sidewayz glory

by Todd Strasser

  “I’m not using her,” Kennin said. “She offered.”

  “And you’re not using me, either, right?” Angelita asked. “To build you cars and help you drift?”

  Kennin slowly shook his head.

  “You better not be,” Angelita said.

  Kennin sensed someone near them and turned to find Derek carrying a half-eaten hot dog in a white paper napkin.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting,” Derek said, his cheek bulging.

  “What can I do for you?” Kennin asked, and stood up.

  “Let’s take a walk.” Derek jerked his head. They walked around to the far side of the Corolla and stood looking at a couple of guys with flashlights working on an El Camino.

  “How’s it going?” Derek asked.

  “You saw how it’s going,” Kennin replied.

  “You think there’s a problem with the track layout?” Derek asked. “Something we could adjust?”

  “For me or for everyone?” Kennin asked.

  Derek narrowed his eyes. “I’m underwhelmed by your lack of appreciation, kid. Mr. Mercado let you keep your job after you messed with his Ferrari, he kept your sorry butt out of jail after that crash, and he gave you five thousand dollars to build your car. If I were you, I might try to change your attitude to gratitude.”

  “You make it sound like I’m a charity case and you guys have nothing to gain from how I drive,” Kennin said.

  Derek took a bite of the hot dog and chewed pensively. “What anyone else gains from this ain’t your problem, kid. The point is what you’re gaining. I’m getting a little tired of reminding you that you’re not the only driver around. Now it’s time to shape up and do what you’re supposed to do.”

  “Or what?” Kennin asked. “You’ll feed me and my sister to the frickin’ wolves?”

  “Grow up, kid,” Derek growled. “This is the real world.”

  “Is it?” Kennin said. “Or is it just Las Vegas?”

  Tito came over. “Hey, uh, sorry to interrupt, but it’s time to get ready for the elimination trials.”

  Kennin gave Derek a curt nod. He and Tito went back to the Corolla.

  “What was that about?” Tito whispered.

  Kennin shook his head.

  “Next question. What’s with my sister?” Tito asked.

  “What do you care?” Kennin asked.

  “She’s my sister,” Tito said. “I care.”

  “Then you should be happy,” Kennin said, as he pulled open the door and got into the bucket seat.

  “Think you’ll qualify?” Tito asked.

  Kennin gave him an exasperated look.

  “You don’t qualify, Derek and Mercado are going to be pissed,” Tito reminded him.

  “Thanks for the advice,” Kennin muttered as he got into the harness. “Don’t know what I’d do without it.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” Tito said.

  “You want to help? Don’t loosen anyone’s lug nuts,” Kennin said, then started up and headed for the track.

  It was dark now, and the track lights were high and bright. Mike Mercado had invested a lot of money in DriftVegas. Kennin started his run. The judges were allowing hot starts in the single drift elimination rounds, and he launched the Corolla across the starting line and immediately broke traction. The Corolla was so high-strung that there was no room for error.

  The car whipped violently and Kennin fought the wheel, heeling, toeing, and shifting. His ears were filled with the scream of the tires and the whine of the turbo. Halfway through the course he realized why he was driving so hard. He was pissed. At Tito, at Mariel, at Jack the jackass, at Derek, and everyone else who either wanted to use him or get a piece of him. It was never gonna change. As long as he was here, they were gonna find a way to get their fangs into him.

  The run ended, and Kennin drove the car back to the paddock. This time Tito had a smile on his face. “You did good, amigo.” He reached in and patted Kennin on the helmet.

  Kennin got out of the car and pulled off his helmet. Angelita stood a dozen feet away and came no closer. Her lips were pursed into a small flat line. “Looked good that time,” she said.

  Kennin crouched down and checked the tire treads. Tito clearly had no idea what was going on. Kennin wondered if Angelita did.

  22

  judged good enough to enter the tandem event, which meant that one driver would be given a bye into the second round. Kennin wasn’t surprised when that bye went to him. He crossed his arms and leaned against the Corolla, gazing at the stands filled with fans. Tito came toward him, but stopped a dozen feet away.

  “You still pissed off?” he asked.

  “What can I do for you, Tito?” Kennin asked.

  “You should be happy,” Tito said. “You made the cut.”

  “Right,” Kennin replied, knowing they would have made sure he made it even if he’d been on a tricycle.

  “You gonna watch the other guys run?”

  Kennin shook his head. “I’d rather stay here with the car.”

  Tito frowned and moved closer. “Hey, you don’t have anything to worry about,” he whispered. “No one’s said a word to me. And if they did, I’d tell ’em to go to hell anyway.”

  Kennin nodded, but it wasn’t Tito he was worried about.

  “Anyway, looks like you’ve pretty much killed those tires,” Tito said. “I better get a new set on.”

  Kennin took the opportunity to get a drink, then sat down on the ground with his back against the pile of tires. A dozen yards away Angelita sat on a cooler talking on her cell phone. Tito was taking the tires off the car with the impact wrench when Raoul strolled up out of the dark.

  “Where’ve you been?” Tito asked his cousin.

  “Took a walk through the casino,” Raoul said. “You know the sports book where they bet on all the games and stuff? Want to know what they’re betting on right now? This.”

  Kennin looked up. “Right now? In the casino?”

  “Yeah.” Raoul pointed at the people in the stands. “See all these people? Well, there’s another whole crowd in the casino watching on a big screen. Only they’re laying bets on every heat. It’s big money.”

  “The house giving odds?” Kennin quickly asked.

  “Yeah,” said Raoul. “They got that Chris guy goin’ off at like two to one. Couple of others are in the five-to-one or ten-to-one range.”

  “What about Kennin?” Tito asked.

  “Thirty to one.”

  “Are they nuts?” Tito asked.

  “No one’s ever seen drifting before,” Raoul said. “They don’t know one car from the next or one driver from another. They hear someone talking about who the hot drivers and fastest cars are and they just go bet.”

  “But thirty to one?” Tito said.

  “Almost every other one of these beaters is running four hundred plus horses, while the Corolla’s running at nearly half that,” Angelita said, joining the discussion. “Meanwhile the smart money’s betting on Kennin. If he wins, whoever bet on him is going to get thirty times their money.”

  “You put up ten bucks, you get back three hundred,” Tito said. “Bet a hundred, you win three thousand.”

  “That’s chump change, man,” Raoul said. “Guys put up ten grand to get three hundred grand. And the smart money don’t do it unless it’s close to a sure thing.”

  “How’s it gonna be a sure thing?” Tito asked. “It’s a competition. Anything can happen.”

  “For three hundred thousand, some people will make sure it’s a sure thing,” Kennin said ominously.

  “So you think they’re setting you up to win?” Tito asked Kennin.

  “Looks that way to me,” Kennin said. If they couldn’t count on him to tank a competition, then why not count on him to win? Which was why he couldn’t stand this scene.

  Angelita came toward him. In a low voice, she said, “I know what you’re thinking. But what’s the point?”

  “The point is not to feel like you’
re someone’s frickin’ puppet,” Kennin answered.

  “Too late for that,” Angelita said.

  “Maybe not,” Kennin replied.

  It was time for the second round of heats. There were four cars left, and it was no surprise when Kennin pulled the Corolla up to the starting line and found Ian in the white Cressida waiting for him.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Ian said.

  Kennin didn’t reply. The easiest way for the sure money to make certain Kennin won was to put him up against the worst driver in the field. Just before this heat was announced, word had come through the paddock that the guy in the white Cressida had won his last heat because the drifter he’d been matched against had buried his front end in the retaining wall. Kennin didn’t want to think about whether that was part of the plan too. But it wouldn’t have surprised him.

  “Ready to eat my smoke, Chinaboy?” Ian taunted him.

  “We’ll see,” Kennin said calmly.

  “No ravine walls here to play chicken with,” Ian said.

  Sitting in the Corolla, Kennin pulled his racing gloves tight.

  Ian opened his mouth to say something more, but Kennin revved the Corolla’s engine and drowned him out.

  “Hey.” Derek leaned into the driver’s-side window. “Looks like you’re starting to get the feel of it.”

  Kennin nodded back silently. Derek leaned closer and dropped his voice. “I hear the last time you raced this kid, you didn’t put in much effort.”

  “Didn’t need to,” Kennin replied.

  Derek jerked his head at the crowd in the stands. “This time it’s not about winning. It’s not just about impressing the judges, either. It’s about putting on a show.”

  Kennin gripped the steering wheel tighter.

  “Mr. Mercado don’t want to be disappointed,” Derek said and turned away.

  The starter gave the sign.

  Tires spinning white smoke, they were off.

  In no time, the Cressida was four car lengths ahead. It was pure horsepower, nothing else, and Kennin wasn’t particularly worried. The first corner was a wide sweeping right before the course narrowed and the turns grew tighter, Ian started to get the Cressida sideways. Kennin knew instantly that the guy had been practicing. This was a much smoother start to a drift than the last time they’d faced each other.

  As Ian slid the Cressida high and wide, Kennin went in tight, starting his drift later, sliding up beside the Cressida at the apex of the turn. Here was the show Derek wanted. This was what the crowds and judges loved—seeing the cars slide side by side. Kennin held the drift until the last possible second and then backed off half a length just as Ian whipped the rear end of the Cressida around. Had Kennin been a foot closer, the Cressida’s rear bumper would have smashed into the Corolla’s front end.

  The Ian of old would have lost it right there, oversteering into a donut. But today Ian swung back just enough for a feint drift to set up for the next turn. Once again, Kennin angled down into the curve, doing a quick feint himself before drifting inside the Cressida. Wheels screamed in clouds of smoke as both cars slid through the turn.

  If Ian was going to do what Kennin expected, now was the time. He watched Ian’s hands. When Ian let go of the wheel and reached for the shifter, Kennin grabbed the e-brake and whipped the Corolla around. This time there was no doubt in Kennin’s mind that Ian had been trying to knock out the Corolla’s front end.

  They drifted to the left in another tight corner. Kennin was again inside, Ian had definitely improved his drifting technique, but he clearly wanted to stay on the outside of each tandem turn. Kennin expected him to go into another early drift feint.

  But just when they were coming out of the drift … where Ian should have straightened out and gone into the next feint, the guy cut sharply in to the left, right in front of Kennin.

  Kennin couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The Cressida was sideways twenty feet in front of him and the Corolla was going close to fifty miles an hour! He was going to T-bone him!

  Kennin wrenched the e-brake and swung the Corolla’s wheel to the right as hard as he could, and for one crazy instant the cars once again drifted sideways, only each was facing in a different direction.

  Kennin wrenched the wheel back around. At the same instant Ian shot into the midfield, smashing through orange cones and sending them flying. The g-forces whipped the Corolla around and sent it sliding sideways. Kennin wasn’t sure why he was still on the track, but he powered the Corolla to avoid traction and finished the run with a nice solo drift.

  The entire crowd was on its feet, cheering. Kennin could hear them through the open window. His heart was pounding, and sweat seeped out from the head sock and helmet. He had to clench the wheel hard to keep from trembling. Whatever the fans were cheering about had been accidental, plain and simple.

  But why complain? Kennin took a deep breath and started to relax. He didn’t know whether Ian’s attempt to knock him out of the comp had been his own idea or part of someone’s larger plan. Right now it didn’t matter. He coasted the Corolla back into the paddock. Drivers and crew on both sides stood clapping and banging on the Corolla’s roof. People reached in and patted him on the helmet. The words “awesome,” “amazing,” and “unreal” buzzed around him like flies.

  Kennin rolled to a stop. Tito yanked open the Corolla’s door. “That was amazing! Just frickin’ amazing!” he gasped. “How did you do that?”

  Driftdog Dave was there and patted him on the shoulder. “Dude, I sure hope someone got that on camera, because people are gonna be downloading that off the Internet for years to come.”

  Even Chris Craven came over and shook his hand. “Nice move. Never seen anything like it.”

  It was time for the next heat, and things began to look normal again—guys bent into open hoods, changing tires, or just hanging around smoking and talking. But the moment Kennin got out of the Corolla, he sensed something was wrong. Angelita stood stiffly by the spare tires with a hard expression on her face. Kennin scowled at her. Angel ita’s eyes darted to her right.

  Kennin turned to see Detective Neilson step out of the shadows with two uniformed police officers. He swiveled his head around and saw a police cruiser parked a dozen yards away. Raoul was sitting in the backseat with his hands cuffed behind him. Next to the police car was a Las Vegas PD tow truck.

  23

  rim expression on his face. “Four thousand dollars, Kennin.”

  Kennin felt a shiver. Angelita stared at the ground and bit her lip. She looked like she was going to cry. Kennin glanced at Raoul again. In the back of the police cruiser, Tito’s cousin hung his head. Neilson must’ve gotten him on the stolen trailer.

  “Don’t worry about him,” the detective said. “Just tell me how you came up with that kind of money.”

  Kennin didn’t answer. He could hear tires screaming and engines roaring as the next tandem heat went off.

  “I asked you a question,” Neilson said.

  “Am I under arrest?” Kennin asked.

  “Where’d the money come from, Kennin?” Neilson asked.

  “I don’t have to tell you,” Kennin replied.

  “You’d be doing yourself a big favor if you did,” Neilson said.

  “How’s that?” Kennin asked.

  Neilson didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced at Angelita. “Think you could give us a moment?”

  Angelita nodded and walked toward the track to watch the heat. Neilson stepped closer to Kennin and lowered his voice. With the roar of the cars in the background, Kennin could hardly hear him. “You want her to get busted for receiving stolen property?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kennin said.

  “How about I bust her for receiving the proceeds from the sale of stolen property?” the detective asked.

  “Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kennin said.

  “How about I tell her where you’ve been living for the past few weeks?” asked Neilso
n.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Kennin asked.

  “I need some information,” Neilson said. “I got you tangentially involved in two stolen cars and four grand in unexplained cash. Maybe you can close your eyes and pretend it didn’t happen, but I can’t. Now either you start spilling or I turn the screws tighter, understand?”

  “And the information I give you helps put Raoul back in the slammer for a dozen years?” Kennin guessed.

  Now it was Neilson’s turn not to answer.

  “The money’s gol: nothing to do with him,” Kennin said.

  “Where’d it come from?” Neilson asked.

  “Someone who wanted to see me drive on this course,” Kennin said.

  “Why?”

  “Because they seem to think that if I’m not here, it won’t be as exciting as if I am,” Kennin said.

  Neilson nodded. “That may be, Kennin, but you still gotta give me something. It’s your choice. The GTO, the Camry, or the four thousand bucks.”

  Kennin stared down at the ground and didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to give Neilson what he wanted.

  “You’re making a mistake,” the detective warned.

  “Not the first time,” Kennin said.

  Neilson’s face tightened like a fist. “This is your last chance. Give me something or I’ll impound this car under the terms of the Nevada Contraband Seizure Law.”

  Kennin looked up, shocked. “On what grounds?”

  “Probable cause that it has been used in the commission of a crime,” Neilson said. “In this case, the use of ill-gotten drug money or profits from the sale of stolen vehicles.”

  “You’ve got no proof,” Kennin argued.

  “That’s the beauty of it, Kennin,” Neilson said. “I don’t need proof, just probable cause. It’s not a criminal violation. It’s civil law. You can even get the car back. All you have to do is cough up fifteen hundred bucks.”

  “I’m supposed to run in another heat in a few minutes,” Kennin said.

  Neilson slowly shook his head. “Not happening. If you feel you’ve been unjustly accused, you can request an appeal. Just keep in mind that the burden’s on you to prove you weren’t involved in any wrongdoing.” The detective hesitated. “That is, unless you suddenly remember some names.”