks of the racing car which followed with driverless docility. The tarp was roped snugly down over the cockpit, and it rolled on rubber that was useless on the track.

“She follows nice, Whitey,” Bob Oliver said. “I can hardly feel her.”

The speedometer needle hung at fifty. Whitey turned back and looked at the road ahead, then at the oddly heavy wrists of young Bob Oliver.

The kid had a sweet touch on a wheel.

Whitey Edison let his heavy body sag in the seat and half closed his eyes against the afternoon sun. He felt a dull and constant alarm, mingled with surprise that after so many years he should once again be heading for a track, an iron in tow. His wide red face under the thinning thatch of white hair showed a remaining hint of the recklessness which it had held in youth.

If it hadn’t been for the kid’s old man...

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