Mom finished the Chopin and took a break. They hadn’t played together in a while. There wasn’t that much music for trumpet and piano, but they sometimes managed to have fun improvising. Kyle waited until Mom was back at the piano again before he slipped out of the car. In the driveway lights he checked for oil under the car. Got to remember to stop for oil on the way to the track tomorrow. Better get over to the shop someday soon and fix the leak.
He tiptoed over the gravel until he was on grass. He let himself in the back door. The Labs, Rudy and Rozz, met him in the kitchen. He had to gently knee them away so he could get a soda out of the fridge and go upstairs.
There were new e-mails on his laptop. He wondered if Nicole was messaging him. She wrote a lot softer than she talked. Not going to read e-mail tonight. He kicked off his shoes and flopped on the bed. The dogs jumped up beside him. He laid his head on Rudy’s flank. I’ll rest a minute, he thought. Then maybe I’ll check the e-mail. The faces on his wall, Miles and Dizzy and Wynton and Louis, and Philip Smith from when he came to play in Charlotte, were out of focus, like they were sleepy, too. They disappeared.
THREE
Just before he climbed into the car for the parade lap, Kris jerked his head at Kyle and winked, the old signal to haul your ass over here in a hurry, little brother. As usual, Kyle felt proud to be singled out and pissed off to be summoned like a dog. But he trotted over. It’s a race day, he told himself, a Kris day. Keep your driver happy.
Kris grabbed Kyle’s head and pulled him close. Even with Kris’s mouth at his ear, Kyle barely heard him over the snarl and gunshots of dozens of engines warming up.
“Today,” said Kris. “Gonna do it today.”
“The sling?”
“Why don’t you shout?”
“But Dad said…”
“Just be sure nobody’s under me when I say ‘Wilco.’” He squeezed Kyle’s head. “Wilco. Say it.”
“Wilco.” It was the name of a band Kris liked.
He loosened Kyle’s head and turned it toward a crowd of people behind a barrier in the garage area. “Check the headlights on the redhead.”
Big girl, almost as tall as they were, a fully packed Hildebrand Racing T-shirt and a number 12 baseball cap pulled low over her face. Couldn’t make out her features. Her red hair was twisted into a braid that fell over one shoulder. Must be Kris’s latest pit lizard. Kris cocked an index finger at the redhead, who cocked a finger back.
“What happened to the blonde?”
“Same old—she wanted a hand on the wheel.” Kris released his head. “See you in Victory Lane. Don’t forget. Wilco.”
“Uncle Kale’s gonna yank your tail in a knot.”
“Not if I win.” He pushed Kyle away. “Wilco.”
Kris waved to fans screaming his name, his spiky black hair glistening in the sun. He was number three in the standings so far this season, his second in the Atlantic Division, and he’d won only two races, but the online polls had him listed as most popular, cutest, and most likely to be a NASCAR champion someday. Just like the Goshen High yearbook, thought Kyle. Kris brought his high school props to the track. Yeah, right, Kris’ll listen to me.
Kris tapped fists with his pit crew captain, Jackman, a big ex-football player a few years older who followed Kris around like a tall dog, a one-man entourage. Kris was Jackman’s ticket to the big time. He talked about being Kris’s crew chief when he won his Nextel Cup championship in five years.
Whap! Kris slapped his gloved hands on the deep-blue roof of number 12. Crewmen from other cars stopped to watch him push up, then jackknife his body through the car window in a motion as smooth as an Olympic gymnast. Nobody else got into a car that way—too risky, you could fall on your can, smack your head, kick some piece of equipment. It was pure Kris Hildebrand, part Showtime, part psychological warfare. Coming up on dirt short tracks and regional series, he’d psyched out dozens of rivals with that maneuver before the race had even begun. It still gave Kyle a little shiver of pleasure and envy to watch that move.
“Better get upstairs.” Uncle Kale’s mouth was at his ear. Kyle hadn’t seen him approach. “Keep your eyeballs peeled, Kylie. This ain’t a music recital.”
Suck my horn, Kyle thought. Uncle Kale had been giving him a hard time since he’d started missing races for the quintet. Uncle Kale had wanted Kyle on the pit crew, handling a tire, because Kris liked him around. Keep your driver happy.
“No daydreaming—keep your eyes peeled,” said Uncle Kale.
Dad trudged up, his lanky body bent from the weight of his laptop and his loose-leaf binders. He limped. The burn scars on his legs still bothered him. He waited until Uncle Kale lumbered off before he said, “What’d Kris say?”
“About what?”
Dad’s long face seemed to get longer. “The Family Brands people are sitting with Sir Walter, ready to sign. No time to goof around.”
Kyle nodded.
“No banging, no wrecking, no stunts. Can I count on you?”
Like I’m my brother’s keeper. “Do my best.”
Dad nodded and trudged off. He’d spend the race in the pits at a table next to Uncle Kale, his oldest brother, watching the TV monitor as he kept his charts on gas consumption and tire wear. Has to be the worst job, Kyle thought. At least I’ll be up high enough to breathe air I can’t see.
Kyle walked across the racetrack, still smooth and cool, even as the day got hotter. Kyle liked this time just before the race, the sense of expectation, the stands chattery, the loudspeakers blaring country rock, the smell of cooking meat still stronger than the exhaust fumes. In just a few minutes the cars would be screaming over the track, grooving it, littering it with scraps of rubber, banging against each other as they jostled for position mile after mile after mile. Kris would be in the middle of the action, loving every lap. Kris once said he felt like he was inside a video game in mortal combat with thirty other killer studs. Kyle thought he had sounded high when he said it.
The white-haired guard who stood at the entrance to the iron spiral staircase that led up to the grandstand roof said, “Always been a fan of your family. I can get you on the VIP elevator.”
“It’s okay, thanks.”
“Good race.”
He preferred to climb, feeling the air change as he moved up, seeing the track spread out and grow smaller below him. The cars were circling the track now, around an infield jammed with thousands of people standing on top of their cars, trucks, trailers, motor homes. Some of them had camped out all week. The big NASCAR race would be tomorrow, when the grandstand would be packed with at least one hundred thousand spectators. Maybe only a quarter of that today. Only twenty-five thousand.
Maybe fifty people period at the Brooklyn Brass’s master class. He’d rather be there.
Maybe three hundred at the Brass’s 8 P.M. performance. He had his ticket in his wallet.
Missing the trumpet lesson with Mr. Sievers was bad enough, but master classes don’t come around too often. Be a nice little trip. Maybe even stay over in Charlotte after the concert with Nicole.
Daydream about that later. Stay in the now. Keep your eyes on the road ahead.
From the roof of the grandstand, the cars lining up behind the pace car seemed no bigger than die-cast models. It almost seemed as though he could pick them up. They were only slightly less powerful than the mighty machines that raced in the multimillion-dollar NASCAR races.
Make it in the American Racing League and you had a clear shot at the big time.
He found the deep-blue number 12, nineteen cars back in the line of thirty-three. It should have placed higher in the qualifying runs, but the engine was over-heating and they didn’t want it to blow up. If they haven’t fixed the problem, Kyle thought, we’ll go home early, which is okay by me. I’ll make the concert.
He remembered the sponsors sitting in a VIP suite with Sir Walter and felt guilty. The family needs to make this deal to get back into the major leagues.
He dug in
to his gym bag and fished out the radio and the big orange headphones. He dialed the team frequency. “Kyle here.”
“Yo, little bro,” said Kris. That was getting old. Got to tell him sometime. He listens to you, said Dad. Yeah, listens to me right into the flower bed.
“Kylie,” said Uncle Kale. Getting tired of that baby name too. Nobody else called him Kylie. “Keep an eye on seventy-one and forty-two, desperate characters. You got that?”
“Copy.”
“Look out for smoke,” said Dad. He always said that. Mom once told Kyle that Dad was fire phobic. He had reason.
“Copy.”
“Kylie.” It was Uncle Kale again. “Which two numbers you keeping an eye on?”
He swallowed down the anger and the urge to say something smart-ass. When would Uncle Kale stop treating him like a kid? “Seventy-one and forty-two.”
“You’re awake,” said Uncle Kale.
There were dozens of other spotters on the roof. He knew most of them by sight, but he hadn’t been spotting enough the past couple of seasons to have made friends with any of them. Kris’s regular spotter was an old guy, Billy McCall, who had been Sir Walter’s pit crew chief, his Jackman. Hope Billy passes those tests for his heart in Atlanta and gets back up here.
The racers formed into ranks of two abreast and followed the pace car around the half-mile track. Kris was twisting his wheel back and forth to keep his engine warm and to scuff his tires so they would grip better. As they circled, Kyle targeted the cars he’d be watching most closely.
Number 71 was Boyd Jurgensen, the only all-white car in the race, as white as Casper the Ghost because it didn’t have a single sponsor logo on it. No kidding he was desperate to place high today. No sponsors, no money, no good engines, no testing, no spare parts. Boyd could get a lot of little sponsors if he wanted, but he was holding out for one big sponsor. Not a bad driver, but he was kind of an arrogant jerk who thought a lot of himself.
The yellow number 42 was Randall Bean, a nice old guy who owned his own car and had been around forever. He had raced against Sir Walter and he had raced against Kyle’s dad. He was over fifty years old, but he couldn’t let go the wheel, so he was driving down here in the minor leagues.
Keep an eye on number 24, Gary Nagle, Kris’s biggest rival on the track among the younger drivers. He was twenty-three, four years older than Kris. His light-blue Chevy was a good car this season—he’d won the pole for this race.
Always got to watch the brick-red number 22, Ryan Ryder, as aggressive as Kris but without any of his finesse. Ryder was a bully. Kris would wreck you to win. Ryder would wreck you because you were there. The media had tagged him Ruff Ryder. He loved that.
The radio crackled and Kris yelled, “It’s SHOW-time.”
The green flag came down.
FOUR
Once the race began, Kyle swallowed down the resentment he felt for being there. He liked the races, liked figuring out the tactics of a hundred-mile-an-hour chess match. He’d missed being part of it as a voice in Kris’s ear. His job wasn’t to tell Kris what to do—nobody told Kris what to do, although Dad and Uncle Kale tried—but to give him information so he could make the best decisions. And not too much information; like most crew chiefs, Uncle Kale wanted to keep radio chatter at a minimum unless he himself had something to say. But a spotter on the roof could see things going on around the track that a driver or a someone down in the pits couldn’t see, a car moving up, a car starting to smoke, a wreck unfolding.
In the early laps Kris slowly worked his way from nineteen to ten, picking off cars one at a time, coming up right behind them, intimidating them into getting out of his way or making a mistake that would let him pass. One of the big-time writers from Charlotte had called Kris The Intruder, even compared him to the great Dale Earnhardt Sr., who was The Intimidator.
Uncle Kale had warned Kris not to let his press clippings go to his head until he got to the Busch or Cup series and won a championship. Earnhardt had won seven. Kris had just grinned at that, and when Jackman had some “Intruder” caps made up, Kris made sure he wore one in front of Uncle Kale. Kris could get away with anything, always could.
Kyle checked the competition. Gary Nagle held his position in the lead. Ruff Ryder was three cars behind him. The desperate characters, Boyd Jurgensen in the ghostly white car and old Randall Bean, were in the back of the pack, nowhere near Kris. Number 73, a green Ford a few cars ahead of Kris, was driving aggressively, trying to bump cars out of his way. That was Elliott Slater, who used to race in the Busch series, just below the Cup. Slater was trying to make his comeback here. Keep an eye on him, too.
Kyle twisted his neck and stamped his feet to keep the blood moving. Stay sharp. It was still too early for the race to be interesting. Uncle Kale always said that there were drivers and there were racers, and a race didn’t get interesting until the drivers had gotten out of the way of the racers. Kris was a racer. Sir Walter had been a racer back in the sixties and seventies, when number 12 was called the Blue Shadow for the way he stalked his prey before he passed them. Sir Walter was a cagey old fox. He was no Intimidator, not even an Intruder, but he could plot a race like a chess master, keeping his intentions a mystery until it was time to strike.
He was a lot more gentlemanly than Kris, on and off the track. He was always friendly and courteous and patient. Once a writer dubbed him Sir Walter, comparing him to a chivalrous knight. Kyle always had the feeling that Grandpa thought the name was too fancy. But it stuck, mostly because Grandpa’s fans liked it. Dad thought it reminded them of Richard Petty, who was called King Richard. Kyle wondered if Grandpa liked the nickname. Never asked him. Of course, we never talk much.
Funny, Kyle thought, I usually think of him as Sir Walter, not Grandpa. Even Dad and Uncle Kale call him Sir Walter most of the time.
“You awake up there, Kylie?” said Uncle Kale.
No, I’m sleeping, lardass. “What’s up?”
“Just checking.”
Kris was holding his line nine cars behind Gary. The number 73 green Ford was running fifth, his rear end fishtailing toward the wall. Kyle wondered if Elliott Slater was having trouble controlling his car or just scaring people away. Something up with him, sneaky old pro.
Kyle wondered if Kris was serious about trying the sling today. Just like him to pull a risky stunt like that with the new sponsors watching. Then again, pull it off and they would be impressed. The Hildebrand Sling was a monster move.
The one time Grandpa had beat Richard Petty at Daytona, he had used the Hildebrand Sling, his most famous maneuver.
Late in a race, Sir Walter would come up on the leader, nose to tail, the Blue Shadow in stalk mode as the car in front weaved left and right to block him. Suddenly Sir Walter would swerve right, toward the outside wall, and if the other car responded to the move, he would swerve left and sling past him on the inside, his left-side wheels millimeters from going out of bounds on the grass.
Dad was pretty stubborn about Kris not trying the sling. All you needed would be someone coming up fast on either side and you could trigger the Big One, a twenty-car wreck. Dad was a lot more into safety than Uncle Kale, who was willing to let a driver take more risks to win. Of course, Uncle Kale had never been a driver and never been hurt badly, as Dad had been. And Kris didn’t drive as carefully as Sir Walter had. Which was something else the family didn’t talk about. A lot of people swore that Sir Walter with his talent would have whipped King Richard regularly if he had been willing to wreck, if he had a mean streak, the killer instinct.
Like Kris had.
It was a careful race, slow, averaging maybe eighty-five miles per hour. The cars were strung out single file. Kyle moved up to eighth place, then settled in again, awaiting his next intrusion. Kris was good at picking his moments, but he could use more patience. He’d get antsy after a while and make a move just to make a move. That’s when he got into trouble. But he seemed okay now. There were plenty of laps to go. Kyle’s mind
began to drift. Even at this pace, as long as there weren’t too many caution slowdowns or a major wreck, he might still get to Charlotte in time for the concert.
The radio crackled. Uncle Kale was talking to Kris. “How’s she feel?”
“Twitchy,” said Kris. “Wants to dust ass.”
“Easy, you got lots of time,” said Dad.
Uncle Kale said, “Kylie, check in if Ruff starts to move.”
“That green Ford looks loose,” said Kyle. “He’s in fifth.”
“Elliott Slater,” said Dad. “He’ll pull something if he can.”
“Washed-up has-been,” said Kris.
“Watch your mouth,” said Uncle Kale, and the radio went off. Who knows who’s listening in besides a few thousand fans with scanners?
The drivers had completed feeling each other out, like boxers in the early rounds. They had an idea now who had a strong car, who was bluffing, who was going to fade, who was playing possum until it was time to make a move.
Gary picked up the pace. He’d probably be pitting soon for gas and four tires, a good thing to do early, and he wanted as much lead as he could get. As expected, old Randall and Boyd in his naked white car had drifted to the rear of the pack.
Have to watch that, thought Kyle. Once they fell back far enough for Gary to come up behind them, you’d have two slow cars getting in the way. Old Randall was losing his reflexes and his car was waggling its butt. Boyd was an angry guy who would block Gary and Kris out of spite.
Ruff Ryder was making his move. He bumped a car out of his way and passed another.
Kyle tapped in. “Ryder’s moved up behind Gary.” He felt warm, dialed into the race. It’s not so bad when you let yourself be part of it.
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