Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  “I recommend going out to pit lane and the front straight now,” Holly said. “It’s amazing to be out there when it’s not crowded. Plus you can get close to the Borg-Warner trophy.”

  Gramps nodded and clapped a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Do your thing, Katie. We’ll take care of ourselves.”

  I hugged them both, and Ryan kissed me on the cheek. Then I checked the time, dropped my bag in my locker, and headed for my first appointment of the day, two bottles of water-plus-electrolytes in hand. One of my top priorities was hydrating to minimize the effects of dehydration via sweat during the race.

  Out on pit lane, I chatted with a TV reporter while we waited for the live broadcast. Holly stood to the side and tapped away on her phone. My heart pounded as I thought of flying down the front straight in just a few hours, which reminded me to start on the next bottle of water.

  “I’m glad we have a couple minutes,” said the reporter, Michelle, the lone woman on the local station’s sports reporting team. “I wanted to work something out with you.”

  That intrigued me. “What’s that?”

  “I thought I’d ask you about PJ Rodriguez when we go live.” She saw my alarm and hurried to explain. “I’ve seen the crap you’ve been taking about her. I want to give you the chance to make a clear distinction between the two of you. Maybe that will help put the comparisons to bed.”

  Someone in the media wanting to help me, not exploit the comparison for a story?

  As soon as I had the thought, I knew it wasn’t fair. The real journalists I’d dealt with weren’t into the sensation of “Kate as PJ”—that came from the Internet trolls and bloggers masquerading as reporters. “I’d appreciate that.”

  She winked at me. “Women have to stick together in this business. Besides, what people have been saying to you is downright shitty.”

  Holly giggled, and I smiled. “No kidding.”

  A couple minutes later, we went live. Michelle started with the usual: how I was feeling, what I thought my chances were, what attendees should watch for in the race, and what it meant to me to be participating in “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing.”

  Then she paused. “Kate, I want to cover something you’ve been dealing with off the track. Some viewers may know about PJ Rodriguez, the first woman to be the fastest in a practice session for the Indy 500. You duplicated her feat this year, which generated numerous comparisons. But PJ never actually qualified for the 500, and in fact, she committed suicide before her second attempt. Now we’re here on race day, do you have anything you’d like to say about PJ and yourself?”

  “This place and this race are magical—so much bigger and more meaningful than other races, because of the history. For more than a century, men and women have come here chasing a dream, with results ranging from success to heartbreak. PJ was one of the heartbreaks.” I paused. “I understand the comparisons, and I have great respect and sympathy for what PJ went through. But what’s frustrating is everyone assuming I’m exactly like her and calling me by her name, simply because I’m also a woman.”

  Am I going to say it? Should I? What the hell…

  “Honestly,” I dredged up a smile to take the sting out of my words, “it’s disrespectful to assume we’re the same person. We’re both women, and we both showed comparative flashes of speed—but we’re different people with different stories. We should all be celebrated for our unique gifts—men and women, drivers or not. So while I’ve been glad for the opportunity to learn about PJ, I hope people will think about her with compassion and root for me and the number 82 today on our own merits.”

  “Thank you, Kate,” Michelle said, turning to the camera, which swung to center her in the shot. “I know I speak for all of us at the station when I say we’re behind you one hundred percent. I’m Michelle Horton, live from pit lane at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Back to you in the studio.”

  As the cameraman lowered the lens and nodded, Michelle turned to me, still smiling. “Well done.”

  “Thanks for the chance to say it.”

  “I hope it’ll help. Best of luck today. Maybe I’ll see you after the race.” She shook hands with me and Holly.

  On our way back to the garage, we navigated through a growing crowd, and I stopped a few times to sign autographs or take photos with fans. Holly typed up a couple tweets as we walked, quoting my words about PJ.

  She saw me eyeing her phone as we turned into Gasoline Alley. “Don’t worry about social media today, I’ve got it handled. You think about the car.”

  The thought made me smile. “Done.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Holly and I were walking past the first garage building when my least favorite crew member loomed in front of us—tall, wiry, and in our faces. We shifted to the right, and he moved with us. His scrunched up face scowled.

  Jimmy.

  My stomach did a slow roll that didn’t help the unsettled feeling I already had from pre-race tension.

  He sucked on the stub of a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and tossed it to the ground next to us, where it continued to burn. “You on the rag or something, bitch?”

  I coughed as he exhaled smoke into my face, then flapped my hand and tried to move away to breathe fresh air. He again moved to block me, but since he focused on me, Holly slipped around his other side and ran for help.

  I stopped, furious instead of intimidated. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “You.” His lip curled. “And the old man you sent to ask questions. You think I’m too stupid to figure out he’s related to you?”

  I studied the lifetime of meanness etched into his face. “I don’t think about you.”

  “’Cept you wanted to know what I thought about PJ, since that’s what the old man asked. You sure you want to know?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his shirt pocket while I stared at him.

  “She was worthless.” He smiled as he lit up, but it wasn’t friendly. “Like you.”

  Gee, now my feelings are hurt.

  “Not everyone agreed,” I replied. “Did you do something to make your case?”

  “The hell you talking about?”

  “Did you mess up her car to make her run badly?”

  He was shocked at first, then he doubled over, laughing until he wheezed, his cigarette forgotten in one hand. I realized I could get away from him, but I crossed my arms and waited him out.

  “Fuck you.” He straightened. “That girl didn’t need my help to look awful, it was all on her. The car was fine, and the crew was fine—better than she deserved. We were wasted on her.”

  He shook his head and took a drag. “She couldn’t drive, and you want to blame me? It’s true, you’re as crazy as she was. Going to take a dive off the pagoda today?”

  My breath caught, and I felt hot all over. “Listen, you son of a bitch, nothing you say affects me. Because you’re not important. So crawl off with your woman-hating, minority-hating, and probably white-supremacist bullshit, and leave the rest of the world to evolve without you. We don’t need bullies.”

  I smiled at him. “That’s what burns you the most, isn’t it? That we’re not scared of you. We just don’t care.”

  On one hand, I was appalled at the cruelty coming out of my mouth, and on the other, I was proud of myself for responding to decades of discrimination.

  “Ugly-ass bitch.” Jimmy’s face went beet red, and he looked me up and down. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you begged for it.”

  “That’ll never happen.” I laughed, and my anger and tension seeped away. “Typical bully, go for personal insults. They won’t work.” I stared at him, letting him see all the disdain I felt. “We’re done here.”

  Moments later I met Holly, Banjo, and Bald John hurrying toward me. I turned them around and told the story, though I had to stop them more than once from going after Jimmy, assuri
ng them it wasn’t necessary or worth it.

  Back at the garage, I calmed myself down by signing autographs for the inevitable crowd in front of our space. After that, Holly handed me more fluids, and I sat down with my engineer, Nolan, for an update on the predicted weather and track temperatures, along with strategies we’d employ depending on track position and cautions. I ended up late to meet Charlene Menfis, the Frame Savings executive I’d invited to the garage, but Holly found her and gave her the tour.

  A few minutes later, I met with two reporters in quick succession, both from big markets—Atlanta and Los Angeles—where my sponsors had headquarters. Then I headed for the Frame Savings suite, with Holly promising to meet me there shortly.

  I signed more autographs as I worked my way through the rapidly thickening crowd, feeling my breathing get shallower the more I was detained along the way.

  Can’t we get to the race? Skip these preliminaries?

  I reminded myself the number of obligations I had was dwindling, and it would soon be race time. Then I reminded myself to drink more fluids.

  As I finally rounded the corner of the row of suites atop the main grandstand, I almost ran into Tom Barclay, sports psychologist and champion rumormonger. We both fumbled with apologies for the near-miss, until we realized who the other person was. His handsome, tanned face creased into a big smile. Mine formed a snarl.

  “Kate, good to see you.” He gushed. “I hope you’re ready for the day.”

  Primed by my confrontation with Jimmy and the current of nerves running through me, I went nuclear. “How dare you?” I spat.

  “Express my concern?” He looked confused, which made me angrier.

  “What gives you the right to talk to me after spreading rumors about my mental stability?”

  “Are you referring to the post on the Racing’s Ringer blog?” His innocent expression didn’t fool me. “When the Ringer asked for comment, we could only do so in a hypothetical sense. Our response had nothing to do with you—we wouldn’t even confirm you’d been a customer of ours in the past. I hope you noticed that.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I have to say, if the rumors are true, I hope you’ll come talk with one of my staff.” He had the audacity to put a hand on my shoulder.

  I swung my arm and knocked his hand away. “Don’t ever touch me. You’re the last person I’d deal with now. I know where that rumor came from.”

  He dropped the warm and friendly act and raised a cool eyebrow. “I can only repeat I have no idea what you’re talking about. Though I will note, strictly in a theoretical sense, I’ve always believed all is fair in love, war, and marketing.”

  It took a moment to find my words through my shock. “Are you kidding me? There’s nothing fair or right or ethical about slandering a customer.”

  That sent both of his eyebrows soaring. “Slander is a strong word to throw around. I think you’d find it difficult to prove.”

  “If you’d screw over your customers, it makes me wonder what else you’d stoop to. How about bumping off a fragile competitor to scare others into using your services?”

  His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at the mostly empty walkway two flights above the main crowds. “If anyone heard you, I’d make a case for slander right now.”

  I ignored his threat and hissed at him. “You’re saying murder would be too far? Even for marketing purposes—didn’t you say all was fair?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “PJ Rodriguez, whose death so conveniently drummed up enthusiasm and customers for your services,” I taunted. “You must remember her? She was murdered.”

  “PJ—but that was suicide. Wasn’t it? I can’t—no…” He turned to brace himself on the railing with both hands and sucked in deep breaths.

  Son of a bitch. He doesn’t look guilty.

  I tried to hold on to my anger, but it drained away in the face of his obvious surprise.

  He turned to me, all arrogance and aloofness gone. “You think someone killed her? I never considered it. Why would I?”

  I sighed and leaned on the railing next to him. “Her parents are convinced she didn’t commit suicide—that she wouldn’t have. And I agree with them.”

  “You thought it was me?” There was more confusion and hurt in his voice than anger, but I figured that would follow soon enough.

  “You benefitted from her death—the cornerstone of your career, right?”

  “It was that,” he said quietly, looking out at the mass of people streaming through Gasoline Alley. Then he turned to me. “I’ll be honest, suicide never made sense, but I accepted it—we all did. I’m having a hard time grasping that the bedrock of my career was a mistake on my part. At some point, I’ll probably be outraged at your suspicions.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “But I had nothing to do with PJ’s death. Nothing.”

  And dammit, I believed him.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Tom Barclay left, after stilted goodbyes, and I remained at the railing, focusing on my breathing and gathering my thoughts.

  So much for that suspect, and so much for tact in handling my suspicions. Besides, Kate, what the hell are you doing, letting this get to you today? You need to focus on the race. The biggest race of the year!

  I closed my eyes and thought about the car, the track, and dirty air. I was feeling mostly re-centered when I heard Holly’s voice.

  “Something wrong, sugar?” She handed me another bottle of electrolyte-water.

  I took a drink, then described the conversation with Barclay. “Another classic moment proving I should stick to driving, not investigating. Apparently, subtlety is not in the cards for me today.”

  “A couple hours to the biggest race of the year—if not your career? You should be on edge.” She chuckled. “But his reaction was interesting. Hard to see him as a suspect now.”

  “I think he’s off the list.” I checked the time, started to panic. “And shit, I’m late.”

  She patted my shoulder as we turned to walk the final few yards to the door of the suite. “Take a breath. Everyone will deal. Keep focused on the race.”

  I nodded, trying to follow her instructions as I reached for the door. I spent the next twenty minutes chatting with executives and VIPs from Frame Savings and Beauté, which consisted of agreeing I was excited about the race, I thought our car would be in good shape, and our chances were good for a top fifteen or twenty finish. Plus accepting good wishes and taking selfies with nearly everyone. I told everyone I hoped to see them on the pre-grid or after the race.

  My father stopped me as Holly and I made our way to the door. “Thank you for coming by. I know you’ve got a packed schedule, but it means a lot to our guests.”

  “You make it possible for me to be here. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, but everyone’s welcome in the garage after the race.” I smiled at him. “Thank you, for everything.”

  I saw a glimmer of moisture in his eyes as he kissed my cheek. Then he let us go.

  After a quick stop at a tweet-up for fans organized by IndyCar Nation, the Series-sponsored fan community—and another stop at a bathroom—we fought our way back through the now-dense crowds to the garage. I went straight to the hospitality area, grabbed a bottle of doctored water, and plopped down on the cooler’s closed lid. I exhaled and tried to send the stress of the morning out with my breath.

  “Long day already?” Chuck Gaffey’s voice was filled with amusement and sympathy.

  I saw him and Gramps sitting on stools and grinning at me. I toasted them with my bottle. “The glamorous life of a racing driver.”

  Gramps laughed. “I recall warning you as a kid it would be a lot of work.”

  “I still wouldn’t change it.” I watched the activity around the car, which sat in one piece in the center of the garage space. “Did you make sure it’s put t
ogether right?”

  “Supervising,” Gramps said. “That’s our talent.”

  Chuck laughed. “We made sure they didn’t miss a spot in their polishing—not that we need to tell this group anything.”

  “They’re good at their jobs. I’m fortunate to have them all.”

  Alexa and team co-owner Tim Beerman stepped out of the office area. “It’s nine-forty-five. Let’s do this,” she said as she strode past me to the center of the garage space. She clapped her hands and raised her voice. “Beermeier team, gather round.”

  We all stopped what we were doing and moved closer. Tim stood behind her, arms crossed over his chest, his typical silent self.

  “We’re about to take the cars to the grid, but before we scatter to our different responsibilities, I want to say thank you for the effort you’ve made this month. Thank you to every single one of you for the care you take in doing your jobs. For the support you give each other—and especially the love you’ve shown me and my father this past week.” She paused and looked down at the floor.

  When she raised her head, her eyes were wet. “You’ve demonstrated over and over that we’re a team, and that’s never more important than today. Go do what you know how to do. Do it to the best of your abilities. And do it because you love your jobs and love being here for this incredible event. Thank you, and have a great race.”

  Everyone in the room cheered and applauded, then got down to work. My crew went back to the car and immediately started preparing to depart. They’d take it to our space in pit lane first, and then they’d roll it out to our grid position on the track, where it would sit until I got in and took off for warm-up laps.

  I resumed my seat on the cooler, content to take a couple more minutes to regroup and watch the action. I was done with my duties for the morning, and aside from stepping outside the garage to sign autographs for fans, I had nothing else to do for the next hour and a half except drink more water, try to eat, and get ready to race the car.