Chapter 6: Montague, Day 1

Much as the journalists had, the racers had split off into their coteries. And the Red Max was very much alone. That was what he was used to, and it didn't bother him in the least. It had been a busy day, and he was happy enough silently celebrating his third place finish. The feeling of a hand patting him on the back startled him; he hadn't expected it. While he was in his own world of thoughts, nothing around him was seen, heard, or acknowledged.

"Whoa, easy!" Came a mild voice from behind him. When Max turned to look, he was relieved to find it was Meekly. "Sorry, did I scare you?"

"No, fine." Slowly, Max's quickened heartbeats returned to normal. His nerves were always on edge, for one reason or another.

"I just wanted to tell you that you did good today. I think me and Sarge just had a lucky break that first day."

The two chuckled, both proud of their accomplishments. "Ah no, you do vell, too."

"Thanks. Me and Sarge have pretty lousy odds to win. The Surplus isn't exactly designed for speed."

A hint of a smile appeared on Max's face. "Already you prove zem wrong."

"Once. Whether it will happen again I don't know."

The lobby of this hotel was cozy and comfortable, much less spacious than the one in Waterloo. Not far from Meekly and Max, Sarge and Rufus muttered back and forth to each other.

Sarge shook his head, clearly at the end of his rope. "What is wrong with Meekly? I've warned him before, but he doesn't listen to me."

"I think I know what you're talking about. You mean"

"Yeah. But he doesn't listen. Never did. Almost got his ass shot off in Nam for disobeying orders. On or off duty, he never listens."

"Maybe it's not what you think. Max can't be as bad as all that. We don't even know him, really," Rufus did want to be open to all possibilities, but Sarge's words were difficult to go against.

Sarge was obstinate. "We don't need to. Germans, they always have to be the best. He's sitting over there, so proud of himself because he's beaten an American at something."

The wheels in Rufus's head began to turn, and he looked to Sarge. "Hey, us and Meekly are still going for a drink a little later, right? We could bring Max."

Rufus's idea wiped the scowl off Sarge's face. "Rufus, that is a good idea. Let's do that." The oily response did raise Rufus's eyebrows, but still, it bothered him little. How far could Sarge go, after all? Rufus did find himself going along with Sarge, who he had befriended years earlier. Max seemed to be solitary almost to the point of self-isolation, as if he genuinely wanted it to be that way.

"Hey Meekly!" Sarge shouted across the room.

Meekly raised his head and shifted his eyes around the room searching for the source of the yell. When he noticed Sarge, he turned back to Max quickly. "Sarge is calling me. I think we're going to leave now. Talk to you later!"

"Goot bye, Meekly."

Following Sarge's beckoning finger, Meekly shuffled off. Now that he was on leave, Meekly had lost his militaristic habits. It was also entirely possible that he had never possessed any in the first place. "Hey Sarge, are we going now? I've been looking forward to it."

Rufus and Sarge were leaning back in their chairs, soporific after the long day. Nodding, Rufus added, "Sure, we'll go."

"Oh, Meekly, I noticed you were talking to Max just now," Sarge began, sounding curious. The hair on Meekly's neck bristled. What would Sarge have to say about Max? He hadn't exactly been Max's biggest fan a few days earlier. On top of that, Meekly got the impression that Sarge was silently disappointed that Max had edged ahead of Peter Perfect at the finish of the day's race. "And I thought, hey! Why not bring him with us?"

Unassuming, Meekly brightened up and relaxed. "You really want to, Sarge?"

"Yeah, the more the merrier. Right, Rufus?"

Cracking his knuckles, Rufus exhaled. "Sure. Four is a good round number."

In a burst of eagerness, Meekly bounded off to Max again. Seeing Meekly's eagerness, Max seemed to catch it from him. His eyes brightened; it seemed he had been brought out of the shadows. It looked as if things would change. "Meekly?"

"Hey, Max. Me, Sarge, and Rufus are going. You want to come with us?"

The news lifted Max's spirits further. That made two invitations over the past two days. A night with the guys now, and an evening with the journalist the next day. "Yes! Zat vould be vonderful."

Meekly rested a hand on the back of the chair as Max rose. "I guess you could say we're celebrating your third place victory, huh?"

"You are sure zis is not a problem?"

"Always the cautious one, just like I remember you. Naaah, Sarge said so himself. Wed be honored to have you." It wasn't exactly that Max doubted Meekly's words; more than that, Max was still somewhat afraid of Sarge's bursts of unbridled fury. Even then, the whole scenario did seem to have a surreal feel to it.

Sarge and Rufus had gotten up, and were already headed toward the door. In two neighboring chairs, Penelope and Peter leaned toward each other, murmuring now and again. As Rufus passed by right in front of Peter Perfect's nose, Penelope followed him with her eyes. "Rufus, where're y'all going?"

Turning on one foot, Rufus staggered a few steps backward and stopped. "Me and the guys are just popping out for a drink." The other three filed past him, and Rufus prepared to turn and go out after them.

"You guys have a good time." Peter gave a hollow sigh. All the men on the race circuit looked up to him; that was no secret. Peter had always been looked upon as the ladies' man, and he was proud of that. The only drawback was that the position cut deeply into his chances at participation in the male social hierarchy of the competitors. But every good thing has its price, and Peter gritted his teeth in hopes of accepting that.

With a knowing grin, Rufus waved goodbye and headed for the door. "Oh, we will!" Pushing through the door, he disappeared after the others into the early twilight. A few moments later, something dawned on Peter.

"Penelope," he paused, trying to sort it out in his head. "Was that the Red Max with them, too?"

"I thank so. Probably just takin' him out to celebrate." That was the first time Peter had ever consciously harbored any hint of jealousy. Although that came as a surprise to him, what struck him as being just as shocking was who he found himself envying. Earlier that day Peter had played the supportive friend for Max, as he seemed to need it. At the time, it had been inconceivable to Peter that nervy, yet austere Max would be able to come out ahead after all, but that was the way it ultimately turned out. "Peter, what's wrong?" The sound of Penelope's voice brought Peter back from his brooding.

"Nothing, nothing at all." It certainly was something, but Peter would rather have come dead last in the day's race than admit it to her. What would she say to it, his resentment of a man who could barely pronounce her name? Peter tried not to think about it, but wasn't having much luck.

Out in the parking lot, the four men strode silently abreast to their oddly matched vehicles. Rufus snorted at the sight of them all parked in a line. "That's something I'd expect to see at one of those crazy car shows, doncha think?"

"I don't know what it looks like," Sarge answered, equally amused, "but you won't find anything like it anywhere else." Rufus shuffled into the Buzz Wagon, shifting Sawtooth from the center of the sight off to the side.

Sensing motion, Sawtooth lazily opened an eye, and flipped onto his back. In a peevish mood, he faced the opposite direction and tried to go back to sleep. "Sawtooth isn't what he used to be. I thought about leaving him at home, but it wouldn't be the same without him." Meekly nodded in agreement, and reached down to stroke the beaver's pelt.

"I suppose you don't mind taking your own car, Max," Sarge asked the question as more of an order than an actual question. Max nodded, and got into the Crimson Haybailer. Sarge and Meekly got into the Surplus Special, and prepared to lead the way.

Peter Perfect watched the entourage leave, and he continued to mull over everything. Why can't I have what they have? Peter asked of himself, still resentful. As far as Peter was concerned, Max had always slipped below the radar, until now. That was what made the whole situation seem somewhat unrealistic to Peter; why would Max suddenly be absorbed into the group that had never given him any particular consideration before.

"Y'all did great today, Peter." Penelope was certainly noticing the change in Peter's demeanor, and she wanted to change it. For her, there was little to occupy her interest between races, and Peter was an excellent source of recreation when he wasn't obsessing over something trivial.

"Speak for yourself, Penny." His voice was kind, but something in his voice was slightly irritable. "Only seconds away from third! I was right behind you"

"But you placed second in was it Burlington?"

Peter brightened up a bit at the memory of a better result. "You're right. It's probably good that he is on the board now." It wasn't that Penelope wasn't completely uninterested in Peter's inner conflict. She did have her own interests at heart when she tried her hand at resolving it, but like Peter, Penelope felt constrained to associate with him and only him. Not that any other racer had any sort of relevance to her. That reminded her that she had arranged to meet Julia the next day. It would give Peter a chance to spend time with someone other than her, which he certainly needed to do. But whether or not he would actually do it was another thing all together.

"Peter? Y'all just won't belave this, but I'm going to meet a journalist tomorrow for lunch. Do you think you can what's wrong?"

Without fully understanding what Penelope had just told him, Peter looked frustrated. "I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time."

"Honestly, what is the matter with you tonight? She's a friend."

"She? Friend?" This further confused Peter, who didn't think Penelope would assort with journalists out of choice.

"Of course, she. She's a nice girl, and I'm sure you could do with time away from me."

Peter wanted to protest, but decided that it really wasn't worth it. "Alright, have it your way. But how can we forget, you were today's winner. A little celebration is in order."

"Thought you'd never ask."

At the same time, Sarge, Meekly, Max, and Rufus had arrived at their destination. The building was small and dimly lit, but it looked comfortable. There was no hint of taboo to it – just soft light tricking from the gaps around the door and at the windows. Max's nerves had been on edge, but they were now on ease; the homey feel of the quaint tavern was just what he needed to soothe him after the hectic day.

The four clustered around a table, Sarge and Rufus on one side, Max and Meekly on the other. Everything began to seem okay. Inhibition was melting away, and Max felt he had finally straightened things out with the others. It was his personal aspiration to see the best in people, and this was no exception.

Once Sarge had ordered Guinness for the table, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Meekly, we should've taken the army's offer before."

"About the new tank?"

"Not just a tank," Sarge was now speaking to the whole group, not just Meekly. "A Howitzer 155. The Surplus Six is great, but it just ain't what it used to be."

As he really wasn't a military man himself, Rufus scratched his head. "A Stuart, isn't it?"

"Yup." Sarge answered proudly. "A Stuart M5. Learned to operate it in World War II. I've had some good times in that tank. But I think it's about time to retire it."

Rufus's lips twitched. "The Buzz Wagon's seen better days. Sawtooth used it as a chew toy for a while. But I think Sawtooth is more worn out than it is."

Meekly watched Max's eyes flit from Sarge to Rufus as they muttered back and forth. "How bout you, Max?"

After a deep breath, Max considered. "It ees getting better. I too vant to be trying somezing new."

"What type of plane did you say it was?" Rufus asked, out of curiosity. "I'm sure you've told me, but I forget."

"Ze Crimson Haybailer ees an Albatros D.II. It vas made before I vas born; it ees very old. Gut plane anyvay." They were silent for quite some time, left to their thoughts.

When the drinks arrived, Sarge raised his glass. "I say we toast Max's victory as we did our own."

"Yeah! Cheers!" Meekly squeaked enthusiastically, raising his glass.

"Cheers," mumbled Rufus in a throaty voice.

"Prost!" Max added, clinking his glass against the other three.

Interested, Meekly lowered his glass. "Prost?"

"Zat ees vhat ve say. Old habit hard to break."

Rufus whipped his toque from his head and patted his lips with it. Mostly, he was just trying to stay out of everyone's way. He wasn't sure what was going through Sarge's mind, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Max was oblivious. Although he ached to say something, he thought it best to just keep his mouth shut.

As it seemed, Sarge had nothing out of the ordinary on his mind. "I hear ya. The second I get used to one war, it ends and another one starts. Meekly, you best hope there's no new wars for awhile."

"Yes sir," Meekly answered with a hint of sarcasm, which Sarge ignored.

"Only 19 when I was drafted for World War II," he continued, preparing to launch into an anthology of war stories, then drawing back. "Ever actually fought in combat, Max?"

"No. I vas born in 1939, not long before my father left home to join ze army. I only vork for ze Air Force."

As soon as Sarge had requested more beer for the group, he continued. "I see. He left you to serve das Führer. Who didn't see that coming?" Sarge spat out the word Führer as he would the four-letter word that began with the same letter. He shook his head in Rufus's direction, his normally stern face contorted with snickering. At the same time, he tried to conceal this so the other two would not see.

Max tipped his head to one side, giving Sarge an odd stare. "It vas der Führer."

Mordantly, Sarge smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Oh, I am sorry. And you would know that, wouldn't you?"

Meekly gave Sarge a warning look, but Sarge was not paying Meekly the least bit of attention. Still, Meekly had confidence that Sarge wouldn't do anything extreme. Max felt the same way, although his neck felt more heat, and his stomach tightened more. To keep himself from doing anything he would later regret, Max sipped at his glass of Guinness. Rufus soon broke the distressing silence with a comment about how Dick Dastardly seemed to be improving, and everything became all right. Still, Max couldn't help getting the sense that Sarge had his eye on him, and was just waiting for the right moment to strike. Over and over again, Max occupied himself drinking, wishing that his memories of good times at home could take him back there, at least for a short time.

Back at the hotel, the Ant Hill Mob occupied the nearly empty lobby. "Hey boss, what are we gonna do while we'z here?" Mac asked, looking around. The question had occurred to the others as well. There was little scope for the imagination in the hotel.

"I dunno. Yous mugs have any ideas?"

Suddenly, Danny's rosy cheeks brightened still more, and his eyes lit up. "Hey, we ain't that fah from Albany. We could drive up there."

As usual, Kirby was enthusiastic, but doubted that they would be allowed to go that far from where they were supposed to be staying for their stop. Plus, driving to back to New York would be just like driving another race except without competition. "Danny, are you sure that's okay?"

"Nobody said it ain't."

Clyde frowned. "We only got two days. That'd mean spending most of our time off driving."

Some of the other mobsters babbled amongst each other in agreement.

Danny was insistent. "Remembuh last time we went to Albany?"

Tired and apathetic, Rug-Bug-Benny was propped up against the wall. "Yuh mean when the fuzz almost got us on the way there?"

The comment didn't bother Danny. He didn't remember that that had even happened, so it was of little importance to him. "No, no. After that."

"Yuh mean when we had just found a place to hide and Ring-a-Ding yelled, Ready or not, here they come?'"

"No, after that."

"When wez had to find a new place to hide, and had to stay in gahbage cans for three hours?"

"After that."

"When wez couldn't find nowhere to stay and had to go back to the gahbage cans?"

Danny's responses came more and more haltingly. "No, after that."

"When wez found out that it was gahbage day?"

"No, after that."

By now, Rug-Bug-Benny was stifling laughter at the memory, as were some of the others. "When wez finally got out and found the cah, but it was at the impound?"

"After that?"

"And then wez got chased by the fuzz again on the way home?"

With a snort, Clyde shook his head. "Give it up, Danny."

"Yeah, screw Albany."

As the mobsters followed Clyde to their rooms, Willy whispered to Danny, "Why did yous want to go there at all?"

"I dunno." With that, the mob split up, and filed off into their adjoining rooms. They were going nowhere, it seemed.

Several blocks away, the Crimson Haybailer wove unsteadily across the empty streets just outside Montague. The area was sparsely populated, and most who did live there were not about to be on the streets in the early morning hours as Max was. He knew it was late, and although it hadn't looked like the others were leaving the tavern, he was ready to. The awkward silences overpowered Max, and Sarge's occasional stark remarks seemed to always be directed at him.

Max blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to clear the fog that seemed to have settled over him. Nothing around him seemed real; it was all a dream. This was not the first time Max had lived in denial, wanting reality to suddenly be revealed as unreality. But it never had been before, and this was not destined to be an exception.

Words were beyond him. All he could comprehend was an emotion here, a concept there. Behind the thick mist of confusion that was smothering him, all he felt was fear. He had no room to feel anything else. Inside, it consumed him. Questions filled his mind, but not in the logical way they filed in on normal occasions. Here he was, alone and astray.

He hadn't gone far, barely out of sight of the pub. It had invited him in so warmly, and now, he wanted nothing more than to get away. But everything was overwhelming. In terror, Max channeled all his force onto the brake, and after a skid of several feet, he slid right, off the side of the road, and into the grass.

Overtaken by violent shivers, he clutched to the side of his seat. The night wasn't cold, but he was. A thundering sound shook the road behind him, but that was of little concern to him. There was no energy left in Max to acknowledge it. Colors and sounds died away, and everything faded to black.

Not far from the hotel Max longed to get back to, Colette and Laurel had turned off the light in their room and tried to fall asleep. This was difficult for Colette in her anticipation of the next day, and Laurel was just a little ball of fire. "Colette," she whispered from across the room.

"Mmm-hmm?"

"Whatcha thinking about?"

Sighing lightly, Colette answered with what she knew Laurel would like to hear. "Tomorrow. And hoping Max is in his room thinking about it too."