Rosalind took a step back to look at the apparition in dark shades and a purple and white firesuit. “I can’t imagine why,” she said.
He shrugged. “Me neither. I just try to be polite and keep moving.”
“Good, because I’ve never been a handler before, so don’t expect me to fight off women for you.”
Badger brightened. “No problem. Today is kids. Kids are great.”
He grabbed a stack of autograph cards from Rosalind and rushed into the room ahead of the trailing hospital entourage. The shrieks of delight from many little voices billowed out into the hall, and Rosalind smiled. Badger had given up a $5,000 appearance to do this, and that had impressed her, but now she figured it would have been a bargain for him at twice the price just to feel that much love and admiration. She would never know what that felt like, but it was fascinating to watch it happen. She just hoped she’d brought enough autograph cards.
The children’s ward was large and airy with a painted mural of a forest scene on the wall. If you looked closely enough, you could find rabbits, raccoons, and a fawn within the foliage, invisible until you looked closely. A banner taped across the top welcomed the NASCAR guest, but the name of the Roush driver had been covered over with tape and typing paper and Badger’s name had been inscribed in black magic marker.
He went from bed to bed, shaking hands or letting himself be hugged, and he was smiling in genuine delight at seeing these kids. By now Rosalind could tell a polite Badger smile from the real thing, and this was genuine. Some of the parents had heard about the visit from a NASCAR driver, and they had come, too, armed with everything from videos to disposable cameras, so that the entire scene was bathed in the glow of flashbulbs and camera lights, giving Badger a celestial aura. Rosalind knew that some of the crew called him the Dark Angel, but today, she thought, he was an angel of light.
For an instant, Rosalind wished she had borrowed one of Sark’s cameras, because a photo of Badger surrounded by smiling children would have been a publicist’s dream shot, but then she realized that Badger himself wouldn’t have permitted the taking of such a photo, anyhow. It would have embarrassed him. He would pose all day with a kid whose mom had a disposable camera, but he would never let his visit be exploited for commercial purposes. Rosalind almost smiled. The Team Vagenya driver might be a scrawny little redneck, but at least he wasn’t a jerk. She was proud of him. She wished she could help him win.
Many of the children had NASCAR posters and die-casts featuring the Roush driver who had been scheduled to visit, and Badger duly admired these totems of his competitor, and even signed them if the owner insisted. Sometimes, if the child had a shaved head or looked particularly ill, Badger would turn away for a moment and rub his eyes with the back of his hand.
She heard one of the parents ask Badger about Victory Junction, the camp for chronically ill children that the Petty family had founded near their home in Randolph County. She heard him say, “Sure, I’ve been there. That place is awesome. I think they ought to let Kyle Petty win every third race just because he’s a great human being.” His eyes were glistening again.
While Badger was busy scribbling his name on everything thrust at him, Rosalind began to wander around the room, handing out autograph cards and purple Team Vagenya pins to anybody who wanted one, and answering questions directed at her.
“No,” she’d explain, repressing a shudder. “I’m not his wife. I’m one of the team engineers.”
“Awesome!” said the redheaded boy in a wheelchair.
Suddenly, Rosalind spotted something she had not expected to find: a Badger Jenkins poster. It was taped above the bed of a frail blond girl: a smiling image of Badger in his white and purple firesuit, standing next to the team Vagenya car he had driven at Daytona. Intrigued, Rosalind forgot her aversion to strangers and went over to the little girl’s bed.
“You’re a fan of Badger?” she asked, trying to keep the note of astonishment out of her voice.
The little girl had been staring longingly at Badger who was still posing for pictures on the other side of the room, but now she turned to Rosalind and nodded solemnly. “I love Badger,” she whispered, glancing back over her shoulder, as if he could hear her from twenty feet away.
“He’ll be over here in a minute,” said Rosalind, sitting down in the bedside chair. “I promise he’ll come over. He’s going to be so glad to see you. What’s your name?”
“Elizabeth Baird.”
“Wow. That’s a great name. I just hope Badger can spell it.”
“Well, my dad calls me Littlebit.”
“Mine’s Rosalind.”
“Can Badger spell your name?”
Rosalind nodded. “Six different ways. So, tell me, Littlebit, how did you happen to choose Badger Jenkins as your favorite driver? Are your folks originally from Georgia?”
The little girl shook her head. “My grandparents live in Berea, Kentucky. They like Mark Martin.”
“But you like Badger instead, huh? How come?”
With a sigh of exasperation at having to explain something so obvious to a grown-up, Littlebit said, “Well, because, silly. My favorite color is purple. I want his hat.”
“I think we can send you a hat,” said Rosalind. “I’ll bet he’d even sign it for you. Would that do?”
A slender man in a tweed jacket hurried over to the little girl’s bedside, unwrapping a roll of film for his camera. “Littlebit,” he said, “you shouldn’t ask strangers to give you presents. It isn’t polite.”
“But she’s not a stranger, Daddy. She’s on Badger’s team.”
“Mike Baird,” said the man, shaking hands with Rosalind. “We all appreciate your coming to visit the kids today. Are you Badger’s publicist?”
“No,” said Rosalind, “I’m Rosalind Manning. I’m the team’s engine specialist, so I’m out of my depth today.”
Mike Baird smiled. “I’m an engineer, too,” he said. “Chemical engineering. I don’t think I’d be very good as a celebrity escort, either.”
They watched in silence for a moment as Badger made his way through the ward, signing autograph cards, chatting with the young patients, and posing for pictures with practiced ease.
“He’s great,” said Mike. “I don’t think he needs too much help today, so you should be fine. I’m glad he’s the driver who came. Badger is Elizabeth’s hero.”
“He’s a nice guy,” said Rosalind. “It’s nice to know he has a supporter here.”
Badger, who had finally seen the poster of himself, hurried over just then and enveloped the delighted girl in a hug. Rosalind stood up so that he could have the bedside chair. After snapping a few pictures of his daughter and her idol, Mike Baird went over to talk to Rosalind.
“He’s great with kids, isn’t he?”
Rosalind nodded. “Maybe it’s because he’s handsome. He never has to worry about people not wanting him around. But, yes, he really likes kids. And I did promise your daughter a signed Team 86 hat. So if you’ll give me your address, I’ll make sure that she gets one.”
“I don’t think you need to,” said Mike, nodding toward Badger. “He just took his hat off, and he’s signing it for her. I’m glad he’s a kind person. I wouldn’t have wanted her to be disappointed.”
“She’s a feisty kid,” said Rosalind. “I hope she’s not here for anything serious.”
“We hope not, too. They’re running tests. We try not to let her know we’re worried. Right now all she cares about is getting to see the NASCAR race on Sunday.”
“Will she get to see it?”
“TV in the lounge. Any chance you’re going to win this one?”
Rosalind sighed. “Not much of a chance, I’m afraid. We’re a one-car team, and we don’t have the resources or the research to really compete against the big teams. He’s a good driver, but it takes more than that in motorsports.”
Mike Baird looked thoughtful. “You know, I wonder if I might be able to help you out.”
&
nbsp; Hey, Sark! How are things going with the Dream Team? Are you hooked on Vagenya yet?
No, Ed, but thanks for asking. You’ll be the first to know. I have been doing feature stories on some of the pit crew women. The media is interested in them, because they are an anomaly in a male-dominated sport.
Oh, good. Is it true that you have a blackjack dealer and a former Miss Norway?
No, Ed. What we have is Cindy, a bluegrass musician from Arkansas, and Sigur, a farm girl from Minnesota. No sensational stories there. Just nice people doing an unusual job. Actually, I’m kind of getting hooked on Badger Jenkins. He did his good deed yesterday. Wish I could have been with him, but I took the day off. Just my luck. It would have made a great firsthand feature.
What did he do? Rob a gas station?
You wish. He visited the children’s ward of a local hospital, filling in for some other driver who got sick at the last minute. And he turned down a paid gig to do it, too. Isn’t that wonderful? Not everybody thought so, though.
Really? Someone does not approve of kindness to sick children? Do tell.
According to the team secretary, Badger’s odious manager, who is variously called “His Restrictor Plate,” the “Dominatrix,” and other less printable epithets, was furious with him.
Sounds like she isn’t popular with Badger’s Angels.
You could say that. None of them would spit on her if she were on fire. And she treats Badger like dirt. She is also incompetent, if you ask me.
She must be beautiful then. Famous Cup drivers do not generally take crap from people, do they? Or even from each other if I recall the Bristol race correctly.
Cup drivers have short fuses, I think, but looks are not a factor here. The Dominatrix is certainly no beauty. Don’t get me started. She has the manners of a hyena, the fashion sense of a circus clown, and the composition skills of a spider monkey. I think she has promised to make Badger lots of money, but even if she were competent it would be uphill work. Badger is not what you’d call motivated. Except on the track. He’ll race his heart out on a speedway, but when it comes to everything else-appearances, interviews, sponsor events-you need a cattle prod to get him there.
That sounds like a promising observation for your article, Sark. “Slacker race car driver.”
No, it isn’t. So what if he’s not perfect? He’s a damn good driver. And at least he isn’t an arrogant jerk. Which is more than I can say for his manager. Today I had some die-cast cars that I wanted Badger to sign so that we could send them to various charity auctions-we get a dozen requests a week, at least. Well, Melodie was with Badger when I asked him, and before he could break away to do it, she said she’d be in touch to negotiate his fee for signing them. I wanted to slap her. She is making him look like a jerk, but he really isn’t one.
Sark, Sark…You are a journalist. We never slap anyone. We have other ways of making them suffer. This “Melodie” sounds like a very interesting person. Well, she sounds like she probably has a coat made of Dalmatian puppy fur, but as a journalist, I am bound to find that interesting.
Ed! Of course! I’d forgotten what a pit bull you are. Could you check up on the Dominatrix? Her name is Melodie Albigre, and she works for Miller O’Neill. Oh, please tell me she’s wanted in six states for ax murders.
No promises, Sark, but if she has not led a blameless life, you may trust me to uncover the fact.
“Ax murderess” is a tall order. But we can always hope for the worst. Perhaps she has written a book of kitten recipes or has a brood of six unattended children who forage from Dumpsters while she’s out working. Would that cheer you up?
Well, Ed, none of that would surprise me. I’ll stock up on wolfbane and garlic and wait.
CHAPTER XX
Future Shock
“S hark oil?” said Julie Carmichael, wondering when the Excedrin was going to kick in. You might learn a lot by going out drinking with the boys, but it was sure as hell hard on your system. She groped for her coffee cup and tried to focus on what Rosalind was saying.
Rosalind shook her head. “Shock oil,” she said. “I’ve been researching it since Monday, when Badger went to visit the children’s ward at the hospital, and I went along as his minder.”
Melanie Sark appeared in the doorway, waving a bag of doughnuts. “Bribe!” she said. “Can I sit in on the engineers’ meeting?”
Julie turned even paler at the sight of the heavily sugared doughnuts dumped out onto a paper towel on the work table. “You can’t report anything about car modifications. And you can downshift that cheerfulness.”
“Okay.” Sark lowered her voice to a soothing monotone. “I’ll take notes, but I promise not to use anything without running it past you first. I wanted to ask Roz about the hospital visit. Badger did it for free, didn’t he? That was nice of him.”
Rosalind nodded. “He did. And apparently good deeds do get rewarded. A little girl in the children’s ward was actually a Badger fan, and-”
“I thought Badger appealed more to big girls.”
“Littlebit is six. Her favorite color is purple, so that was Badger’s edge over, say, Jeff Gordon. Anyhow, it turns out that her father is Dr. Michael Baird, who is a chemical engineer with Carolina-Petrochem. He was so grateful to Badger for his kindness to his daughter that he offered to give us a little help on the track.”
Tuggle appeared in the doorway, with herbal tea in a Bill Elliott mug. “We could use all the help we can get,” she said. “What is he offering?”
Rosalind said, “I asked Tuggle to sit in on this, because she’ll know more about how this applies to racing. We can run it past Jay Bird, too, next time he’s here.”
“Great,” said Julie. “Tell me more.”
“Dr. Baird is working on an additive for shock oil.” Seeing Sark’s puzzled expression, Rosalind said, “We’re talking about the oil that lubricates the shock absorbers.”
Sark blinked. Shock absorbers? It sounded trivial to her. “So you want Badger to be more comfortable out there?”
Tuggle laughed. “He can sit on a thumbtack for all I care. He was supposed to have lunch with Christine yesterday, but he blew her off. Turns out she had a potential sponsor lined up to meet him. She’s not happy.”
Julie said, “Shock absorbers aren’t just for comfort, Sark. Shocks do soften the bumps to keep the tire in constant contact with the road, but for race cars, the important factor is that shocks control the weight transfer of the car.”
“Absorbing down force,” said Rosalind. “They absorb the banking forces. Every time the race car hits a banked turn, there is huge downforce acting on the tires, the springs, and the shocks.”
“I’m a journalist,” said Sark. “Keep it simple.”
Julie tried again. “Turning a race car is all about controlling the weight on the car. That’s why we weigh it so many times and put in different springs and different shocks. We build the inside of our shocks to have certain characteristics. When the shock oil heats up, it flows through the valve and shim stack at a different rate, which changes the characteristics.”
“That’s one of the reasons we have to make adjustments as the race goes on,” said Tuggle.
“Complex turns are a factor at Darlington,” said Julie. “If we can take those turns a hairsbreadth faster than anybody else, we stand a good chance of winning.”
“Okay,” said Sark, making notes on her legal pad. “What would make you take the turns faster?”
“Badger’s talent,” said Tuggle. “He’s the key. But if the engineers can give him some technical help, it could make all the difference.”
“Better shocks means that you have more control, especially in those turns where the downforce is such a factor,” said Rosalind.
“Shocks also help take care of the tires,” said Tuggle. “Darlington is hell on tires.”
“Right,” said Julie. “So, on every lap around the NASCAR track, Sark, there are at least four cycles on the shock: two for loading and two for unloa
ding.”
“It adds up,” said Rosalind. “For a five-hundred-mile race, you’re talking about two thousand cycles. Each instance of loading and unloading will generate heat in the shock.”
“Heat,” said Sark, writing it down. “Heat is bad?”
“It alters the performance of the shock. Cuts down on efficiency-not much, but some. And in this sport, a hundredth of a second counts. Improved heat transfer would keep the shock operating at maximum efficiency.”
Tuggle said, “Shock absorber technology is an old shell game in NASCAR. At Daytona and Talladega the teams used to rig up shocks that would go down when the car hit the track and they never went back up, which made for good aerodynamics, but it made the car damn near impossible to control. NASCAR put up a stop to that. Now they issue the shocks to each team before the race at those two tracks.”
“But not at Darlington?” said Sark. This week they were headed for Darlington.
“Right,” said Tuggle. “Not at Darlington.”
One thing about being a journalist-you had to catch on quickly. Sark cut to the chase: “And this guy you met in the hospital has figured out how to keep shock absorbers from heating up?”
“Well, not entirely,” said Rosalind, “But he has developed an additive that keeps the oil cooler than it otherwise would be. He hasn’t announced his findings yet, but he offered to let us try it out in the race Sunday.”
“He’s going to give us some?”
“I can pick it up today,” said Rosalind.
“Is it illegal?” asked Sark.
Tuggle, Julie, and Rosalind all looked at each other. “Not yet,” said Julie carefully.
“Not this week,” said Rosalind.
“But when NASCAR finds out it exists, they’ll write a rule prohibiting it,” said Tuggle. “But this week, anyhow, we’ve got an edge.”
Sark set her wineglass next to the computer. It had been a long day, but she couldn’t go to bed until she checked her messages. As soon as she had logged on, there was an IM from Ed Blair.
Once Around the Track Page 27
