Braking Points (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

I spent five minutes thinking about determination before Mike arrived. He nosed his car up to mine at the rear of the paddock, bumping it, making it rock backward against the brake. I crossed my arms and glared at his laughing face through the windshield. Racecar drivers loved to play bumper-cars with rentals.

He got out, and I pointed to where his car still leaned on mine. “That's
my
car.”

“A love tap.” He smirked, retrieving his suit and helmet from the trunk.

We walked back under the awning, where he gave Aunt Tee a bear hug before turning over his gear. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. “Fancy-pants here?”

I laughed. “Fancy-pants” was the nickname he'd given Leon Browning, a brilliant, young, Scottish driver who'd joined us for the twelve-hour endurance race at Sebring in March and would race with us for the ten-hour Petit Le Mans. Back in January, we'd eyed the short, slight twenty-year-old with the flaming thicket of red hair, dressed to the nines in pointed shoes, artfully ripped jeans, and a fitted, wildly colorful button-down shirt. Mike had voiced the thought in my mind, “That's a hell of a lotta style for the US market.”

“Run of the mill in civilized nations,” Leon offered, smiling.

I shook his hand, eyeballing him and deciding we were equal in height, though I had five years and a different gender on him.

Mike crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and exaggerated his Southern drawl. “Ain't you sharper than a straight razor? Kate, this here's Fancy-pants.”

Leon nodded at Mike, mimicking his stance. “Aye, then, ye great moose-boy.”

A single beat, then Mike roared with laughter. They'd been pals ever since.

Aunt Tee clucked at Mike's question. “Leon has arrived. He's down at tech getting his gear inspected.” She referred to the fact that all drivers and crew needed their firesuits, fire-retardant undergarments, shoes, helmets, and HANS devices inspected for compliance to safety and badging regulations at every race weekend. “He said he'd be back for lunch.”

I looked at Mike. “Eat, then take a cart around the track?”

“Good plan.”

An hour and a half later, the three of us commandeered one of the team's electric golf carts and headed down the paddock toward Pit In, to access the track.

“@katereilly28: With Mike Munroe and Leon Browning in a golf cart to tour the Road Atlanta track. Petit Le Mans in 4 days!”

Mike drove, I sat next to him, and Leon sprawled on the back bench seat. We'd welcomed Leon with hugs (me) and insults (Mike), both of which he responded to with vigor. In the months since we'd seen him, he'd taken the GP2 series—a support series to Formula 1, often racing on F1's qualifying day—by storm, winning a number of races. He'd never driven Road Atlanta, so he was eager for the reconnaissance lap we were making, as well as our advice. I'd driven the track the year before with the team, and Mike had been there many times.

We puttered down the main straight, and Mike spoke over his shoulder. “We'll talk you through it, all right, Fancy-pants?”

Leon settled his sunglasses more firmly on his face. “Take it away, old man.”

Mike drove the racing line on the track as much as possible in the golf cart, moving at something less than one-tenth race speed.

“Up the hill from Turn 1, you're looking at sky,” he began. “Blind hill, aim for that telephone pole. That'll set you up for Turn 2, which isn't much. Then you turn for the right-hander of 3.”

We slowly crested the hill and followed the gentle sweep of Turn 2 to the left. Mike let the golf cart drift all the way to the left side of the track after 2, then angled right for Turn 3. He bumped us over the curbing of 3, the golf cart wobbling, and I spoke. “Use the low part of this curb—not the high part. It'll help keep you balanced, and you'll accelerate through it.”

Mike stopped near the exit of three. An SUV went slowly past us, ALMS marketing staff hanging out the open back hatch, ready to place track signs for maximum television coverage. A driver also passed on a bicycle as we sat looking down at the valley that contained the Esses.

“Here,” Mike pointed as he spoke, “set your hands for the sweeping left turn—don't get jerky. Find your arc and hold it. Feed throttle on.”

We moved again, picking up speed as we curved through Turn 4 and the track fell away from us. Mike lifted his foot off the accelerator and the cart gave a jerk that sent Leon falling forward over the seat backs.

“Oy!” He shouted.

“You'll remember to lift here, won't you?” Mike pressed the pedal again and the cart moved faster downhill.

I turned to Leon. “This is my favorite part of the track. Great rhythm through here, no braking, accelerate through the curves. The runout of Turn 5 ahead is the other curb you want to use, but stay off the rest. None of them will help you.”

We made it up the hill to 5, and Leon turned to look behind us as Mike went onto and beyond the exit curbing.

We cruised through 6 and 7 and turned onto the long back straight. The golf cart was slow on the gradual uphill of the first half, and just before we reached the top of the rise, a rental car went by. The racecar driver in the passenger seat nodded at us. The guy behind him, who I recognized as a prototype driver from a visiting European team, started to nod, then did a double-take at the sight of me, his nose wrinkled as if he'd tasted something vile.

“What the hell was that about?” Mike asked, after the car was gone.

I shrugged. “And who was it?”

“Dominic Lascuola.” Leon leaned forward over the seats. “Races over in Europe, though he's a Yank.”

The name was familiar. “Lascuola? Does he have a sister?”

“A younger sister,” Leon confirmed. “Twenty-two, racing off and on with a Mazda team in Grand-Am.”

“Colby, right?”

“She's here with a team in World Challenge this weekend.” Mike raised an eyebrow at me. “I hear some call her the next Kate Reilly.”

“God help her.” I laughed.

We finally were headed downhill on the back straight, looking at Turns 10a and 10b, a quick left-right zig-zag.

Mike pointed ahead of us. “The most important turns on the track. Bottom line, you want to roll through 10a and square off 10b. Be fast out, because Turn
11
is nothing. You're accelerating from the exit of 10b to the end of the front straight.”

Mike barely lifted off the accelerator as he swung through 10a to the left and turned hard right for 10b. Leon scooted to the inside of each turn, and the golf cart still leaned precariously. Mike kept his foot down going up the hill, but we'd slowed to a snail's pace by the time we reached the bridge across the peak of the hill.

I waved a hand at the sign on the bridge with “Road Atlanta” and three colored blocks in a row horizontally: black, yellow, and red. “Another blind crest, lots of speed. Aim for the yellow block and trust you're in the right place. Let the car settle back down on the wheels after getting light over the rise, then stand on the throttle.”

Mike held the cart in a straight line as we swept down the hill, the track moving to the right. We touched the left side of the track partway down the hill, and he started to turn right.

“Bump!” Mike shouted, as we rolled over the bump on the racing line most of the way down the hill. “Happens every lap. Get used to it.”

I turned to look at Leon again. “You'll hit about 130 through here, full throttle.” I grinned. “They like to say it takes balls for this turn.”

He winked at me. “Lucky all of us in the 28 car have them.”

We rolled down the front straight again and entered the pits at Pit Out, driving the wrong way through pit lane to the paddock. Leon stretched his legs out again across the back seat, and I finger-combed tangles from my hair.

We parked the cart behind the garage and sat down in green molded-plastic chairs in the hospitality area next to Tom. Mike and Leon each took two of the cookies Aunt Tee offered around; I took one. Tom was occupied with the computer on his lap.

“You making media magic, Tom?” Mike asked between bites.

Tom looked up, more worried than amused. And he was looking at me.

The unsettled feeling returned to the pit of my stomach. “Now what?”

 

Chapter Twenty-four

“Good news and bad news,” Tom said. “The good is fan voting closed for the ALMS Favorite Driver award. Informal polls show lots of support for you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Tom shook his head. “Most of the voting happened before the Miles incident.”

“Oh, aye,” Leon broke in, wiping his fingers on a paper towel. “I meant to ask about the last race. Wee bit of a mistake there, what?”

I pointed a finger at him. “Don't get cheeky, Fancy-pants.” I turned back to Tom. “It's a nice vote of pre-wreck confidence. We'll get ready to congratulate someone else at the banquet.” The favorite driver and “From the Fans” award were both voted on by ALMS fans via the Series website and announced at the championship banquet held Sunday evening, the day after Petit. The banquet was primarily for the distribution of season championship trophies, though there were other awards, tributes, and roasts presented as well.

Tom still looked grim.

“The bad news?” I asked.

“The Ringer's got a post addressed to the entire ALMS paddock titled, ‘Brace Yourselves for Calamity Kate.'”

“What happened to Kate Violent?”

“He uses that, too.”

I turned to Leon. “Have you heard any of this?”

“The Ringer's side, but I'm not witless enough to believe everything he says. Sorry about the loss of your friend.”

“Thanks.” I looked at Tom. “And?”

“He says, ‘Attention ALMS paddock, fans, and race attendees. Series regular—but for how long?—Kate Reilly, aka Kate Violent, aka Calamity Kate, has arrived in Georgia. A walking, talking, driving disaster. Consider: in the past two weeks, she's wrecked a racing legend and herself, found a friend dead, lashed out at hardworking Southern folk, and pulled a bait-and-switch on innocent media representatives doing their jobs. Defying logic, she scored a plum sponsorship deal the likes of which the ALMS has never seen and is in the running for the fan-favorite driver award. Undeserved? Many think so. Frankly, readers, I can't wait to see what happens next…but I've got a Benjamin says we'll see more missteps than triumphs. For those of you in her orbit, watch your back!'”

Leon finally broke the appalled silence. “What's a Benjamin, again?”

I sighed. “Hundred-dollar bill.”

“I always forget your currency. Also, good job on the makeup gig. Photos make you look fantastic.” His voice was calm, even bored. He collected another two cookies, offering me one with a raised eyebrow.

I shook my head. “I'd give a lot to know who that guy is.”

“Aye, they're wondering that throughout Europe as well. His range of sources is impressive.”

“Are you all right, Kate?” Tom looked worried. “This is awful. Rude.”

I felt frustrated, angry, scared about reactions from others—for a minute I thought I'd burst out crying. And then I moved beyond it. I let it all go. Felt free. Calm. “I'm really, truly bored of this. Time to focus on racing.”

Mike nodded. “If your sponsor doesn't tell you to take a hike, and Jack has no problem with it, screw what the Ringer says. He's an anonymous bully.”

I looked from Mike to Leon. “Thanks. I'll try to keep the drama away from you.”

“There's one great thing to come out of this.” Mike grinned.

Tom looked hopeful. “Yeah?”

“I'm absolutely calling her Calamity now.”

So was the rest of the paddock—usually in jest. As I walked around with Leon, briefing him on different cars and drivers we'd compete against, I did my best to ignore speculative looks and disdainful repetitions of the Ringer's nicknames. For the first time, recognizing faces of people I didn't know disconcerted me—I imagined stalkers and poisoners at every turn. I needed to get a grip or I'd be a mess when 90,000 fans showed up over the weekend.

Leon and I stood chatting with Holly in front of Western Racing's paddock when sometimes-racer, sometimes-reporter Scott Brooklyn approached.

“Hi everyone, sorry to interrupt.” He gave each of us a friendly nod and smile, greeting Holly by name and introducing himself to Leon. Then he held out a hand to me. “Kate, I'm Scott Brooklyn. I think we met last year.”

I shook. “You're not driving this weekend?” He'd raced at Petit the year before, and I wondered if he'd made the transition from driver with fill-in reporting jobs to reporter with fill-in driving jobs. He was handsome enough for TV, with expressive brown eyes and an engaging smile.

“Not this year.” He held up a small notebook. “Paying the bills with field reporting for a couple motorsports sites and a huge health and fitness portal. Would you have time for a short interview in the next couple days?”

I gave him Matt and Lily's information and explained I was routing all requests through them. “If you'll check in with them, I'll make sure it happens.”

“Will do,” he said, slipping his pen into the spirals of his notebook. “One good turn deserves another. Guy down in the Benchmark garage asked me and another reporter lots of questions about you. More hostile than friendly. You might steer clear.”

I glanced at Leon, who nodded and said, “Dominic Lascoula?”

“That's the guy,” Scott responded.

“Not much I can do, but I'll stay away.” I thought for a moment.
Take control, Kate.
“Scott, did you know Ellie Prescott?”

“I met her once, and I know Ethan. Such a shame.” He looked sad.

“You were in the Tavern that night, weren't you? Didn't I see you there?”

He nodded. “I was, but I left to meet a friend before anything happened.”

“I guess you didn't see anything strange? No one near our table?”

“You were at the back of the main room?” He crinkled up his forehead. “I can't think of anything. I told the police that also. I sure hope they catch the guy.”

“Me, too.” I tried for more. “Were you in downtown Atlanta on Saturday night? I thought I saw you outside a restaurant.”

To my surprise, he nodded. “I met someone for dinner. Was it Ray's in the City?”

“Near there,” I said, wishing I had a good way to ask who his friend was.

“Must have been me. I'll talk to you in a day or two, thanks.” He waved at the others and headed back down the lane. Leon and I said goodbye to Holly and finished our paddock tour.

The team activity that evening was a private party at the corporate offices of our longtime sponsor Active-Fit, a sportswear company Steve and Vicki Royal founded after Steve's pro-hockey career ended. We spent an hour mingling and taking photos with Active-Fit employees, then sat at long tables eating the best pork ribs I'd ever tasted.

Vicki and I talked about makeup while we ate. She was grounded, friendly, and funny—and as polished as you'd expect a former professional cheerleader to be. That meant intimidatingly gorgeous, with long, blonde hair and sky blue eyes. If her laughter was any indication, I entertained her as much as she tutored me in why and when I'd use different types of products.

“You think eyebrow gel is bad?” She wiped tears from her eyes from laughing so hard. “Has anyone told you about the tricks they use in pageants?”

I shook my head.

“Vaseline for teeth, tape so bathing suits stay put, hemorrhoid cream for the bags under our eyes.”

“That's disgusting.”

Another peal of laughter. “It's what you do to win.”

“Were you in pageants?”

“Miss South Carolina, twenty years ago now.”

I was astonished. “You don't look a day over thirty.”

“You are now my best friend.” She beamed at me.

“Would you know Juliana Parker? She was Miss Alabama at one point.”

“I know of her, met her somewhere. She was ten or fifteen years after me. Beautiful girl.” She finished eating her chicken and arranged her plastic utensils carefully on her plate. I was awash in barbecue sauce, but she'd stayed neat and clean. “Didn't I hear she's with SGTV? How did that come about?”

I explained Juliana's early focus on both racing and pageants and her change of career direction since her mother's death. “We bonded the one year we raced together—with Ellie also. Especially then, it was great to have other females around. I wasn't the only fish out of water.”

“I realized as the only woman in the ALMS you have to do some things differently—not change in the main transporter space with the guys, for instance. But I never thought you might be lonely.”

“Once in a while.” I wiped sauce from my mouth and fingers. “I can't be ‘one of the guys' all the time.”

She put her arm around my shoulder. “Anytime you need a girlfriend around, you let me know. I can talk makeup and shoes and cute boys with the best of them. Now tell me,” she leaned her head close to mine. “How is that new Beauté line?”

I laughed and promised her samples.

Near the end of the party she and I sat with Jack and Tom, discussing the idea of Jack taking the team to the 24 Hours of Le Mans.

My mind was on my current predicament, not future shots at glory—though I was eager for a crack at the famed race. I spoke into a lull in the conversation. “Who would you hire if I weren't driving for you, Jack?”

He turned to me, the look on his face a mixture of surprise and concern.

I held up my hands. “Just wondering who'd benefit if someone bumped me off.”

“I did that last year, can we not go through that again?”

It hadn't been an easy time for me or for Jack when he hired me as a replacement after Wade Becker was killed. But I needed to know. “This is hypothetical. You must have ideas.”

He sighed, seeming reluctant. Wary. “I keep my eye out. Might try to get Leon, if he'd run a full season. The Forbes kid running IMSA Lights this year looks good. Another kid over in World Challenge, that Colby girl, she's got some talent. Or I might give some guys with more experience a try, depending on what I needed…Scott Brooklyn comes to mind. Joe Jones. Evan McCoy. That enough for you, Kate?”

“Yes, only curious.” I hadn't expected to hear Scott and Colby's names. I knew Scott had been at the Tavern, but I'd have to find out if Colby had been there, too. Or her brother. “One other question. Were you around when Felix was racing?”

“I think my brother was on a team with him at one point. Why?”

“I wanted to know if his bad attitude was about me or about all women. People who know him now don't know anything. I wondered if you knew him then.”

Jack stared at me without speaking, long enough I became uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke. “My dad told me a story once about a season of go-kart racing back in the nineteen-sixties or seventies. A bunch of boys in the field, and one girl, who was really fantastic—later qualified and ran the Indy 500. You know how there are horrible fathers these days who get violent over their kids' little league?”

We nodded at him, and he continued. “There was one of those fathers that season who was so outraged at his son finishing behind a girl that he made his son wear skirts to the racetrack until the son beat her—berated him publicly, too. It was only three races, but we're talking ten-year-olds. Some parents tried to talk to the father, but he took it out on his son, so they stopped. But everyone pitied the poor kid.”

Vicki lowered her hand from her mouth, shock clear on her face. “That's abuse.”

“I won't argue. ‘Motivation' has a lot of ugly faces.” Jack turned to me. “That boy was Felix.”