“Take some pain pills. A long drive in the country’ll do you good.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there. Just be sure you come alone.”

“Right, Franconi, alone. See you then.”

It was eleven o’clock when Bolan arrived at the little race course. There was a dirt track. There were rickety stands for about two hundred people and pits with no garages. A summer operation. The gate to the track was open, so he put the rented Chevy around the oval at a leisurely pace, figuring to shake loose somebody in charge.

A grease-marked man wearing only shorts and running shoes waved the car into the pits. The Executioner stopped.

“You run the show here?”

“Me and the bank.”

“Hear you got some hot destruction derbies going.”

“Now and then.”

“You got a car I can buy for the destruct?”

“Might. Cash?”

“Right on the radiator. It’s got to have a good solid rear end and reverse and low forward.”

“Any make?”

“Most of them are several makes.”

The man laughed. Bolan figured he was thirty. The Executioner got out of the car and extended his hand. “Scott’s the handle. Where is this bucket of bolts?”

The man said his name was Castile and that he owned the spread. He led Bolan to a battered car and outlined its history.

The destruct racer had started life as a ‘69 Chevy, had outlived three engines and six radiators and all its fenders, but it still owned both low and second and reverse.

“Got a V-8 in there right now that can snarl your pants off. I won the last two destruct derbies we had here with that little cranker.”

“How much?”

“Well, I got six seventy-five in her and she’s a winner. Purse goes two hundred. Eight-fifty and she’s yours.”

“Sold, if I can use your track this afternoon for a couple of hours. You’ll have to clear out. Want the place all to myself and this guy who challenged me.” The Executioner took out his wallet and counted out nine one-hundred-dollar bills. “Close enough,” he said.