Pasadena Thunder

By Steve Melton

How does an older woman go from killing herself waiting tables in a cheap diner to almost celebrity, street racing status on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena? When her brilliant, automotive engineer husband dies from a sudden, massive heart attack, Gracie Carson is left with nothing but a mountain of crushing debt, and her husband’s “mistress.” A red, 1970 Dodge Hemi Challenger. Angelo Carson may have departed this world, but the debt and the Challenger would remain. She is now responsible for both.
Her life has become a nightmare of late hours spent on aching feet while waiting tables in a cheap diner. She is has resigned herself to a life of endless, late hours kissing up to low tipping jerks for her survival. The Challenger is her only hope for salvation.
It is a monster, surrounded by a history of death, destruction. It was “born” in the Chrysler plant in Fenton Missouri in 1970. Then, deliveted into the hands of young Harley Kessel, a ridge runner who smuggles illegal moonshine and cigarettes through the mountains of North Carolina. A 160 mph pursuit results in the death of a local patrol officer, forcing Harley to flee to his brother’s farm outside of Pasadena. When Harley is killed in a poker game, his brother takes possession of the Challenger. For decades it sits rotting in the weeds behind the barn.
Angelo Carson rescues the old relic and spares no expense restoring it to its former, immaculate condition. He plans to use the car to showcase his new Triton II tires. He dies before completing the project, leaving his wife with the staggering research and development debts.
Then, Gracie discovers the Challenger is unbeatable after being goaded into a money race by a young punk with the fasted car in town. In spite of not being a skilled driver, the race isn’t close. She collects the two grand pay off. She never realizes that the tires are the secret component making the Challenger unbeatable.
Gracie meets the Frank Brady, Chief of Police, after being arrested while racing the Challenger. The Chief falls for her and they become a couple. He clears the way for her exploits, allowing her to make huge money street racing. The Challenger makes it possible to retire all her debt.
There is only one challenger left in Pasadena. Bill Frost is twenty one year old loser trying to get through high school. He is a psychopath with a rap sheet that even puts a hardened cop like Brady on edge. Frost is the owner of a 427 cid, fuel injected, 1967 Camaro. The car is a bare bones, street scorcher designed to do one thing. Accelerate like a howitzer round between stop lights.
Every thing is leading up to a showdown at an abandoned airstrip outside of town. The payoff will set Gracie and the Chief up for life. Will the Challenger be her salvation? Or will she die racing on the streets of Pasadena . . . . . before the hit man finds her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Melton
• Release date: Jan 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310548215

Steve Melton

Steve Melton has authored an eclectic assortment of works. “Presidents and Kings” is his first published novel. "Searching for Aunt Bea" is his latest offering. Soon to follow will be "Pasadena Thunder," a fictional work about a little old lady who races a Dodge Muscle car on the streets of Pasadena. Other works waiting in the wings are a collection of novelettes. Several volumes of children’s poetry. And a volume of stories from his childhood growing up in the fifties and sixties in the middle class suburbs of St. Louis. Steve is a graduate of the University of Missouri where he studied journalism, art and photography. He served four years in the United States Air Force as an overseas communications specialist. He earned his teaching credentials form Lees McRae College in North Carolina. He retired after twenty years of teaching Junior High and High School Social Studies. He does volunteer work at the Missouri Home for Veterans in St. Louis. Inspiration for his characters comes from his father and other military warriors he has had the honor to know and associate with during his life. Steve's knowledge of Blue Ridge Mountain life and culture was the inspiration for another soon to be published novel, "Blue Ridges - Silver Streets." He laughingly refers to himself as a “real renaissance guy” with interests in writing, music, cooking, photography, comedy, physical fitness, Biblical teachings and a growing relationship with Jesus Christ

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Introduction

Three o’clock in the morning. Not exactly a traditional hour to be coming home from work. At least there had been no time clock to punch. No insufferable boss to deal with. No backbiting coworkers or secretaries. The work would be completed while seated in a custom built, form fitting, leather seat. The paycheck? Not a check. Each evening’s work paid in cash. Lots of it. Tonight there would be three grand. In three rubber banded rolls of hundred dollar bills. It was a hefty bulk that could be felt in the pocket of the red, silk, leather jacket. An evening’s work completed in nine second bursts every couple of hours.

It was work that offered near-celebrity status in an occupation that was regularly featured on local evening news broadcasts. Self esteem. Job satisfaction. Out of debt for the first time in years. Close, personal friends with the Chief of Police. And a magnificent set of wheels. A 1970, shiny red, super stock, Dodge Challenger. Not bad for a woman who had stopped counting candles at fifty nine. Gracie Carson was making a damn fine living unleashing her red beast on the streets of Pasadena.

///

There was a comforting sameness to it all. Returning home in the early morning darkness, as she wheeled the big Mopar into the driveway leading to the back of the house. The cicadas and crickets ceased their calls. Crunching gravel. The shuddering rumble of a huge hemi announcing its presence through dual chromed tail pipes. The Challenger was home. Time to cool down. Rest. Waiting for another chance to chew up more asphalt the next evening.

No color at that hour. Only monochromatic shades of black and gray. Thick-bodied beetles would be buzzing. Many of them crashing into the brick wall supporting the porch light. Falling to the concrete. If not damaged, rising for a repeat performance. There was the indescribable aroma of another early summer morning, before the sun sterilizes the earth, beginning another day. It all seemed to meld into an early morning welcome home mat. In a moment, she would be feeling the soothing hot needles from a high pressure spray. Winding down her pulse, blood pressure. Soon she would be folded between fleece blankets in a chilled bedroom. It always took a while before the vibrations subsided enough to allow her to drift off into a foggy, dreamy replay of another evening spent in competition with younger drivers with much faster reflexes. Younger drivers who always lost.

///

Her husband really had been a genius. At least that was all the talk at the funeral. She never knew. She had always been frustrated by the extended periods of absence. Vaguely aware that he was spending all his time bowing before the altar of automotive performance. The almost unattainable goal of shaving so much as a sliver of a second off a quarter mile elapsed time. She was coming to recognize the presence of his genius every time she pulled into the corrugated steel structure that had housed his almost clandestine automotive research projects over the years. Emotionally and physically he had left her years earlier. It had been too gradual to be devastating. It was his tunnel vision. A single-minded obsession for the thing that would set the automotive performance world on its head. To state that his holy grail had been the development of a never before seen high performance tire compound would be an almost unforgivable understatement. At work, it was constant long stretches of overtime. At home, he spent countless hours in his corrugated lab working on things automotive that she would never be privy to. Or, be able to understand. Or, so he believed.

After three decades of marriage, he had left her with nothing, other than the shock of having to witness his immediate departure from a massive coronary. It wasn’t long before she realized the crushing debt that she was now responsible for. Scores of unpaid bills and debts demanding payment from the Everest at the center of the kitchen table. There had been no insurance money. No savings. Nothing to fall back on. Except for two sets of mysterious, high- tech street racing tires. It was a last gift to his beloved shiny, red, super stock Dodge Challenger. He would have preferred to man the Challenger to his next destination. It was a tragic injustice that no coffin existed that could accommodate both the body and the car. The car and the debts remained.

Her past few years had been spent wearing a grease-stained, white uniform. And that damned paper hat. It was an existence that was more of the American nightmare than dream, at least for a woman of somewhat advanced years. Standing on her aching feet ten hours a day. Hoping tips would cover even the most meager of living expenses. She had been forced to transform herself, almost overnight, into a hard pragmatist who realized the necessity of putting on the smile, turning on the charm, and kissing enough low tipping assess to keep food on her table. It was a far cry from the salad days when her husband had finally scaled the corporate mountain, becoming a top echelon research and development technician. It was a talent he used to create his mistress.

She was now behind the wheels of that mistress. Once again returning home. The earplugs were removed. There was another three thousand dollars in her black fanny pack. About average for an evening of street racing. The money was almost enough to make her forget about that moronic car song from the sixties. Back then it had sounded so fresh and exciting. The distorted sound rattling through cheap speakers in pocket transistor radios. Lately, it had done nothing to make her feel fresh and exciting. Just annoyed. Resentful. If the two clowns that wrote that song had actually been living in Pasadena, she would probably have hunted them down and driven them off the road. Thanks to her husband, she might have been able to do it.

Chapter 1: Rise of the Vulcan

Angelo Carson had been too brilliant, too ambitious and too aggressive once he was finally handed that top priority project by the Titan Traction Tire Company. Triple T for short. After nearly three decades of government regulations choking the life out of automotive performance, the horsepower wars were on again among all major manufacturers. Engine performance ratings had gone through the stratosphere. They were now at the point where wrenching another few horses out of a high-tech mill translated into almost negligible performance results. The industry had been reduced to the common denominator of bragging rights as to which company offered the most power under the hood.

Performance may have started at the point of combustion. But the last link in the chain was always the drive tires. The management team at Triple T had come to realize that the potential for performance rubber had been barely tapped. Angelo was thirty years out of MIT. Graduating at the head of his class, far ahead of whoever might have been in second place. Entering the arena of high performance automotive technology, he instinctively realized that increased performance success was not in metal on metal technology. It had to be in the research and development of high tech vulcanization processes and materials. It took nearly thirty years for Angelo Carson’s ideas to find a voice in the company. His brilliance could no longer be ignored. He was handed the reigns of his first research team. That team of relative youngsters (coupled with an almost limitless budget) made it possible to put his ideas to the test. The results of his first theory on improved vulcanization procedures handed Triple T the breakthrough they were dreaming of. It was the development of a tire compound that promised at least half second decreases in quarter mile acceleration times over any other competitor. Skid pad G forces showed similar results. It was a tire that fell just short of allowing an ice cream truck to compete on a racetrack. The new tire was christened the Triton Accelerator. Angelo earned the nickname Vulcan.

It was inevitable that an impasse would result in an earlier than desired retirement for Angelo. He had been merciless in his single-minded quest for excellence. It had been an almost panicked attempt to make up for lost time. He came to be regarded as the stereotypical, insufferable, superior whose long awaited success had gone to his head. It had taken him less than three years to create attrition rate that resulted in replacing his team three times over. He never meshed with the young hires. Carson was disdainful of their lack of knowledge regarding basic engineering principals. He couldn’t fathom, tolerate, or, understand the lack of respect for elder engineers and technicians. As a result, Carson kept the exit doors revolving.

It was only a matter of time before he was clashing with upper level management over every one of his processes and theories. He frequently expressed his unabashed opinion that he knew better than upper level management how to make the company a greater success. He was not wrong in his evaluations. They were opinions that never found an ear. He came to be regarded as an immediate threat to the power structure at Triton Tire. There was little tolerance in the long run for any subordinate with dictatorial notions on how to run a multi million dollar industry. Triton Tire decided that catching lightening in a bottle with the wild success of the Triton Accelerator was more than enough to drive the company into the immediate future. Common consensus among upper lever executives was that it would likely be years before the competition would be able to catch up. They were no longer willing to tolerate Carson for any amount of further accomplishment, no matter how stunning. They were looking for young Olympians right out of engineering school, with young faces with fresh ideas. Carson no longer fit that mold.

They never knew Carson had an insurance policy. For all his lack of management skills, he was still a linear, futuristic thinker. He had not exhausted all his talents with the Triton Accelerator. There would be an Accelerator II. They were plans he developed on his own time during the research and development phase of the first Triton Accelerator. The new tire would leave the Accelerator I in the dust. It was an insurance policy for the future. Had they known, they would have been a bit more tolerant of their well-seasoned, overly confident genius, at least for a few more years.

Chapter 2: Street Games

What else was there for overly affluent youth to do on a Saturday night in Pasadena, other than getting in trouble? Or, racing packs of small, expensive, high-tech, imports. Frequently, both activities were one in the same. Local police officers and patrolmen were finding themselves powerless to control the ever increasing mania of street racing. Things were getting to the point where there was less interest in street safety than in the large amounts of revenue that came flowing into local coffers from stiff fines and penalties imposed by local ordinances.

Car owners were unconcerned over the ever increasing level of fines for street racing, or being caught behind the wheel of an illegally modified machine. Mommy and Daddy usually had deep enough pockets to ensure that their overindulged offspring would never have to suffer the humiliation of being without wheels for a weekend. There was also the added benefit of keeping their kids out of sight and out of mind for long periods of time, until their mangled bodies were scraped off the pavement and zippered into black body bags.

When points against a license started mounting, a generous donation to the worthy cause of law enforcement had a convenient way of keeping driving privileges intact. It became a known fact that punishment was infinitely more profitable than prevention. Mounting fatalities further increased ratings numbers for networks willing to spill the carnage all over television screens. Higher ratings guaranteed increases in advertising revenues. When it came to news coverage in Pasadena it was a quietly discussed news axiom that If it bleeds, it leads.

Street racing was lucrative. At least for those from the more affluent areas of Pasadena. Brilliant marketing strategies were responsible for these cars resting on Triton performance tires. They were the few who could afford the bang, and thus were able to collect the lion’s share of the bucks on the street. That is, until Gracie Carson showed up one summer behind the wheel of that old school, shiny red, super stock Dodge. It was a powerful machine for certain. But low tech by contemporary standards. Except for the tires with the raised white lettering announcing the arrival of the Triton II. It was the only technology that Mattered on the streets of Pasadena. Unlike many illegal modifications, the rubber was legitimate . . . . . at least for the time being.

///

Preston Vox was looking for trouble. Only he didn’t realize it. It was a way of life he would never associate with the word trouble. His family had recently relocated to Pasadena. He was still getting a feel for the local street racing scene. He had taken a lot of money in the past few weeks from foolish marks that had no idea that his expensive automotive hardware was only exceeded by his lightening reflexes and skill as a street racer. He was looking for one last race before heading up Colorado Blvd. towards the Glenmore freeway. Then, home, with his winnings tucked safely into the console. Just one more pigeon would ensure funding for the latest upgraded nitrous oxide system for his current ride. He was idling in the parking lot of a local all-night burger joint, alternately glancing at his gold Rolex, and scanning the neon-lit street over the hood of his Talon. Sitting in the furthest corner of the lot, he might never have made the acquaintance of Gracie Carson had she not developed the habit of parking as far away from a crowd of parked cars as possible. It was a consideration that had kept the Challenger un-dinged and pristine since her husband had passed on. All she wanted was a quick burger and shake. It was a small, late night indulgence that always seemed to rear its fat little head after an onslaught of late night fast food commercials on cable TV. She hated the idea of not staying trim. She allowed herself to become weak, once a week. This Saturday evening was her weak time.

Preston Vox was nothing if not a complete smart ass. It was an extremely annoying talent that more often than not goaded rivals into taking him on in high stakes street races. Preston always won. Sometimes by car lengths. Sometimes by inches. But he always won. He had over fifty grand tied up in his motor. He spent thousands on the latest nitrous equipment and fuel injection systems as soon as they hit the market. Sometimes even before. He was well connected. He was also well known among local speed aficionados in town as unbeatable. He didn’t see any reason to think that red Challenger would be any . . . . . challenge.

The car was loud. He was muttering to himself. Probably a hemi. A couple of Holleys with some generic bolt on crap from a local speed shop. Max four hundred fifty horses. Low geared posi-traction rear end. Heavy. No top end. Probably some teenager stole the keys to his old man’s muscle car for some joy riding. Never seen this one before. The little puke probably can’t get the thing off the line without wasting a lot of time melting the rear tires. No nitrous. This should be easy.

He noticed the tires. They were Tritons, just like the set on his machine. Only these sported a II next to the brand. It was a II in raised white script that gave an immediate impression of speed. As if that II on its own could hit a hundred twenty in a heart beat. How did someone get the jump on him? He had always been the first guy on the street to pick up on anything new. He intended to find out. After he blew the doors off the Dodge, he would take the fool’s money and get himself a set of upgrades.

An old lady stepped out of the Challenger. Preston felt as if he was observing a late night apparition. He was looking at an old soul emerging from an old relic of a car. It was cognitive dissonance to the third degree. He was talking to himself. No way. Oh, no sweat. She’s just the passenger. No, she’s the driver! What’s wrong with this picture?

He was out of his car in an instant, hollering at her from over the top of his Talon. "Hey sweetheart. That bad boy belong to you? It would be an expensive mistake.

Chapter 3: Past the Fear

After her husband died there had been no other vehicle to fall back on. She had the Challenger. She also had a ton of debt. At least she had a clear title. She couldn’t afford more modest transportation. At first she had been terrified of the big machine. It had taken months of experience behind the wheel to realize that it could be controlled. On numerous occasions her husband had tried to coax her into sliding behind the wheel for a quick spin. She would have none of it.

Look, it’s like this. You can drive it slow and easy. Like the family sedan. Or you can drive it like a funny car. You’re the one with complete control over the car. You don’t have to race it, he had tried to point out. It was all in vain. He couldn’t stand fear or disinterest, especially in her. They were perceived attitudes that aged her in his eyes. She just wasn’t capable of sharing his enthusiasm for his creation. At least not yet.

She wouldn’t be sold. Even the chrome handled Hurst shifter intimidated her. It took a long time of forced, everyday driving to come to the conclusion that her husband’s evaluation of his beloved machine was accurate. She eventually became quite comfortable with its operation. Even enjoying the occasional admiring looks (many from men her age) and horn honks from those who still admired old school, heavy metal thunder. But it was a long time before she ever pushed it . . . . . in spite of frequent spontaneous challenges at stoplights on Colorado Boulevard. The Challenger became therapy. The vibrations coming from the big hemi had a way of massaging some of the pain from her aching feet while driving home from work.

It was always the same. Some high tech rice grinder would pull up beside her. She would see the sneering sideways glances, while her senses were assaulted by the high-pitched revving of a small, high-tech motor. She never responded to the challenges. There were the insults fired through open windows, loud enough to be heard over the rhythmic thumping of the Challenger’s idling hemi. They were nothing more than matador punks eyeing the car. It was a huge red bull stomping, pawing the ground, and looking for a victim to pulverize. Gracie had always driven the car like the family sedan, having no idea of the performance potential of the Challenger. Up until the point that late night when she found herself being verbally assaulted by Preston Vox.

It had been a long day. She was tired, hungry and fed up with young street racing punks making so much as a needed, short, pleasant drive impossible to enjoy. She was about to step into a dimension of speed and money she didn’t know existed.

///

She was startled by the voice coming from across the lot. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed a tall twenty something, with an all too trendy, spiky coif. It took a minute for the cloying aroma of his expensive cologne to invade her senses. Was his attention focused on her, or the Challenger? She had the impression that the young man was sizing her up. For what, she didn’t yet have a clue. It certainly wasn’t a pickup line.

Hey grandma, looking for a little challenge tonight?

No, sonny, just some food. She was walking towards the order window, intent on ignoring the young punk.

I can dig that. Can’t race on an empty stomach, can we? His voice as annoying as his cologne. She was feeling the first tinges of irritation.

What do you mean ‘we’ sonny? You got your mother tied up in the trunk?

Late night waitressing had made her quick with aggressive comebacks. If she had been waiting on him at the diner, a cup of accidentally spilled, steaming coffee in his lap would have shut him up, except for the pain and screams.

Yeah sure. Maybe I’ll let her out and she can race me in that petrified piece of dinosaur crap you’re driving, he replied.

His response had been automatic. As if practiced a hundred times before.

She stood, taking his measure. He was tall. Too good looking and too conspicuous, like his car. He was no physical threat. He wasted no time getting to the point. A money race.

I got two grand that I took off the last joker who rolled across this lot that says that piece of crap Mopar can’t stand up against my Talon. That is if you even know how to drive that sled.

She had never raced the Challenger, even though she had been with her husband when he had snapped it through the gears on a few occasions. The front end had actually come off the street. It scared the hell out of her. It was fear coupled with the deafening roar of the engine, and the pressure she felt on her slight frame as the car accelerated at an insane rate of speed. She didn’t have the money for a wager. Nor, did she feel she had the skill to get the Challenger to perform at a competitive level. At this late hour the kid with the mouth was getting all over her last nerve. Wait a second. She was the adult. She could come up with words to get the kid to back down. She threw out her bluff.

Tell you what sonny boy. Why don’t you go and win a few more races against some real muscle. Then come back and see me. I won’t be too hard to find.

It was a line she her husband had used a few times. She thought she could mimic the attitude. That should do the trick. The bluff didn’t work. He instinctively knew the exact comeback that would get her to bite. He started that famous lyric. Everybody says there’s nobody meaner than the little old lady form Pasadena.

He paused, studying her face in the dull light, looking for any discernable reaction. There was none. He tried again. Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny. Tooth Fairy. Boogeyman. Bigfoot. UFOs. And now the little old lady from Pasadena. All a bunch of #%*#. He paused for effect. Grinning. Sneering. Including YOU!

He was laughing at her. He knew he had her. She hated being laughed at. At this point it wasn’t about the money. It was about machines and who had the fastest one. He suckered her into betting her meager paycheck against two thousand dollars of his evening’s winnings. There was no chance he would lose. He had eaten up numerous late sixties, early seventies muscle machines over the past few years. This would be no different. Just another muscle car notch on his polished, solid ebony shifter. For the first time, Gracie Carson was about to let her anger get the best of her. It would also come close to getting the best out of the Challenger. She was beyond annoyed. The decision was made. Losing big beats not racing at all, if it would shut the youngster’s mouth. Anger would be driving her, and the Challenger.

Preston was pleased with his ability to lure one last pigeon into his little street game. Even if she was just a clueless little old lady. The hour was late. The stretch of Colorado Boulevard between Figueroa St. and the Glenmore Freeway was practically deserted. The cops that patrolled the strip were likely taking a break in one of the local donut shops. The culture, cops and donuts were all stereotypical, but deserved. Both cars rolled off the lot, side by side into the night. One cruising smoothly, quietly. The other shaking loose gravel off the curb.

Chapter 4: Conception

That idea is so off the wall. It’s crazy. You’ll never talk the suits upstairs into funding this one. I think you got lucky with the Triton I. I just don’t know about this one. It’s going to take a lot more than luck and a bigger budget to pull this one off. It would take some kind of brilliant, mad scientist to come up with a practical, cost effective process to meld vulcanization and metallurgy into a workable compound. Then it still has to be mass produced on a large scale. Come on Angelo, even you have to realize . . . . . . . . . .

Hank Stern was stopped in mid sentence by Carson’s all-knowing grin. It was strange how that grin always seemed to appear at such times, plowing a few more wrinkles into an already aging face. The grin always came before dropping another atomic bomb of an idea on the peons who worked with him. He already had the problem solved.

Oh come on already Angelo. Don’t tell me you already got the whole thing figured out.

Yes.

This one word response, coupled with that know it all look, told Hank Stern all he needed to know.

Stern had been the lone survivor of the Carson purges over the past few years. He was much younger than Carson and quite brilliant in his own right. He too was a forward, linear, abstract thinker. He was not quite in the same league as his boss. However, his one saving grace was his function as a proper sounding board for Carson’s theories on compositions and production methods. Others who had been let go invariably left the company muttering epithets about butt kissing yes men. What they failed to realize was that Stern was one of very few that operated close to the same intellectual level as Carson. Stern