The large room was adequately but not harshly lit. From the high ceiling to the smooth concrete floor, not a speck of dirt or a spot of oil was visible. White-suited workers moved quietly and purposefully about or gathered in small clumps to discuss some technical problem.
Glenn Van Duser was struck by the similarity of the scene below his vantage on the railed platform to that of aerospace technicians preparing a satellite for launching. It certainly bore little resemblance to what one would expect from an automotive service bay.
"It's so quiet!" he marvelled.
Beside him, Tim Woods smiled gently and with a hint of pride. "We generally don't use any pneumatic tools or things like that," he said. "The compressors for the lifts and so forth are out back, and you saw the cleaning bay -- we wash everything down out there, so we don't need air-blasts or anything in here."
"But don't you need power tools for some work?" Glenn asked.
"Only very rarely. Most things like that we do in the machine shop next door. My chief mechanic can tell you more about it if you're really curious.
"Hey.. Jesus!" Woods called across the room.
A small man wearing a grimy gray quilted welder's cap in addition to the standard white coveralls glanced at the platform. "Gimme a second Tim," he called back. The man finished explaining something to one of the technicians, and handed him a small part, a fuel injector perhaps. Then he came to join Glenn and Woods on the platform.
"Jesus Blake, Senator Glenn Van Duser," Woods introduced them.
"Call me Glenn," said Van Duser, shaking the small man's hand.
"Right. You might as well call me Hay, everybody around here does," Blake said, returning Glenn's grip.
Glenn noticed that the man's hands were perfectly clean, breaking the stereotypical image of the dirty-nailed mechanic.
"Hay, Glenn was wondering why we don't use power tools in here. Why don't you explain."
Hay reached under the welder's cap to scratch at the top of his head. "Pretty simple, really," he said. "About half our vehicles are made by small-run companies: They don't come off anything you could really call an assembly-line.
"Take that one right there," Hay pointed at the second car over from where the three stood. "Lamborghini Countach HS-LE. They only build about fifty a year, and each one's as near hand-made as you can come.
"Between you and me, I call her 'Lambchop'. Bit anthropomorphic of me I s'pose --"
Glenn's eyes narrowed slightly at the polysylable. Indeed, the man was no mere trade-school mechanic.
"-- Lambchop was put together mostly with hand tools, and that's the way we maintain her. Mostly the reason is that it's more accurate; more sensitive.
"Take an air impact-wrench for example," Hay said. "Hook it to a pressure line, pop a socket on it and pull the trigger. Zip! You just stripped a bolt, or mangled a nut. You won't find an air wrench in this shop, but you can go to any station and find three different sizes of micrometer torque wrench."
"Hay really does a marvelous job of maintaining our vehicles," Woods said. "His crew tears every one of them down at least once a month, more often if there's reason. They magnaflux and X-ray everything, and replace anything that even smells suspicious.
"Why don't you come on down and take a look? We can dig up a coverall for you so you don't get anything on your suit."
"Don't worry about that!" Glenn laughed. "I think I'd have more chance of that in a doctor's waiting-room!"
The three men went down the short flight of stairs to the shop floor and walked over to the Lamborghini, where two men were looking inside the engine compartment and arguing quietly in Italian.
"Bonjourno!" Woods greeted the pair. "What's the disagreement?"
One of the men spat something in heated Italian and threw up his hands, then turned and stalked away.
"You excuse Geoseppi please," the other man said. "His English not very well. We argue over the turbocharger."
"What's wrong with it!" Hay bristled.
"Oh! Please, you no misunderstan' me. There be nothing wrong with her, an' that's what for we argue."
"Geoseppi and Carmine are on loan from Lamborghini," said Woods to Glenn in an aside. "A lot of manufacturers send their personnel out here to work with us for a few weeks. We learn a lot from each other."
"If there's nothing wrong with it, what's the problem?" Hay asked huffily.
"You no be mad Mr. Hay, but Geoseppi, he say maybe you lie. The turbine bearings, they shine like new. He say that they no way... how you say? Orig'nal equipment. He say you must have replace them no?"
The impending anger smoothed from Hay's face, replaced by a sly smile. "'Scuse me Tim, Glenn. I'd better explain to these boys before Geoseppi has himself a stroke."
"Go on Hay," Woods replied. "Thanks for your time."
But Hay was already involved in conversation with Carmine. "It's all in proper lubrication. Oil, right? There's this little place in Portland that makes up this special Teflon-silicone lubricant for us..."
Glenn watched as Hay and Carmine walked toward the sulking Geoseppi. As Carmine translated what Hay was saying, the other Italian's expression gradually changed from pique to deep interest.
Woods watched for a moment, then turned back to Glenn. "Why don't we look over the other machines in the shop?" he asked.
The two wandered about the service center, examining various high-performance automobiles, each bearing the discreet flying-turbine logo and windshield-mounted amber xenon strobe of Turbo Express.
Glenn stopped next to one vehicle that contrasted sharply with the rest of the high-speed metal in the shop. This car was comparatively large, making even a beefy Ferrari Testarossa parked nearby seem like a mid-size in comparision. It was a bright-red boxy looking thing, nearly eighteen feet long, with a sharply tapered nose and a skinny wing on the back which towered six feet above the floor. It was both primitive-looking and somehow elegant, like a Porsche 944 as designed by Dr. Frankenstein.
Unlike the other cars in the service bay, it was not in the process of being disassembled or reassembled by Turbo Express technicians.
Woods caught him looking at it in bewilderment, and smiled. "This," he said proudly, "is my special baby."
"What is it?" Glenn asked.
"Nineteen-seventy Plymouth Superbird." Glenn noticed a logo on the vertical side of the spoiler: The Warner Brothers Road-Runner cartoon character, holding a crash helmet by the strap. "They only built a little under two thousand of them, and there are only forty-seven left," Woods said with something akin to sadness in his voice. "There's a Chysler four-twenty-six Hemi engine under the hood -- four-hundred-and-twenty-five horsepower... normally aspirated, not turbocharged or blown -- and if you lean in and look at the instrument cluster, you'll see that the speedo pegs at a hundred-and-fifty. It's not lying either. It's an understatement."
"It's yours?" Glenn asked.
"Well... technically it belongs the company. I signed it over so I could legally take it out and bury the needle once in awhile -- don't get a chance very often anymore," Woods said mournfully.
"Anyway, every time I take it out, somebody tries to buy her from me. I've had offers of as much as a hundred-and-fifty grand."
Glenn whistled softly. "And you didn't sell?"
Woods snorted disgustedly. "She's an old NASCAR warrior; a street shark. All those people want it for is an investment! She deserves to be driven, not just parked in some environment-controlled garage somewhere. I think the old girl likes to get out and stretch once in awhile." Woods glanced at Glenn. "Maybe I'm like Hay: A little anthropomorphic sometimes." He laughed and patted the Plymouth's fender gently.
"They built something that fast, that long ago, and sold it to the general public," Glenn said wonderingly. "Over one-fifty! I shouldn't admit it, given my office, but we all know that everybody speeds once in awhile: I've never driven faster than about one-oh-five -- in my younger and wilder years, of course."
Perhaps Woods caught the slight wistful tone of Glenn's words. He gave Glenn a sidelong glance for an instant, then looked around the shop. "Hey! Shirl! Come over here for a second honey," he shouted. "Somebody for you to meet."
Across the room, a woman clapped Hay on the shoulder and sauntered over to where Woods stood.
As she approached Glenn noticed that she was a small woman, not more than five-two, but she walked like a World Wrestling Federation champion. She stopped in front of Woods, fists on hips.
"What did you say?" she inquired icily, glaring up at Woods.
"Man I'd like you to say hello to, little darlin'," Woods replied.
Without warning, the woman punched Woods in the stomach. Hard.
"Chauvanist pig!" she shouted.
Woods coughed, straightening up. Glenn watched apprehensively: The woman wore a Turbo Express driver's uniform. Glenn expected Woods to fire her on the spot, maybe even file assault charges.
"Not bad Shirl," Woods said instead. "Almost caught me that time."
"One of these days, Timmy Boy! One of these days!" She flashed Woods a sparkling smile.
"Shirl," Woods said. "This is Senator Van Duser, of the Oregon State Legislature. He's head of the committee reviewing our high-speed permit status. Glenn, Shirl Bronson, one of our 'red' rated drivers. (Red-rating is two-hundred-plus clearance.) She's one of our elite -- the fastest."
The look the small woman fired at Glenn gave him the strong urge to find a crack in the service shop's flawless floor. "So. You politicos gonna pull our licenses?" she asked belligerantly.
"Well no, ah, that is -- uh..." Glenn tried to throw off the effects of the woman's direct attack.
"Shirl's often a little less tactful than she could be," Woods interceded. "Naturally all our drivers, and the rest of us, are a little concerned about this three-year review of yours. None of us wants to see the legislature's special committe pull our high-speed licenses: We enjoy what we do."
"Well, naturally I can't commit myself one way or the other, but I am gathering information for the committee," Glenn said. "But of course everyone here probably knows that already."
"Well Glenn, I had this thought just now, a way for you to gather some really useful information," Woods said. "How would you like to take a little ride with Shirl?"
"Just a flaming second Tim!" Shirl shouted.
"Come off it Shirl," Woods replied calmly. "We don't have anything to hide. And Glenn can't get much of an idea of how we operate just by looking around the office." Woods turned to Glenn. "What do you think? Up for a little trip over to Pendleton and back?"
"Uh... well, I have a subcommittee meeting at three..." Glenn waffled.
"Glenn," Woods said in a carefully neutral voice, "Pendleton's only four hours and fifteen minutes 'round trip for Turbo Express, and Shirl's one of our very best drivers. You won't even be late for lunch."
Glenn glanced from Woods, who was looking vaguely insulted, to Shirl, who had a challenging twinkle in her eye.
"What about it Sport?" She asked silkily. "You game?"
Suddenly Glenn realized that he was trapped: He could not gracefully decline. "Well..." he said.
#
In the locker room reserved for male drivers, Woods helped Glenn adjust his borrowed flameproof Turbo Express coverall. "You'll do just fine," he soothed. "Shirl really is good. You'll enjoy it... . Just -- just don't underestimate her, is all. All she wants is a person's respect, and she'll take it if she has to.
"Understandable really, in somebody her size and sex, given her temperament. You saw that little episode in the shop -- it's a game we play: She knows I respect her, otherwise she would have taken me apart: she's a blackbelt in Taekwon-do."
Woods tucked the end of a strap under it's buckle, then tugged on the strap. "How's that feel?" he asked.
"Feels okay."
"You're sure? These suits have integral harnesses: Once you're clipped into the seat you won't be able to adjust anything -- and Shirl's not gonna stop!" Woods grinned. "Better make a pit-stop, if you get my drift -- she won't stop for that either!"
"I'll do that now. The suit feels fine," Glenn said.
#