Chapter 33: A Sleeper Car?
Chapter 33: A Sleeper Car?
Jack lost.
According to Cole, it had been happening a lot lately.
It was not that Jack was particularly bad. His opponent simply seemed too strong.
That guy in sunglasses must be pretty skilled.
When Jack returned to us a short while later, he was visibly dejected. Seeing him silently hang his head was unfamiliar, considering he normally never stopped running his mouth.
“Jack, that was seriously close this time.”
“…Good effort.”
Cole and I offered him brief words of encouragement, but he did not seem to hear us.
He had the face of a man who had lost both his money and his pride.
Nearly every race at this underground gathering involved a wager. The amount depended on what the two drivers agreed upon, but one or two hundred dollars was the most common.
When emotions ran high, people supposedly even wagered their cars.
It was known as a pink-slip race, a term said to have originated from vehicle ownership documents once being printed on pink paper.
(Translator’s Note: Pink-slip race — A race in which the competitors wager ownership of their vehicles, with the loser transferring the vehicle title to the winner. The expression comes from the American association of vehicle-ownership documents with a “pink slip,” although document colors varied by jurisdiction)
Still, betting an entire car on a single race….
It was a culture I still found difficult to understand.
“Hey, Jackie. Do you still have enough money for gas to get home? I can lend you some if you need it. Hahaha.”
Jack’s opponent from the previous race, the man wearing sunglasses, parked his car and sauntered toward us.
His teeth were unusually white, while his sunglasses were exceptionally dark, making him look like a character from a movie.
“Just keep walking, Cyrus. You already took the money.”
Cole growled quietly beside me.
“Losers who quit racing don’t get to butt in. If you have something to say, settle it on the road. Don’t you know that?”
“That… I….”
Cole trailed off.
Jack and Cole.
The two of them were famously energetic, to put it kindly. This was the first time in ten years that I had seen both of them this quiet at once.
“Oh, right. Didn’t you say you can’t drag-race anymore because of that big accident years ago? Are you scared?”
Cyrus, the man in sunglasses, shrugged.
“…That’s enough.”
At that moment, the brief words slipped out of my mouth.
I was not sure why.
“And who are you? I’ve never seen you before.”
His eyebrow twitched.
“Jason, I’m fine. Let’s just go.”
“Yeah. There’s no reason to waste time on someone like him.”
Jack and Cole simultaneously turned my body away.
But then—
“Hey, you. Jason or whatever your name is. What do you drive?”
The voice of Sunglasses—no, Cyrus—came from behind me.
“That car.”
I casually pointed at the Rambler.
“Pfft…. This just keeps getting better. What makes someone who showed up in a car like that act so confident?”
Cyrus scoffed as though he genuinely found me ridiculous.
In his eyes, someone who arrived in a decrepit Rambler was probably the equivalent of an untouchable.
In this place, a car served as identification, and horsepower determined rank.
“But that little car would probably be faster than yours.”
At that moment, Steven appeared behind us from wherever he had been, with a little ketchup smeared around his mouth.
“Steven…. Even coming from you, that’s complete bullshit.”
It seemed Cyrus already knew Steven.
“Really? Then race it. You know the rules around here. If you have something to say, settle it with a race. How about pink slips? We’ll need time to tune it, so the race will be in two weeks.”
Steven spoke in a way that subtly grated on Cyrus’s nerves.
“That joke’s gone too far, Steven. Do you seriously think my car is worth the same as that thing? There’s nothing to gain from winning a shitbox like that. Besides, no matter how much you tune it, the base car itself is—”
“Haa. That’s exactly why you’ll never amount to anything. A guy driving a Charger is too afraid to face a sixty-year-old Rambler? Forget it. I’ve lost interest.”
Steven casually cut him off mid-sentence, then turned around without hesitation.
Step, step, step—
“…Damn it.”
After we had taken about three steps, Cyrus’s low voice came from behind us.
“Fine. We’ll do it your way. Pink slips. Bring the title properly prepared.”
His sunglasses flashed viciously beneath the headlights.
“Jason, how much did you say your Rambler cost? I started this, so I’ll take responsibility…. Haa….”
Back at the warehouse for what they called a strategy meeting, Steven roughly scratched the back of his head and sighed.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Without realizing it, I gave him the same look and tone I used to have.
“No…. I got angry before I knew it…. And I thought that if we combined my drag-racing experience with your skills, we’d definitely win….”
Unlike the confident way he had faced Cyrus, his voice grew quieter as he cautiously watched my expression.
“…Jason. I’ll buy that Rambler.”
Jack, who had been sitting bent forward in silence, suddenly lifted his head.
“But you’ll have to handle the car. If we win, we can sell the Charger we take and split the money evenly.”
“Oh! Jack! That’s a fantastic idea. Then I’ll supply the parts.”
Steven’s voice suddenly regained its energy.
“No, what are you—”
“Then I’ll prepare the tires. Top-grade drag slicks.”
Even Cole contributed.
The three of them cautiously turned toward me, the only one still silent.
Haa, these idiots.
They were reckless and impulsive, yet they would still watch one another’s backs to the bitter end, no matter what happened.
I did not know whether that was what they considered friendship.
Whatever the reason, however, the terms were quite favorable.
The risk was extremely low, while the return was one-fourth of a Dodge Charger.
“…All right. But I’m warning you now. I’ve never tuned a drag car before. I can’t promise anything.”
“Really? Thank you. That’s enough.”
“Whoa. Jason actually agreed to this?”
Jack and Cole looked genuinely surprised, while Steven silently patted me on the shoulder.
For some reason, the expression he gave me looked deeply satisfied.
“Still, if we’re going to beat Cyrus, we need to know his car’s setup and horsepower….”
However, Cole’s next remark instantly deflated the excited mood.
“You can’t know that unless you’re the owner or one of his closest friends….”
Jack responded in a dispirited voice.
People who participated in drag racing usually kept their vehicle’s horsepower and setup secret.
Nothing could be done about parts visible from the outside, but looking inside someone else’s engine compartment was one of the greatest taboos.
It was practically the same as openly declaring that you intended to steal your opponent’s expertise.
There were even NT, or No Time, races for drivers who did not want their elapsed times revealed.
(Translator’s Note: No Time / NT race — A drag race in which elapsed times are not publicly displayed or disclosed. It allows competitors to conceal the performance of their vehicles while still recording a winner and loser.)
Only the winner and loser were recorded.
“A stock 5.7-liter Dodge HEMI makes about 370 horsepower…. But there’s no way that bastard’s car is stock.”
(Translator’s Note: HEMI — Chrysler’s name for engines using hemispherical combustion chambers. The 426 HEMI became famous through American stock-car and drag racing and earned the nickname “Elephant Engine” because of its size, weight, and power.)
Steven roughly scratched his head.
“Is that really so important?”
“Of course. The way we respond will be completely different depending on his power output and time. Drag racing is ultimately an information war.”
Steven answered my question with a serious expression.
He seemed to become a completely different person whenever cars were involved.
“Hmm…. If you only want to know the modifications, I might have some idea.”
“Huh? You do, Jason?”
I briefly closed my eyes and slowly recalled the various sounds I had heard from the Dodge Charger earlier.
Considering the ghostlike whine, the choking valve noise, the high-frequency metallic resonance, and the coupling sound that became subtly smoother within a certain range….
Thanks to the recently acquired skill, A Stethoscope for My Ears, I could distinguish the individual sounds a vehicle made and roughly understand what they meant.
“Yeah, but I’m not one hundred percent certain either. Still, based on what I can infer, it definitely has a supercharger, along with a high-lift cam setup. The headers are custom long tubes, and the transmission has a high-stall converter that probably launches at around three thousand RPM. Looking only at the major modifications, I’d guess it produces around five hundred horsepower. At the wheels, of course.”
Silence filled the warehouse the instant I finished speaking.
Jack and Cole continued staring at me with their mouths slightly open.
“Why do I keep hearing things lately…?”
Steven roughly dug a finger into his ear as though wondering whether it had malfunctioned.
“Jason…. Didn’t you say you didn’t know anything about tuning?”
Jack was the first to speak.
His voice sounded unusually shrill.
“I never said I didn’t know anything. I said I’d never done it before.”
“No, that means the same—haa…. You got us with the darts too. Are you doing this again?”
Jack stopped halfway through and pressed a hand to his forehead.
“Jason…. How did you figure that out? Did you secretly open his hood?”
Cole asked cautiously.
“What are you talking about? I was beside you the whole time. I just listened to the sounds his car made while it was idling and when it was moving.”
“You just listened to it…? Ha… hahaha.”
Cole let out a hollow laugh as though he had nothing more to say.
“Then can you figure out my car’s setup too? Even roughly?”
Still looking as though he could not believe it, Steven sprang to his feet and shouted.
Despite that, he was stammering slightly, and his face had turned bright red.
“Hmm…. I didn’t hear your car racing, but based on how it sounded while driving—”
“Whoa, whoa, wait! Stop, stop! No. Not my car. Tell us about Jack’s car.”
He frantically waved his hands through the air, almost physically blocking my mouth before I could answer.
Seeing such a large man behave so restlessly was quite a sight.
“Tsk…. Then, regarding Jack’s car….”
After clicking my tongue openly, I slowly searched through my memories and continued.
“First, there was no ghostlike whine, so it’s still naturally aspirated. But it sounded like you installed a high-lift cam. Judging by the interval of the choppy exhaust pulses, maybe a Stage 2? You probably swapped in a larger-bore intake manifold…. Oh, there was also metallic resonance, so the headers are probably long tubes rather than short tubes. Considering everything else, I’d estimate around four hundred horsepower. Jack, you’ve pushed a naturally aspirated setup almost as far as it can go.”
The moment I finished, Steven and Cole turned toward Jack.
“…Is he right?”
“Damn it…. He is. Four hundred thirty horsepower. And he got almost the entire setup right.”
Jack nodded resentfully.
“Is this actually real?”
“My God…. I’ve heard professional racing-team mechanics can identify a car’s condition just by listening to it, but I never thought it was actually true….”
Steven and Cole stared at my face as though they were looking at a ghost.
“Jason. Promise me you’ll never tell anyone about my car’s setup.”
Of the three, Steven seemed especially anxious that the details of his own setup might be exposed.
“For God’s sake. What a pointless thing to worry about.”
“…Promise me.”
“All right. Don’t worry. I won’t say a word. So now that we roughly know his setup and horsepower, what comes next?”
“Whew, thank you. Next, we turn the Rambler into a sleeper that will shock everyone.”
“A sleeper? You mean the kind of shoes you wear indoors?”
I raised one eyebrow after hearing him.
“No. In car culture, a sleeper is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. More precisely, it’s a supercar disguised as a shitbox. It looks like an old, worn-out car on the outside, but beneath that appearance, it hides an engine producing tremendous horsepower.”
Steven looked toward the Rambler parked in one corner of the warehouse.
“Really? A sleeper…. A sleeping car. I like that.”
I knew Korea had a similar expression.
Something about not pulling the whiskers of a sleeping lion or tiger.
Although these guys seem closer to orangutans than predators.
I watched them exchange various opinions about the direction of the upcoming modifications.
Yet for some reason, the sound of their chatter did not irritate me as much as it used to.
It was something the fifteen-year-old Jason could never have imagined.
Building a sleeper car with the Jack-Cole-Steven trio and entering a pink-slip drag race.
“Ahem…. In that case, I have one tuning idea.”
When I finally spoke, the warehouse instantly fell silent.
“Rambler Frankenstein Mod. Let’s go with that.”
“Oh…. That could work.”
Jack and Cole looked confused, but Steven, who had extensive tuning experience, immediately understood what I meant.
A so-called Frankenstein Mod, which involved combining engine components from two or more different engines, did not exactly align with my restoration philosophy….
But there’s no easier, cheaper, or faster way to increase that thing’s power.
Ding—
[Would you like to search for a 1995 Jeep Cherokee 4,000 cc engine head and block?]
YES.