We ditched the Barracuda and chose one of the Shelby’s to drive. The growl of a Ford engine in the Shelby rumbled through the night as we drove over hot pavement. A Ford V-8 in all its glory sounds like no other engine in the world. It’s a sound that works into your soul. Telling you that power is available any time you wanted it. Just a tap on the gas and there was nothing it couldn’t handle.
The night was quiet and hot. The stars were out without a moon to hide their brilliance, the streets oddly semi-deserted as we made our way up Grover Avenue to the Stubbins Heights neighborhood. There was a pool joint up there ran by a kid by the name of Willie. A tall, goofy-looking kid who liked to wear the clothing of a pimp and strut around as if he were the king of ’em all. But he wasn’t a pimp
