Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  “After my first experience at an Indy Car race last year,” he wrote on the first page, “I firmly believe the racing industry holds great potential for marketing purposes. Specifically, fans of racing show a marked propensity for supporting sponsors of favored teams and drivers, even when it costs them time or money to do so. By allying with the right racing entity—note to self: determine which team carries the most positive image—Standish-Conroy properties could leverage the benefits of association with proven winners and perennial fan favorite personalities.”

  Nathan Standish wasn’t slow on the uptake.

  Racing was like few other sports, because corporations could sponsor their choice of series, races, teams, or drivers and see their branding all over the track and airwaves, dozens of weekends a year. Plus, racing fans had a long tradition of being dutiful brand soldiers for sponsors of their favorites, as a reward for the sponsorship.

  He went on to write about the most prominent sponsors of the era and how they benefitted from the association with racing, specifically national restaurant chains, motor oil, tobacco, and beer companies.

  The last thing I remember was Nathan ruminating on the possible value of exposure for an upscale product like Standish-Conroy offered. When I woke to my alarm the next morning, the journal sat on the desk next to my computer.

  Ryan smiled when I asked him about it. “Your eyes were closed, and it almost fell on your nose. You didn’t notice when I took it from you.”

  He followed me out to the kitchen where I thanked the technology gods once again for a pre-programmable coffee maker. I poured us both cups, and took a third to Gramps, who sat at the table eating a ham and cheese croissant.

  “Where’d you get that, Gramps?”

  He pointed to Ryan. “The fridge. Agent Smartypants picked them up for us.”

  “Good work, Ryan. Want one?” At his nod, I put two of them in the microwave.

  “I can get more for tomorrow, if you want,” he offered. “I’m not sure what your race-morning routine is.”

  “I’ll be too nervous to eat much, but this will be as good as anything.”

  “I’ll take care of it later.”

  Though we’d all four drive to the Speedway together, only Holly would go downtown to the parade with me. Gramps and Ryan would stick around IMS or go back to the apartment. Either way, they’d meet us at the track when the bus returned the drivers there around three in the afternoon.

  Ryan joined Gramps at the table. “I had a thought about that journal.”

  “Shoot.” I drank more coffee and hoped for it to work quickly.

  “You’re the busiest one around here, but I’ve got time. Why don’t I review it and flag anything that might be relevant?” When I hesitated, he added, “I can read, you know. Even marketing analysis.”

  Gramps laughed, and I rolled my eyes. “Funny. I’m wondering if you’d know what’s relevant, since you don’t know the players like I do.”

  He shrugged. “Seems like it’s worth a shot. I’ll have time today while you’re waving to crowds.”

  “I appreciate it. I do need the help. Today’ll be wall-to-wall activities again, and tomorrow…” I was struck dumb at the thought.

  The race.

  “Exactly,” Ryan concluded.

  Holly finally exited her bedroom and struck a pose, a cheap, plastic tiara glittering in her bright red hair. “Dahlings, it’s parade day!”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  After starting another busy day with an interview, I sat down with the other thirty-two Indy 500 drivers in the plaza below the pagoda at IMS and signed autographs for thousands of fans. The lines for each table snaked around and around the plaza, making us think we’d never find the end—though of course, the IndyCar staff made sure the line stopped when the session was over.

  And it had to stop, because we were on a tight schedule. We had an hour for the autograph session, then a short break before the public drivers’ meeting began. During that break, I found Gramps and Ryan and walked them up pit lane past the pagoda.

  For the drivers’ meeting, a small set of temporary stands, which seated exactly thirty-three drivers, stood in pit lane facing the main grandstands—and facing directly into the sun. In front of our stands was a podium with a microphone, rows of folding chairs for the speakers and VIPs, and the Borg-Warner trophy, the perpetual award for the winner of the race. To the side, facing the podium, were twenty more rows of folding chairs. I walked Gramps and Ryan past security and got them two seats in the back row.

  We were early for the ceremony, so I stood with them for a moment, studying the crowd in the main grandstands. That’s when Scott Brooklyn appeared, wearing a shirt logoed with the television station broadcasting the race and flipping open a notebook.

  He smiled at the three of us. “Good morning, Kate. Ready for the parade?”

  “I think so.” I sighed internally, but made the introductions.

  “Good to meet you, Scott,” Ryan said. “Kate’s mentioned you.”

  Scott’s smile faltered, and he glanced at me. “Nice to meet you.”

  “It’s not what you think,” I murmured.

  He frowned, but he nodded and addressed Ryan. “You’re here with Kate. Will you be in her pit box for the race?”

  It was Ryan’s turn to look concerned, and I stepped in. “He and my grandfather will both be there. What do you want to know, Scott?”

  He held his hands up, notepad in one and pen in the other. “I like to know who’s important to each of the drivers I’m covering—Kate is one of the pits I’ll be responsible for reporting on during the race,” he added, to Gramps and Ryan. “That way, if you win the race, say, I know who to go to for reaction.” When he got no response he sighed. “If you don’t want to be mentioned, I won’t mention you.”

  Ryan raised his eyebrows at me, and I gave him an “It’s up to you” shrug. Though Ryan had attended a couple races with me over the last two years, the question of our relationship had never come up publicly until now.

  “You can talk to me if that happens,” Gramps said.

  Ryan nodded. “I’ll be there, as well.”

  As Scott wrote down Gramps and Ryan’s particulars, he glanced between us. “Boyfriend?”

  “Yes.” Ryan slid an arm around my waist, and I leaned into him.

  “What do you do when you’re not at the racetrack, Ryan?” Scott asked.

  “I’m with the FBI, but I’d rather you didn’t mention that.”

  I reached out a hand to still Scott’s pen. “Don’t even write it down. Off the record. If it gets out, I’ll know where it came from.” I glared at him, telling him with my eyes, If the Ringer prints this, I’ll kill you.

  He held both hands up again. “Fine, fine. Can I say you’re a businessman?”

  “Call me a security consultant.”

  “Fair enough.” Scott wrote the words down—at least, I hoped he did. He glanced down pit lane at more arrivals. “Nice to meet you both. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With a wave, he was off.

  Gramps was hailed by someone he knew, and he moved a couple steps away to shake hands and slap backs.

  Ryan raised an eyebrow. “How well do you know that guy? You seem awfully comfortable with him.”

  I heard a rare note of jealousy in his voice, and I turned to him with a grin. “It’s not what you think. We’ve gone from adversaries to friends, that’s it.”

  “Okay.” Ryan shifted so we both faced the event area. “Tell me about that trophy. Does the winner get to take it home? And why’s it so lumpy?”

  I chuckled. “You don’t know anything about this race, do you?”

  “Five hundred miles. More than two hundred miles-per-hour. You kicking ass. That’s what’s most relevant.”

  “You’re not wrong.” I smiled. “The winner of the Borg-Warner doesn’t g
et to keep the trophy, but the trophy keeps the winner. A small sculpture of each winner’s face is made out of silver and attached to the trophy—those are the bumps. Then the driver and owner each get a mini trophy, called a Baby Borg, and the driver’s has a replica of their face on it.”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  “You’ll have to get close to it later or tomorrow morning so you can see the faces. The history on it is pretty amazing.”

  “Being the first woman will be incredible.”

  “Another of my dreams.”

  He gestured at the drivers starting to fill the stands. “Better go do your thing.”

  I squeezed his hand, then waved at Gramps who’d returned to his seat. “I’ll see you here or somewhere after the parade.” I made my way through the rows of chairs and up into the stands.

  We sat in qualifying order, in four rows of eight, with an aisle up the middle and an extra seat in the top row to make thirty-three. I sat in the eighteenth space—third row up on the left, second seat from the left—and I was glad not to be in the very last row, as I’d been the year before.

  While we waited for the ceremonies to begin, I pulled out my phone and took a photo of my view. I estimated close to ten thousand people were on hand, in the grandstands, on pit lane, or milling about within earshot—not to mention the scores of media and cameras directly in front of us. I shouldn’t have been surprised at the crowd, given the number of fans at the autograph session, but it was still an astonishing sight—another reminder this race was more than just another stop on the Series schedule.

  My phone buzzed with a text message from Holly, instructing me to ask Kenny who he’d seen near the bathroom. Kenny O’Toole, another Beermeier Racing driver, hadn’t had the qualifying day he wanted, and he would start in twenty-sixth place, which meant he was seated directly behind me. As the ceremony still hadn’t started, I leaned back and got his attention.

  “Kenny, were you around the bathroom at the back of the shop a bit before Ron was found the other night?”

  He laughed and leaned forward. “Are you stalking me bathroom habits then?” he asked, his Irish showing.

  I shook my head, rolling my eyes, even though he couldn’t see them. “I wanted to know who else you saw back there at the time.”

  “Well, now, why would I remember that? I’ve no clue.”

  “Think about it, Ken. You’re standing in line, talking, probably flirting with a woman. The bathroom door opens, the next person goes in. Who’s around you? Who are you talking to?”

  He closed his eyes for a minute. “Perhaps I can remember…particularly one lovely girl with a skirt as short as her—”

  “Save it,” I told him. The announcer started to welcome the crowd to start the meeting. “Text me? Names or descriptions. Thanks.”

  “Shhhhhhh. Some people have no class,” I heard from two seats down, twentieth position, on the aisle. Sofia Montalvo.

  Stuff it, bitch.

  I smiled at her and turned my attention to the meeting, which started with a number of awards, including Baby Borgs and rings to last year’s winning driver and owner. The best part happened next: the presentation of starter’s rings to all of us who’d take the green the next day. We were individually announced, in reverse order of qualifying, and we each went down the stairs to pose for a photo and accept the special wooden box containing the ring.

  The rings were silver, “class ring” style, with a blue stone in the center and “Indianapolis 500” around the bezel. One side had the wheel-and-wings logo of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and “500,” but it was the other side that was the most special. It was personalized with my last name, the speed I’d gone to qualify, and the year. As I admired it, back in my seat, one thought played on repeat in my head.

  The Indy 500. Tomorrow.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The rest of the public drivers’ meeting passed in a haze of applause as I did my best not to fall asleep in the hot sun. As the race director warned us again to play nice, my phone started buzzing with names from Kenny. I scrolled through the blizzard of them as the meeting ended and drivers filed toward the bus parked at the end of pit lane.

  We were headed for the 500 Festival Parade, which drew approximately 300,000 spectators every year as it wound through downtown Indianapolis. Due to our schedule and the crowds around both the Speedway and parade route, drivers were shuttled to the parade staging area via a bus and police escort, to ensure we arrived on time.

  Boarding the bus provided dual relief—getting out of the sun and into air conditioning. I found Holly waiting, saving us a row of seats, and handed her my phone. “Names from Kenny.”

  “Interesting—I’m finally getting some overlap.”

  I peeked over her shoulder as she added to the bottom of a long list on her own phone. I only recognized half of the twenty or thirty people who’d been in the rear of the shop around the time of Ron’s murder.

  “That many?” I muttered.

  “There were people everywhere. Happening party.”

  I read the names I recognized aloud. “Kenny O’Toole, Sabrina Ross, Kevin Hagan, Eileen Nguyen, Cecilia Moore, Paul Lauth, Lyla Thomas, Neal Sinclair, Ron Arvin, Alexa Wittmeier, Chuck Gaffey, Josh Gaffey, Caleb Wise, Stan Wright—wait, Tom Barclay? Gramps and Ryan saw him leave. How could he have been there?”

  Holly shrugged. “I don’t know the exact time for these sightings. He could have gone to the bathroom before leaving. Or returned.”

  “Nothing is clear.” I took my phone back from Holly, and it buzzed with another text message as a Series rep came through to make sure all drivers were on the bus.

  We lurched into motion as I pulled up the text and showed it to Holly. Lyla Thomas had written,

  Remembered we had a press opportunity that morning in ’87. Think it started around eleven and ran thirty minutes. Do remember Hagan came blasting in at the end and repeated questions the rest of us already asked. PITA then and now.

  “PITA?” I asked Holly.

  “Pain in the ass.”

  “Nice.” I laughed as a second text came in from Lyla. I read it aloud.

  Herrera seen buying PJ goods from vendors within minutes of hearing news. But some vendors held impromptu memorabilia flea market in a Speedway parking lot that morning, and I’m told Herrera was there when it opened at nine.

  Holly shrugged. “We already thought Herrera was slime, but not a killer. Guess that confirms it.”

  “I guess so.” I perked up. “Maybe the Feds will get him for forgery.”

  It was only a few minutes before we arrived downtown. We exited the bus and were shepherded into an old, converted church building where we met the cancer warrior prize winner, Maria Febbo, and waited. And waited more.

  When the parade eventually started, we went outside to the identical blue convertible Chevy Camaros, each with a different driver’s name on it. They were lined up in eleven rows of three, so we’d ride down Indy’s avenues in the exact formation in which we’d start the race. Holly, Maria, and I made our way to the eighteenth car in the order—then it was finally our turn to start down the parade route.

  Holly rode in the car’s passenger seat, but Maria and I perched on the back deck of the convertible, our feet on the rear seats. For a couple miles, back and forth on the downtown avenues, we rolled between checkered flag borders on the pavement and waved at stand after stand of people. They called the Indy 500 “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing,” and I was convinced it wasn’t for the on-track action alone, but for all the traditions of the event, including the parade.

  Sooner than we’d have liked, the parade was over. I said goodbye to Maria—promising to see her the next day in the Frame Savings suite—and boarded the bus with Holly for the ride back to the track. One final appearance, and then Holly and I were off to the final event before race day: a thank-you
dinner for sponsors.

  I schmoozed my way through the cocktail hour, thanking everyone for attending and getting flashed in the eyes repeatedly by the official photographer, and then I took a break before we sat down to eat. I joined Holly and my half brother, Eddie, near the bar, talking with a good-looking guy in his mid-thirties who I’d seen before at the track.

  “Here’s the star of the hour,” Eddie said, as I approached.

  I saluted them with my glass of water. “I’m Kate Reilly,” I said to the stranger.

  “Kate, this is Josh Gaffey, of Gaffey Insurance,” Holly said.

  “I’m messy from the hors d’oeuvres.” He reached out, smiling, and we bumped fists instead of shaking.

  “Glad to put a face to a name,” I said. “I’ve met your father.”

  He laughed. “I keep expecting to hear he’s put down roots on that stool in your garage.” Then he sobered. “Though I guess he won’t now, with Ron gone.”

  “They were friends for a long time?” I asked.

  “Decades,” Josh responded, as he handed an empty plate to a waiter and wiped his fingers with a napkin. “Dad always backed Ron’s team, and Ron was a big supporter when Dad was starting the company—always willing to be the sounding board or the guinea pig for new product ideas. Even when Ron was away, Dad visited him every few months, and they wrote back and forth.”

  “Was he aware of what Ron was involved in?” I asked Josh, adding quietly as an aside to Eddie, “Ron went to jail for drug smuggling in the nineties.”

  Josh grimaced. “Dad probably knew—I think most people in the paddock did. It was pretty rampant at the time.”

  “Ron wasn’t the only one?” Eddie asked.

  I looked around to be sure Alexa wasn’t nearby to hear us discussing her father’s criminal activities.

  “Sugar, the joke was IMSA—the governing body for sportscar racing,” Holly explained for Eddie’s benefit, “didn’t stand for International Motor Sports Association, it stood for International Marijuana Smugglers Association. From what I’ve heard, it was everywhere, but only a couple unlucky souls got caught.”