His brow furrowed. “What’s that mean? They wanna come to my house?”
“Well, yes, but not to your place in Mooresville. They want to send someone back to Georgia to see where you grew up. You know, the life and times of Badger Jenkins.”
“Follow me around and all?”
“Right. Take photos, put together a little human interest story about you. Would that be all right?”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind, if she doesn’t get in my way. I don’t want to spend my day off sitting around being interviewed. But if I can do my fishing and all while she asks me stuff, it’ll be all right.”
“Good. I’ll have the publicist call you to decide on the particulars. Her name is Sark.”
He nodded solemnly. “And does she want to see my turtle?”
Suzie did not trust herself to reply.
CHAPTER VII
Daydream Believer
Taran Stiles reread the online notice in Engine Noise for the third time. All-woman pit crew… That bit of information interested her somewhat, but what really caught her attention-what held her so spellbound that her luncheon cheeseburger cooled into a puddle of grease in its wrapper on her desk-was the other bit of information tucked in the article. Unable to contain her emotion at this momentous news, she let out a yelp of joy, right there in the office.
Matt Troxler, in the next cubicle, rolled his chair back until he could see her computer screen. “What is it now, you silly git?” he asked, in tones suggesting that he didn’t want to know. “A long-lost Tolkien manuscript discovered?”
“No,” said Taran, “it’s my other obsession. NASCAR.”
“NASCAR.” Troxler shuddered. “Couldn’t you just chew tobacco, dear?”
They’d had this discussion so many times that each of them could have argued the other’s position, so Taran didn’t bother to respond to his salvo. “A new team is hiring Badger Jenkins to drive for them. I’ll get to see him again!”
Troxler raised his eyebrows to indicate incredulity and nodded toward Taran’s work space, adorned with a Badger Jenkins mouse pad; a poster of him in his blue firesuit; a fierce-looking Badger in dark sunglasses on an official NASCAR coffee mug; and her computer screensaver: a candid shot of Badger Jenkins leaning on his race car with a look of fierce determination on his perfect features. (Troxler called that pose “Badger Erectus.”)
Taran had the grace to blush. “I mean a chance to really see him,” she said. “He has been holed up in that Fortress of Solitude of his in north Georgia, and he hasn’t even been interviewed on the SPEED Channel in months. I miss him. But-oh, I feel so guilty, Matt!”
“Really? Why? Have you been buying his garbage on eBay?”
“No, I feel guilty for wanting to see him back out there. It’s so dangerous. When he was racing I worried about him all the time.”
Troxler sighed. “You could always watch something else on Sunday afternoons,” he said.
She nodded. “Sometimes I did. When he was in that awful car last season, and he kept having mechanical problems and getting so many laps down-you know what I’d do? I’d put Gladiator in the DVD player, paused on the scene where Russell Crowe is in the arena fighting the tigers, and then I’d watch the race. And when it got too painful to watch-when Badger was a couple of laps down, fighting to keep the car out of the wall or having mechanical problems-I’d push PLAY on the DVD and watch the movie instead. Somehow it hurt less to watch Russell Crowe being mauled by tigers than to watch Badger wrestling with that awful car, but I still felt like I was seeing the race. I worried about him so much.”
Troxler sighed. Since his own hobby was an appreciation of modern dance, he couldn’t really relate to this fever pitch of anxiety on behalf of one’s hero, but he knew that Taran was desperately sincere about it. Propped up against the poster of Badger was a ceramic leaf inscribed with a Bible verse: Psalm 91:11: “For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.” Taran, he knew, was not particularly religious, but just as there are no atheists in foxholes, he supposed that maxim might prove equally true of devotees of race car drivers.
“Taran, you don’t know him,” he reminded her gently.
“I do,” she said. “I got his autograph at the Atlanta Motor Speedway, and then last year he did a signing at an auto parts store. There weren’t many people there, and I shook his hand and he smiled at me, and said, ‘Hey, sweetie.’”
Troxler sighed. “And you didn’t get your name legally changed to that? I marvel at your restraint. Is he married by any chance?”
Taran made a face. “He was,” she said. “To a former Miss Georgia-USA. Very pretty, if you like the type. But she wasn’t a NASCAR fan; she said it was like joining the circus, having to fly somewhere every weekend to sit through a hot, noisy car race. So she dumped poor Badger for a billionaire developer of beachfront condos. Can you imagine?”
“It boggles the mind,” said Troxler solemnly.
“I know. I don’t think he ever got over it, either. Anyhow, I worry about him so much. I hope he’ll be all right with this new team. It can’t be as bad as the last one. Women are more attentive to detail than men.”
“Women?”
“Uh-huh. Did I tell you? The whole team except for the driver is female. The article online said they were looking to hire pit crew personnel.”
Troxler smirked. “Well, I suppose if you really wanted to look out for your precious race car driver, you’d join the team so that you could look out for him personally.”
The look on Taran’s face told him that he should have put more sarcasm into his tone, because her expression had taken on that rapturous look of martyrs and undermedicated saints who are about to give their all for the Cause.
He hastened to add, “Of course, I’m sure it’s very specialized work, pitting. Or crewing. Or whatever they call it. I don’t suppose you can just volunteer.”
“I think you can,” said Taran. “There aren’t many women in the business. They’ll probably train the people they hire.” Idly, she tapped a few letters on the keyboard, making Badger’s face vanish from the screen, to be replaced by an official-looking document: her résumé.
“But you’re an electrical engineer, Taran. Surely the pay cut would be the fiscal equivalent of skydiving.”
“I expect so,” said Taran. “But I do have a parachute. I invested wisely in tech stock and sold them just in time. I could afford a year on minimum wage.”
Troxler sighed, wondering why it was never that easy to persuade people to do things that you actually wanted them to do. “You’re quite sure about this?” he said.
Without looking away from the screen, Taran nodded. “If they accept me, I’m gone.”
“Um, look, Tare…I think it’s great for people to want to follow their dreams and all, but I don’t want to see you throw a good job away for a pipe dream. You don’t think that this job is going to lead to a relationship with this driver guy, do you?”
Taran stiffened. She was staring at her screen saver-that impossibly beautiful photo of the stern man in the firesuit and sunglasses with his cleft chin and his perfect, perfect nose. Reflected in the screen’s shiny surface was a dim image of her own face-with its thin lips, freckled nose, and pale, too-small eyes, that radiated not beauty but intelligence. No, there was nothing about her that would make Badger Jenkins even slow to a walk if he passed her on the street. Unless she could somehow make him realize that no one could ever love him as much as she did.
“No, Troxler,” said Taran softly. “I know nothing will come of this. I’d just like to meet him is all.”
Matt Troxler nodded, pretending to believe her. “Okay,” he said. “Well…that’s good. Umm, then can I have your stapler?”
Taran waved away the stapler. “Sure. Whatever. Take it now. But go away. I have work to do.”
And she did have work to do, but she didn’t do it. Instead, she logged on to the Badger Jenkins unofficial fan Web site (Badger’s Din), the a
ddress of all of her best friends, none of whom she had ever met. At least once a day, the several dozen people who constituted Badger Jenkins’s most loyal and hopeless supporters would log on to hash over the latest rumors about their idol’s NASCAR career, or to alert each other to the mention of his name in news articles. Sometimes one of them would have a thirty-second encounter with Badger at a scheduled appearance, and then a breathless account of What He Said to Me (“How you doin’, sweetie…”) would be posted and endlessly discussed. The account was often accompanied by a fuzzy digital photo of Badger gazing pleasantly into the camera lens, flanked by a beaming fan in the transports of religious ecstasy. So you knew what some of your fellow disciples looked like, but not their real names, because the women tended to use aliases, like Lady Badger (wishful thinking), Badgeera, or Short Track Gal, while the male fans called themselves things like FastDrawl or Bonneville Bill.
Some of the guys had an annoying habit of digressing into harangues about pro football or their mostly nonexistent sex lives, and they tended to “flame” any adoring female who dared to make syrupy comments about Badger’s perfect nose or his golden brown eyes, but all in all, the folks at Badger’s Din were the only people in the world willing to discuss day after day, ad nauseum, the fascinating topic of Badger Jenkins.
Is this new team any good? What is his new number? Sponsor? Has anybody seen any new Badger gear? Ordered a hat or a tee shirt? How is Badger’s turtle doing? Every day they danced around in a ring and supposed, but Badger never ever replied or took any notice of them at all. They didn’t expect him to, really. They became friends, and sometimes their own discussions of snowstorms, sick children, and job issues took such prominence on the site that one would almost think they had forgotten that Badger was the reason they were there.
But now their personal lives were forgotten, and they were all abuzz with the news of Badger’s new team. An all-female team! Is it true that Miss Norway is going to be one of the pit crew? Had they hired a beautiful Vegas blackjack dealer as a tire changer? Rumors were rife. One of the posters had a friend whose son was dating the daughter of a NASCAR mechanic, and so she had it on very good authority that…Except the rumors never turned out to be true somehow.
Taran sat with her fingers poised over the keyboard. She was going to tell them that she would be trying out for a spot on the pit crew of Badger’s new team. She would have the inside track. She would befriend their revered driver. The news she reported would not be a miasma of rumor; it would be actual team business. For once Badger’s fans would know the facts-even before Engine Noise got the scoop. She took a deep breath, but she didn’t push down any keys.
She hadn’t actually gotten the job yet. Why get this bunch all excited about a mere possibility? The guys (especially FastDrawl) would tease her mercilessly and make bets that she wouldn’t be chosen. The female Badger’s Din members would be more supportive, but their very enthusiasm would be annoying, too. They would ask her every day-no, twice a day!-if she had got the job yet. And once she had it, they would ask her a thousand questions a week.
What was he wearing? What does he eat for lunch? Can you get him to personalize a team hat for my nephew’s birthday?- And, worst of all…When can we visit?
Oh, yes, they would want to visit. Taran would suddenly become the Queen of the Damned, the high priestess of the Din, and the dearest friend of several dozen cyberstrangers with agendas. They would want passes to Cup races, permission to attend practices. Oh no! They would want to meet Badger. To have dinner with Badger. To become pals with Badger. They would consider Taran their personal ambassador to Planet Badger. Can he come to my company’s annual picnic? Can we have a tour of his motor home? What’s his cell phone number?
Taran shuddered. She could not possibly tell them what she was up to. No, she would go ahead and try out for the pit crew, without telling any of her friends in NASCAR fandom. All right, they were her friends, sort of, but her first allegiance was to the man himself. She resolved then and there that if she were chosen to serve on Badger’s pit crew, she would have to keep it a secret from the Din. Oh, she might tell them some things, a tidbit here and there, just because she knew that they loved Badger, too, but she wouldn’t tell them how she came by her information. And when all her tips turned out to be completely accurate, she would gain the respect of everyone, even the odious FastDrawl.
Taran nodded to herself. It was the only sensible course of action. Now, having made her decision, she took a deep breath and began to type:
Hi Guys! Great news about Badger’s new ride! If anybody hears anything about the team, I hope we hear it here first! Can’t wait! Badger 4-Ever, Mellivora.
That was Taran’s name on the site: Mellivora, the honey badger. She was proud of having come up with that.
CHAPTER VIII
Badger Meets His Crew Chief
“Hello, Badger. Remember me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Badger meekly. She looked at him, standing there in his tatty jeans and an old Talladega tee shirt. On the wall directly behind him hung a framed poster of Badger Jenkins the Race Car Driver in his firesuit and opaque shades, leaning against the race car with a look of sullen insolence on his chiseled features. As usual, she could find no resemblance between the powerful man on the poster and the shy-looking kid in front of her. When Tuggle entered the team office, he had stood up. Now he was looking at her with all the solemn deference of a nine-year-old called on the carpet in the principal’s office.
Tuggle’s stern expression did not change, but inwardly she was gratified that despite his fame and money, Badger at heart had remained a well brought-up country boy, to whom manners were second only to breathing. Good. He’d live longer. “Just make it Tuggle,” she said gruffly. “You know we’re going to be working together.”
He gave her one of those smiles that could melt asphalt, and his dark eyes burned with earnest fervor. “It is my honor to work with you, ma’am,” he said, in a golden baritone that dipped every vowel in molasses. “I’m going to give this team one hundred percent.”
“Boy, you can’t even count that high,” said Tuggle. “And you can dial back that drawl, too. That accent is your get-out-of-jail free card, but it won’t be working on me.”
His eyes widened a bit, but he contrived not to react to this speech.
“I know about you,” said Tuggle. “I’ve heard tell. We’ve not worked together, but the racing world is a small town, and everybody knows everything, so we’re going to have a little talk now, and you’d better hope we don’t have to have it again.”
He nodded, expressionless, and she couldn’t tell whether he was still all polite obedience or whether he was mad as hell but holding it in for the sake of the job. Well, she didn’t care either way. Whether he took it easy or fought her tooth and nail, things were going to be done her way, and that was that. She knew that some of the team would look at that Christmas tree angel face of his and melt, but it left her unmoved, except as a warning that here was a pretty boy who had cruised through life in neutral on account of that doll baby face. Well, she wasn’t buying it.
“As wheel men go, you’re not half bad, Badger,” she conceded. “You came up on dirt track, and that’s in your favor. Means you can drive a loose car without taking out half the field. That’ll help some. And your instincts are good-you don’t swerve when you can’t see; you don’t throw the race to win a grudge match against some other driver. Put you in a race car, and I got no complaints.” She saw him begin to smile and she held up her hand to forestall his relief. “But-there’s more to this job than seat-of-the-pants talent. And that’s what we need to talk about.”
The smile faded. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Anybody can drive a damn car.” His jaw tightened at that remark, and she knew she would get an argument out of him about that. Deserved one, too. It wasn’t true-not anybody could drive a car, not the way they drove in NASCAR. It wasn’t like a run down the local interstate. It took the courage of
a teenaged rhinoceros and the hand-eye coordination of a sniper. You couldn’t learn it much past childhood, either. Most of the successful drivers had started out in go-carts about the time their six-year molars came in; because if you waited for your wisdom teeth before you started racing, you would never be good enough.
Badger had started young, and he had what it took to be great-except that he wasn’t a corporate type, and in today’s sport, that flaw was fatal. Her only hope was to berate him into cooperation. It was a gamble, but she thought it was worth a try. His previous teams had all tried to reform Badger, using everything from bribes to threats, but nothing they did had ever worked. She thought the unvarnished truth was worth a shot.
She took a deep breath and let him have it. “You have the attention span of popcorn, boy. And you are either bone lazy or too overconfident to live; I can’t figure out which. I don’t much care. You’re what they call a prima donna, and with a team full of women, that is the last thing I need. Yeah, I heard about you with that last team you drove for. You acted like they paid you by the hour with no overtime. They practically had to tie you to a chair to see you other than on race days. I heard. They fired you, too, remember.”
She saw his eyes glisten, and she felt the comforting words rise up in her throat, but she choked them back. Hell, she wanted to hug him, poor little thing. Oh, but she knew better. “Don’t look at me like a whipped spaniel, either, boy. Your mother died when you were born. Yeah. Everybody knows that from the press kit information. Poor old Badger. And ever since then those mournful brown eyes of yours have made every woman over the age of twenty want to baby you to make up for it, with the consequence that you have been getting away with murder all your damn life. So I’m just putting you on notice, Pretty Boy, that this act of yours will not be working with me, understand?”
“I hear you,” he said softly, his face as expressionless as milk. He was good, though. She had to concede that. He could do “earnest sincerity” better than a damn cocker spaniel.
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