Joe dropped the hood. “What was that all about?”
“Just checking to make sure we aren’t doing anything illegal to the engine. You broke a rule they didn’t know can be violated.” Johnny smirked. “Rookies aren’t supposed to break track time trial records.”
Joe glanced in the mirror in the anteroom under the bleachers, adjusted the collar on his driving suit, and went over to a bench to put on his shoes.
Ellis Lane sat on the opposite bench, grinning, his shoes in his hand. “Y’ know, for an old geezer, you have a pretty darn good physique.”
Joe smiled. “Yours isn’t bad either,” and added on second thought, “for a young punk.”
Ellis got serious-looking. “Does this rival business bother y’all?”
Joe frowned. “No. Does it bother you?”
“Kinda. I don’t know how to say it.” He studied the floor a moment. “Y’see, here I go a-trash-talkin’ y’all and, well, the reality is, I kinda idolize y’. Y’re a damfine driver, but way more important y’re a damfine man, too. Hit’s the kinda man I wanna be. Johnny thinks the world of y’, and he’s pretty shrewd when it comes to people. So I feel funny ‘bout badmouthin’ y’, know what I mean?”
Joe wasn’t sure what to say either. “I’m flattered, Ellis. Thank you. Our rivalry, so to speak, doesn’t bother me because I know that whatever trash talk you say about me or I say about you is exactly that. Trash. Garbage. Not true at all. Something we say for commercial purposes only.”
Ellis cackled. “Commercial purposes only! Thass it ‘zackly!” He bent forward to put on his shoes.
Joe put on his own shoes. He might as well be a teenager again and getting ready for his first prom. He was that nervous. And his chief rival in this race actually was a teenager who didn’t act nervous at all. Go figure.
His teenaged bride, Bridgid, had gotten off work at eight, assuming she had not gone out on a call near quitting time, and Tommy, Gretchen, and she planned to meet for breakfast, then go to the races. So she was likely done with a leisurely breakfast by now. Joe had picked up an Egg McMuffin meal at McDonald’s and had trouble choking that down.
He was ready early. He reached into the paper bag for the lunch he had packed. He was still too nervous to eat, but he ate anyway—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a Pepsi, what Bridgid derisively called health food. Then he walked out to the coin-op by the grandstand and hit it up for a candy bar.
He only had to finish. He wanted to do better than that, but his prayer would be to finish.
His phone rang as he was going back inside. What is it about a ringing phone that you absolutely must answer it even when you really, really don’t want to? He thumbed it open. “Rodriguez.”
“Visneros. I just got a call at home here from George.”
“George. Do I know him?”
“Patrol officer, did that presentation on lockdowns.”
“Oh, yeah. Why did he call you early on Sunday morning?”
“Everybody knows how that Irish dude, James Stover, swore he’d kill Bridgid. Big heads up. He palmed a pair of scissors and used them to stab a nurse and damn near killed the cop guarding him.”
“He was in the hosp—…”
“Right. And he got away clean. I wanted you to know right away. That son of a bitch’s on the loose.”
Bridgid sat down between Tommy and Gretchen, and she instantly saw why they insisted she bring a seat cushion to the raceway. These bleachers were iron hard. She adjusted the cushion under her. “Meself has never been to an automobile race. Horses, aye, but not cars built for racing.”
“I think you’ll like it.” Gretchen dug binoculars out of her bag. “Not as a steady diet, but fun once in a while when you know one of the drivers.”
“And special fun when ye sleep with one of the drivers.” Of course Tommy would say something like that. He pointed. “Joe’s is that orange car with the white stripe, and that be his pit. His and Ellis’s. Ellis is in the bright blue car. The pit is where they refuel him, change his tires, that sort of thing.”
“Is there any way he can talk to them? Ye know; ‘I must come in and use the bathroom.’ That sort of thing.”
“Aye, a radio set-up. The pit crew be tuned to him, listening to him; all he needs do is speak. He need not take a hand off the wheel. And they tell him his position now and then, or that he has a taillight burnt out.”
Bridgid realised barely in time. “I must remember to not believe everything ye say. They have no taillights.”
Gretchen looked at her. “I caught onto his blarney the first time we met. I’m surprised it took you so long.”
Bridgid giggled.
A loudspeaker instructed them to start their engines and an instant roar swelled. Two roars, the cars, and the crowd. An unremarkable, ordinary white car, such as one would see out in the street, drove around the track as the clump of racing cars followed in a close pack.
“See, Joe is in front already and the race has not yet started. And Ellis is in the front row as well.”
Tommy explained, “There be time trials in the days just before now. The fastest cars lead the pack. Joe was fastest in the time trials. In the jargon, he won pole position.”
“Ah. That’s nice.”
Gretchen pointed. “Watch that pulpit thing there. A man will signal the start of the race by waving a checkered flag.”
Yes. As the clutch of cars approached from out of the last turn, the white car ducked aside and left the track. The fellow in the pulpit waved his flag furiously and the din increased. It hardly decreased as the cars continued into the backstretch, spaces between them widening.
“That narrator.” Bridgid straightened to listen. “Not that one, not the fellow calling the race who is speaking now. The other. Is that not Bubba?”
“Aye, i’ tis. Y’ve a good ear. Bubba is doing what they call the colour commentary; tossing in wee bits of facts and lore. Human interest items. He be the expert on rules and regs, and he knows intriguing things about the drivers.”
“He knew Joe when Joe was but a lad Declan’s age. Joe claims twas Bubba who first put him behind the wheel and taught him to drive.”
“Bubba knows most of them, aye. But ye’ll notice he treats all the drivers alike during his commentary, not favouring one or another. He’s good that way.”
What appeared to be pandemonium in the clutch of cars gradually became orderly, much as in horse racing. Cars jockeyed for position throughout the bunch.
Bubba mentioned Joe for the first time. “Now that there lead car, the orange one, is a rookie. He’s a little late to the game; just getting started and he’s in his thirties. Joe Rodriguez. He worked as a cop until he got smart and got into racing.”
The narrator called the positions.
Bubba took it up again. “Keep an eye on that little blue beauty, fifth at the moment. That’s another rookie, Ellis Lane. Ain’t gonna call it a feud; that’s reserved for Hatfields and McCoys; but there’s a pretty wild rivalry going on between them two rookies, Lane and Rodriguez.”
Bridgid smiled. What a lovely way to introduce the false rivalry. There was much more to this sport than she might have imagined, especially mental games and nuances.
She enjoyed most watching the orange car, of course. “Oh!”
In the middle of the pack, two cars swerved and one swung out wide, swapped ends, and stopped, its tires smoking. Instantly, the fellow in the pulpit frantically waved a yellow flag.
“Caution flag,” Gretchen explained. “Until the checkered flag comes back, everyone has to stay in the position they’re in right now. Can’t pass each other or speed up.”
The cars roared by. Men ran out onto the track and pushed the crippled car to safety in the infield. A few minutes later the checkered flag came back out. And a black car with a yellow stripe passed Joe right away!
This was exciting! Uh oh! Now Joe was in third place. Were it a horse race it would mean that the lead horse was flagging and you should not
have bet on it, but surely racing cars do not run out of breath. Or do they?
Bridgid wished she understood more about what she was watching. Then it occurred to her that unless a miracle occurred, she would see many more races and would probably learn all the nuances.
Suddenly, as one the crowd gasped and buzzed.
The caller yelled, “Whoa! Is that legal, Leroy? That maneuver Rodriguez just made?”
“Hit’s legal, but it sure hain’t recommended.”
And Joe was in the lead again.
Bridgid noted that Ellis was moving up, to fourth, to third…and then he ducked off the track. “Why did Ellis quit? He was doing so well!”
“He didn’t. Pit stop. They’ll fuel him up, change all four wheels, tidy up anything out of condition and have him back out on the track in, mayhap, ten or eleven seconds.”
Even before Tommy’s explanation ended, the little blue car popped back out on the track. Joe had told her once that he quite enjoyed working on pit crews. She would not have guessed how frenetic the job was.
Another car encountered trouble and almost caused a major pile-up. As it was, it banged into two other cars and took them out of commission. The yellow flag came back out and stayed there. Joe used the opportunity to make a pit stop himself. Bridgid borrowed Gretchen’s binoculars to watch the pit. Joe did not get out, of course, but they handed him a water bottle through his open window. All four tires left the ground, four new wheels went on, and all of it in less time than it would take Da to get the jack out of the boot. And off he went again.
She was beginning to grasp how infectious this lifestyle was, and how much Joe had given up when he became a police officer instead of a driver.
Within a few laps Joe was again with the leaders. Ellis whipped along immediately beside him to his right. Immediately, as in perhaps three or four feet at most separating them. Together they blocked the inside positions. Anyone passing would have to swing out to the outside. How clever. What looked like a race between two rivals was actually a protective wall of sorts for the both of them.
One can count seconds fairly accurately by counting one thousand two thousand three thousand…. Bridgid used the trick now and then to estimate a palpated pulse. Using two light poles as markers, Bridgid tried to count seconds as Joe’s car passed one light pole and reached the second. She could not. He was going too fast!
She pointed. “Wait; what does that flag mean?”
“One lap to go.”
“And Joe and Ellis are in the lead. Were a yellow flag to wave now, would they win?”
“Aye. I believe so.”
“Not to wish ill upon anyone, but…”. She giggled.
But Gretchen said “I don’t think so; the race is on hold under a yellow flag.”
Here they came around the far turn, roaring close behind two other cars. No. They were not in the lead; they were third and fourth, but they were gaining on those other two. Now Lane’s front wheels were even with Joe’s back wheels; they were that close together. Bridgid was on her feet now, jumping up and down and screaming along with Gretchen and Tommy.
The flagger whipped his checkered flag back and forth as the crowd howled.
“They did not win.” Bridgid’s shoulders sagged.
“Aye, they did!”
“But those two other cars…”
“Have yet to go one more time around the course to complete the race. Joe and Ellis lapped them.”
“Lapped them…Oh, I see! That does not happen in horse racing.”
Joe moved to the outside and continued around the track, slowing down as he approached the finish line. They handed him that checkered flag and he held it outside his window. It waved high in the wind as he made one more slow lap around, his victory lap. Bridgid was so happy she had tears on her cheeks. She knew what a lifelong dream of his, the ultimate dream, had just been realized.
“Come!” Tommy grabbed Bridgid’s hand and half dragged her out to the aisle and down. “Shortly we shall have that magical moment when the winner kisses a beautiful woman. Twill be y’rself, of course. Tradition, ye see.”
Joe’s car had come to a halt and scores of people instantly crowded around it. Handheld microphones, cameras, and big television cameras were pointed toward his car.
“Make way! Make way!” Tommy literally ploughed through the throng, elbowing people aside. Joe was sitting on the sill of his car window, one foot on a block on the ground, the other still in the car. And look at the pure, unbridled joy on his face! What complete, unimaginable happiness! The joy absolutely gushed out of him.
Someone handed him a bottle and he drank from it even as someone else poured a bottle of what appeared to be champagne over his head. Johnny Paredes stood beside him looking just as deliriously happy. He saw Tommy coming, and together they boosted Bridgid up to within kissing distance. Joe wrapped an arm around her instantly, and what a wildly exuberant kiss it was!
He did not let her go as he swung his other leg out of the car. Half a dozen microphones were thrust at his face. Most of the questions that barraged him were along the lines of “How does it feel to…” but one of them said, “That was quite a chance you took in the seventeenth lap there. Weren’t you afraid it might not work?”
Joe was still grinning outrageously. “I was feeling lucky. Still am!” and he gave Bridgid a squeeze. “And let me give a big shout out to my good buddy Charlie Stegener. If it wasn’t for good old Charlie, I wouldn’t be here today!”
Bridgid was shocked; but then, she somewhat saw what he was doing.
Johnny shouted above the hubbub, “You can let go of her any time now, Joe.”
And Joe just laughed.
Joe’s arm was still wrapped around his Bridgid as she snuggled up against him, and he loved the feel of her against him. How incredibly lucky he was, how unimaginatively blessed. The crowd had gone home, the reporters were back at their studios, and the madness of the moment had more or less settled out. His indescribably intense elation had melted down to a warm, quiet, free-floating happiness. It was late in the day, and Joe, Ellis, Johnny, and Bubba sprawled on a couple sofas in one of the small anterooms under the bleachers, picking the race apart. The pizza they’d ordered in was about gone. Joe and Ellis had taken off their driving suits; Joe in his singlet sipped a Guinness and Ellis, bare-chested, was drinking a Budweiser.
Joe was weary enough to fall asleep this minute. His phone rang. Sigh. He answered, only half paying attention.
“You damn son of a bitch, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Joe was alert. “Charlie Stegener, good evening.”
“You don’t understand the situation, you prick. You just put me in mortal danger! Good old Charlie. Thanks to good old Charlie! At the racetrack! You bastard!”
“I told the truth. If you hadn’t demanded that the force get rid of me, I would never have gotten into racing. So thanks, Charlie.” He emphasized the Charlie.
“You don’t understand! You pretended to be my buddy and you tied me to the raceway, both! Now I gotta mend a lotta fences real quick. Don’t you ever mention me again, especially at the track, or you’re a dead man!”
“Au contraire, Chuckie. I’ll mention you as often as I can, just because it irritates you.”
But Charlie hadn’t heard the “you” because he had slammed the phone down.
What was that all about? Whatever, he was one pissed-off dude. Luckily this was a phone call instead of a face-to-face, or he’d probably take another swing at Joe.
Ellis was whining, “Hit jist ain’t fair! Looky! Here’s this yere ol’ man with a cute young chick, and I’m in the bloom of youth but I don’t have a girl. And I was so close to winning , too. Another six feet and I woulda won, I was that close! Six feet behind. Six feet!”
Joe raised a hand. “Keep trying, kid. Give it ten or fifteen years more, maybe you’ll finally land one.”
Bubba cackled. “Tha’s the ticket! Keep it up. Y’all finishing one two today did
more for our rivalry thing than all the hype in the world. We can take that to the bank.”
“Hit was the cars,” Ellis said. “We jest sat back and gave ‘m a kick now and again.”
“I agree completely. It was the cars.” Joe drained his Guinness. For some reason Charlie’s call really bothered him. Why? Stegener acted angry every time he laid eyes on Joe. That wasn’t news. Then it clicked: This time, Stegener sounded frightened. Extremely frightened. Terrified. Without knowing what he had just done, Joe had touched a major nerve.
“It was a great job, both of you. Ellis, you may have placed second, but your time was still better than anyone else’s has been so far this year, at least on this track.” Johnny finished off his Negro Modelo as Joe’s phone rang again.
How he hated the miserable thing. “Hello.”
“It’s Alicia. I’m back in protective custody. They caught me.”
“Good! You’re worth protecting at all costs.”
“Maybe. Miriam just called me. She threatened to kill me if I opened my mouth. I think she’s really scared.”
“That’s a serious offense, you know, threatening a witness. Tell the matron about it right now. I guarantee you, Miriam will suffer.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Very.”
“It’s the first time I ever got threatened. I didn’t know whether to be scared.”
“It’s exactly why you’re in protective custody. Go talk to the matron.”
“Okay, I will.”
“Miriam’s fate is in your hands now, Alicia. So a month ago when you were her assistant, did you ever think you would have the upper hand?”
She giggled, “Kinda cool, ain’t it.” The queen of Goth, giggling? “I didn’t tell her I already opened my mouth and I’m going to open it again when they book Charlie and her.”
“Good.”
“Joe? There’s may be another problem. Or not. A fellow in the room, I didn’t recognize his voice, in the background, y’know? He was saying that her Charlie is becoming a serious liability. You mentioned him after the race and called him good buddy, and he said that was bad; no, he said ‘real bad.’ He said they’re investigating it. The cops are. Or feds, whatever.”
Pony Up Page 15
