by Claire Adams
I’ve heard that he’s now a gun runner; I’ve heard that he’s a high-level drug dealer; I’ve heard he’s involved in all sorts of racketeering, whatever that is. The most popular myth of all, though, is that he’s all of the above, plus more.
“The truth,” I tell her, “is that he’s probably a low-level scumbag who ended up with a lot of money. I’m not saying I’d want to get on his bad side, but I really don’t think he’s the psycho everyone says he is. Then again, he didn’t really blink when I talked to him, either, so what do I know?”
“You’re filling me with confidence.”
I smirk and my phone starts ringing.
“Is that it?” she asks.
“Well, I don’t know the number, so unless that’s you calling me…” Kate shakes her head. I answer, saying, “Eli.”
“Tramway and Jersey,” a woman’s voice says. “Be there in ten minutes or don’t bother showing up.” She hangs up the phone.
“Tramway and Jersey,” I tell Kate. “While I’m running the Chevelle, I’ll give you the keys to the flatbed in case you’ve got to get out of there. Don’t try to race the thing, though. Just calmly drive off if you have to. They might stop you and ask you some questions, but as long as you haven’t broken any laws yourself, you should be fine, all right?”
“I’m starting to like the idea of trouble,” she says, and I think her own response embarrassed her a bit. Her face is red and she’s looking anywhere but at me. “Let’s just go.”
“Righto,” I answer and we pull out of the shop. I get out quick to close the bay door and then I’m back in the cab and we’re on our way to Tramway and Jersey.
I don’t think there’s really anything there, but an intersection is an intersection.
While we’re on our way to the start point, I want to give Kate the rundown of how the race is going to work, but there’s really not much to tell her. Jax is playing everything pretty close to the chest.
We finally get to the intersection and I pull the flatbed over to the side of the road.
There’s no one here.
My phone rings.
I pick it up, “Yeah?”
“Two blocks south, one block east,” that same woman’s voice says. “Leave the truck. When all four are in position, the race starts. No waiting.”
“Hold on,” I interrupt. “What about the route? I don’t know where I’m going. How am I supposed to-”
“The route is marked,” the woman snaps and then hangs up.
I put my phone back in my pocket.
“We’ve got to unload the car here,” I tell Kate. “The start point is a few blocks away, but I took the passenger’s seat back out of the car. What do you want to do?”
“Just drop me off before you get to the line,” she says. “I’m not going to miss the start of this.”
I nod and we get out of the cab.
Kate grabs one of the ramps, I grab the other, and we set them up at the end of the flatbed. She spots me as I pull the car back off of the truck and onto the street.
From there, we leave the ramp where it is and I hand Kate the keys to the flatbed as she settles in where the passenger’s seat would be.
I drive slowly to the start point. After stopping to let Kate out, I pull up to the line.
My competition for this race is a BMW M3, a Cobalt SS, and a Ford GT. This is the first race in the tournament, and it’s already the toughest field I’ve been pit against.
That is, assuming the people sitting behind their steering wheels can drive.
I’m waiting for some kind of instruction: where the race is going to end, how we’re going to know the route. But a man in a black suit and sunglasses steps out between the two center cars and points to each of us individually starting at the far right and working his way over to me on the far left.
I nod when the finger’s pointed at me and I’m keeping my revs up as the man raises his arms over his head.
They’re really just going to start it.
He lowers his hands and my left foot comes off the clutch while my right foot is burying the gas pedal.
I’m not first off the line, but I’m quick to catch up.
The GT’s got me by half a car length, but we’re just getting started.
We’re burning down the road, and I’m keeping my eyes out for any indication of where to turn, but so far, I’m seeing nothing.
My twelve-hundred horses are slowly creeping up on the less-heavily-modded GT next to me, but it’s not an easy fight.
Up ahead, the street lights are out and I’m honestly on the verge of just hitting the brakes and calling it a day when the protected left turn light comes on, the other two filled green lights still black.
That’s got to be it. If I’m the only one to notice, this race might be over before it’s even really begun.
The GT’s still just edging ahead, but I’m on the inside for the turn, and I don’t mind going in a little fast to cut off my opponent. I get an extra jolt of adrenaline as the tail of my Chevelle narrowly misses the front of the GT.
I may make a solid living doing what I do, but I don’t have Ford GT money hanging around if I damage this guy’s car. They’re $400,000 stock, and light mods are still mods.
The GT’s coming around my left side, and he hits his nitrous, leaving me with only his taillights to look at as he leaves me behind.
If the course is almost up, I’ve lost.
When the protected right turn signal flashes on with the GT all but underneath it, though, I think I might still have a shot.
The driver of the GT slams on his brakes, but has to spin the car around to make the turn. I inch past him again, but it’s not a decisive lead.
Behind the GT comes the Cobalt, and she’s got a better line and better speed coming into the turn. She overtakes the GT, and I can hear from the sound of the car it is at least as modded-up as mine.
What’s worse, she’s smarter than the guy driving the GT: she’s saving her nitrous.
All of the stoplights ahead are green. Whatever it is Jax is into, he’s connected.
I’m considering using my own nitrous when I see the next turn indicated as a left.
The Cobalt is nipping at my heels, but I’m still ahead going into the turn. When I’ve leveled out, I hit my nitrous to get some distance between me and the rest of the pack, but the very next traffic light is showing a left turn.
I’m going way too fast and the nitrous is still pumping into my engine as I try to take the turn as easily as possible. It doesn’t quite work out that way.
Instead of kissing the apex of the turn, I clip the curb, causing my front end to jerk hard, first to the left, then to the right as the Cobalt screams past me.
I’m back on the road quick enough, but I’ve lost four or five car lengths and the blue flame coming out the tailpipe of the Cobalt means I’m going to have a hell of a time catching back up to her.
“Don’t lose your focus again, Eli,” I mutter to myself inaudibly.
My thumb is on the button for the nitrous, but the Cobalt’s tires are screaming up ahead of me as the car slides out of control. She manages to straighten it out, but I cruise past her with only the M3 still a viable threat a few lengths behind me.
The next turn is a right and I police my speed going into the turn, this time hitting the apex right where I need to and far down the way is a pair of red lights. That must be the finish line.
The M3 hits its nitrous as it evens out after the curve, but I’ve got a solid lead. I fly through the red lights of the intersection and before I even take my foot off the gas, I can feel the vibration in my pocket.
Slowing down to only thirty above the speed limit, I pull the phone out of my pocket.
There’s a text message waiting for me, reading, “The envelope is in the glove box of your truck.”
There’s nobody at the finish line, but apparently, someone was watching.
It’s not something I’d usually recommend, but I go back to
the start line, only everyone, including Kate, is gone.
“Shit!” I bark at my windshield.
The only place I can think she might have gone is back to the flatbed. That’s where I need to go next anyway, so I flip around, tires screeching behind me as I drive the few blocks back to the truck.
Kate is sitting on the back, her legs dangling off the end of it.
She jumps down and moves off to the side when she sees me, and she’s waving me on frantically.
I pull the Chevelle onto the back of the flatbed and I quickly get the cover over it. If the cops know we’re here and see the truck with the car on the back, the jig is up.
Kate and I run to the doors of the flatbed and we get in.
“Check the glove box,” I tell her.
“They said the police are on their way, something about screwing with traffic lights or something?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’ll fill you in later. For now, we just need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
I’ve driven the flatbed many times over the years, but one thing it’s not is cut out for racing anything. All we can do is take back roads to the shop and hope nobody spots us on the way.
“Whoa,” Kate says, pulling an envelope out of the glove box. “It looks like there’s $2,000 in here.”
“$2,000?” I ask. “That doesn’t even cover my entry fee.”
She shrugs. “I guess you have to keep winning then,” she says, putting the money back in the envelope and putting it back in the glove compartment.
“So you won?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sorry you couldn’t see that part of it.”
“I saw quite a bit, actually,” she says. “Even after you guys turned, where I was, I could still see you guys going past distant intersections. Wasn’t that spaceship car thing beating you for a while?”
“It’s a Ford GT,” I tell her, “and yeah. I almost lost that race to all three of them.”
I’m really starting to get sick of hearing sirens. Fortunately for Kate and me, though, it sounds like they’re a ways away from us.
It takes about an hour to get back to the shop using the backroads, but we don’t come across any cops on the way. When we get to the junkyard, I hop out and unlock the gate before backing the flatbed all the way through the maze of broken-down cars and parts to the Chevelle’s spot.
I remove the cover once more and pull the Chevelle back off of the truck and into its spot. I cover it again.
Kate and I meet at the back of the flatbed and, with the words, “For the winner,” she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me on the cheek, saying, “So, you’re buying dinner tonight, right?”
* * *
Kate and I go to dinner in my Galaxie. Her eyes are wide as I recount the race to her.
We talk for a while, and she asks me questions when she doesn’t understand something, but she catches on really fast. In fact, I think she’s getting this stuff easier than I did.
When it finally comes time to take her back home, the race doesn’t even feel real. There was nothing to wait for at the start, and by the time I crossed the finish line, everything was all packed up except the four cars finishing out the run.
It was like a dream, but that two grand looked pretty real.
We pull up in front of Kate’s house and, just as soon as I get the car stopped, it dies.
“You’ve really got to look into finding something else to drive around town,” Kate says.
I’m nodding along with her. Not that I have any definite plans to get rid of the thing.
“Can I walk you to your door, or do you have another ‘family thing’ going on tonight?” I ask.
She seems to have a lot of those.
“You can walk me to the door,” she says, “but I don’t think you should come in.”
“That’s fine. Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Of course. You won the race.”
“If I’d lost it?”
“Well, I would be very sad for you,” Kate smirks.
We get out of the car and I take her hand as we meet at the end of the walkway.
Kate’s whispering, “We need to be quiet. My parents aren’t exactly thrilled about you.”
“They haven’t met me,” I tell her. “I’m a very charming young man.”
“You are that,” she says. “I doubt that’s going to work so well on Mom and Dad, though. They can be a little uptight.”
“All right,” I tell her and we walk up to the door.
We kiss on the stoop like a bad romantic comedy; only it’s pretty great being on this side of it. I’m giving her one more kiss before I head back to the car when the front door opens.
“What are you doing?” a very angry woman asks.
Kate and I separate.
“Mom, this is-” Kate starts.
“I know who he is,” Kate’s mom says. “He’s the young man you’ve been sneaking out to go see at night.”
I have no idea what to do in this situation, so I just stand there trying to keep my mouth from falling open.
“Mom, just calm down,” Kate says. “This is Eli, and he’s a really nice guy.”
“Oh, he’s a nice guy, is he?” Kate’s mom asks. “Well, never mind then. Hi, I’m Jill, Kate’s mom, it’s so nice to meet you, Eli, now will you kindly get off my porch and realize that my daughter is not for people like you.”
“Mom!”
“I’ll tell you what,” Kate’s mom says. “Since you’re ‘such a nice guy,’ I’m going to give you ten seconds to be somewhere else before I call the police.”
“You’re overreacting,” Kate says, but her mom’s already got her cellphone out.
“I was just dropping her off,” I tell Kate’s mom. “I was on my way out, anyway.”
“Good,” Kate’s mom says. “Now see if you can be on your way out in the next seven seconds.”
“Go,” Kate says. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I look at Kate’s mom who’s looking at her watch, and I look back at Kate. Is there any other option? “All right,” I say and stupidly lean forward to kiss her goodnight.
“Are you that stupid?” Kate’s mom asks.
I’m gritting my teeth, but I force a smile before I turn and head back toward my car.
I had figured that Kate was hiding me from her parents, but I had no idea they were this bad. Sure, if she knew I was taking her daughter on illegal street races and being chased by the police, she’d probably be justified, but she doesn’t.
I’m just a guy who likes her daughter.
I get to my door in time to see Kate’s mom dialing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I murmur to myself and get in the Galaxie.
I turn the ignition, but the car doesn’t even pretend that it’s going to start.
Looking back toward the porch, Kate’s mom is now talking into the phone.
“Come on,” I say, trying the ignition again. Nothing.
The alternator probably went out, so the battery can’t charge. If I had an hour, some tools, and a new alternator, it wouldn’t be a huge deal, but Kate’s mom has already hung up the phone.
I get out of the car and take one last look as Kate shoulder-bumps her mom on the way inside.
The Galaxie’s street legal, it’s just broken down. The cops will know who I am and they’ll probably drop by sometime to ask me a few questions, but it’s not the end of the world.
I can get the car tomorrow. It’s probably best to wait until her parents are at work, though.
After I’ve made it a few blocks from the house without being stopped by the police, I pull out my cellphone and dial up Mick.
“Dude, I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.
Apparently, he lost his race.
“I’m not calling about that,” I tell him. “You wouldn’t believe what just happened.”
Chapter Seven
Distraction
Kate
/> “Ooh, I cannot wait for you to meet Keith,” Paz coos, shoveling a forkful of spongy hospital cafeteria pasta into her mouth.
“So it’s Keith now, huh?” I ask. “What happened to Marcus?”
Paz shakes her head. “He was no good. He came over to my house wearing jeans and a t-shirt when we were supposed to go to the opera. Can you believe that?”
“Since when do you like the opera?”
“It’s something I was planning on getting into,” Paz says.
I smile and nod. “So it’s something Marcus was into, only you were expecting him to show up dressed to the nines. Then, when he didn’t, all of your girlish fantasies about being escorted to the Grand Ball were torn to pieces, is that about right?”
She purses her lips and glares at me.
Maybe I’m in a bit of a mood. Things have been a bit tense around the house lately.
Mom called the cops that night. They showed up and told her that they weren’t going to spend any manpower trying to find someone whose only crime was dropping her daughter off after a date.
That’s when mom called the station and requested to speak with “Officer McGough’s superior.”
I caught the conversation through my open window. Mom doesn’t have a volume control option when she’s mad about something.
Things have been okay at work mostly because I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid my mother.
“Something like that,” Paz says, still glowering as she puts another forkful of the same bland, nothing pasta that I had the bad luck to get today. Her face brightens up a moment later though. “Keith is the perfect gentleman, though. Plus, he’s smart enough to tell me I’m pretty all the time, so I think I might have-”
“Oh, please don’t say it for the ten billionth time,” I groan.
It’s not going to matter. She’s going to say it anyway.
“I might have found the dick I’m gonna want to hang onto for the rest of my life,” Paz says and bursts into laughter.
Ten billion may be an exaggeration, but I honestly don’t know how she still finds that phrase so hilarious. She has said it about each of the forty-seven “boyfriends” she’s had since I met her.
The problem is that once she starts laughing, it’s so over the top that it’s impossible to not start laughing with her. There are people three tables away who couldn’t possibly have heard what she said, but they’re hunched forward, faces red, laughing.
