Checkered Flag Cheater (17 page)

“Nothing,” Trace said. “The main thing is, I don't want to see her.”

“Jeez! Why not?” Jimmy asked quickly.

“Just . . . because,” Trace said. “So be cool. Order some food, whatever. It's not like she's going to recognize you.”

“She might,” Jimmy said, straightening his cap and slicking back his hair as he walked off.

“What's that all about?” Harlan asked from behind the Super Stock.

“Nothing,” Trace replied.

Race teams continued to roll in, including Jason Nelson—and then Sara Bishop and her father with their Super Stock. Jason flashed a longhorn salute as he passed by, but Sara's father, with their car on the trailer, stopped to talk. He was friendly, as always; Sara had little to say. After an awkward silence, she looked toward the big Blu hauler. “Anybody from Headwaters coming over to see you race tonight?”

“I don't think so,” Trace said.

“Well, see you on the track, I guess,” she said finally.

“Okay. Good luck,” Trace said.

She motioned for her father to drive on.

“Wasn't that the girl in the Chevelle from the other night?” Harlan asked.

“Yes,” Trace said.

“She didn't seem all that happy,” Harlan said.

A couple of Super Stock teams from Headwaters rattled past, including Gerry Harkness and his family. There had been bad blood at the end of last season; Gerry drove a local Super Stock at Headwaters, and had been the first to protest Trace's Team Blu motor. But this afternoon, Gerry blustered over, big smile on his face, his wife and kid in tow.

“Hey, Mr. Big Shot,” Gerry said. He had larger hands and arms than Harlan, but fewer teeth. “Just can't get away from you!”

“Hi, Gerry,” Trace said, and greeted his family as well.

“Billboards, those TV ads—and now we gotta run into you here,” Gerry said, and sighed.

“Sorry about that,” Trace said.

“Why ain't you on
American Idol
, that's what I want to know.”

“ 'Cause he can't sing,” Harlan said from the side.

“I'll bet he can,” Gerry said. He was one of those guys whose humor was always on the edge—friendly jabs that could tip either way. “Let's hear something.”

“No chance,” Trace said.

At that moment Jimmy appeared. “No,” he mouthed to Trace.

Trace nodded.

“No what?” Harlan asked. The Harkness family looked on.

Trace turned to the Harknesses. “How's the speedway makeover going back home?”

Gerry winced. “Slow. I hope Mel's not in over her head. Johnny gave her the green light, and it's too late to turn back now.”

“It's going to be a great track once it's done,” Gerry's wife, Cindy, said.

“If it ever gets done,” Gerry said.

“Ain't you going to ask about his cheater motor?” the Harkness kid said to his dad.

There was silence but for the pit sounds.

“That was last season,” Gerry said. “We turned the page, right, Trace?”

“Good luck tonight, Gerry,” Trace said.

As the Harkness family moved on, Jimmy whispered, “I asked around about April, but she's not working tonight,” he said.

“Thanks.” Trace did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He checked his watch, then sat in Jimmy's lawn chair and caught some sun while the crew worked—the crew except Smoky, who remained in his motor home. The sounds of NASCAR radio came from inside. When Harlan went inside the hauler, Trace suddenly got up and followed him.

“What would we need magnets for?” Trace asked Harlan. He kept his voice down.

“Magnets?” Harlan asked. He turned to stare.

“I noticed something strange,” Trace said, pointing to the padlocked drawers. He fished a metal washer out of a can and knelt beside the steel compartments. “Watch this.” He tossed the washer—which went
tack!
against the drawer front, and hung there.

Harlan stared. Then he stepped over, bent down, and peeled off the washer. “Those are Smoky's drawers,” he said.

“I know that, but—”

“But nothing,” Harlan said. “Just leave well enough alone.”

“There's something weird going on with my motor,” Trace said. He blocked Harlan's path back to daylight.

“Weird?” Harlan asked.

“Yeah. That's what I wanted to talk about last night.”

“What do you mean, ‘weird'? Smoky's motors run great.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes they run too great. It's like Smoky gives me power when he wants to, or when I really need it—like last night in the last few laps.”

Harlan stared. “Have you been watching those late-night religious channels?”

“Huh?” Trace asked.

“Smoky ain't God,” Harlan continued. “He can't just fill your motor with the Holy Spirit whenever he wants to.”

Trace glanced at the Blu Super Stock, then at the old Gulf Stream. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Harlan gave Trace a long look. “You just drive, remember?” he said. “And don't be snooping around Smoky's stuff.”

Just then a track guy came along on an ATV. “Drivers' meeting! Drivers' meeting!” he called.

“You got that? Is that clear?” Harlan asked.

“All right, all right!” Trace muttered, and walked away.

At the prerace gathering of drivers, the chief pit steward, wearing a headset and a green safety vest, stood atop an ATV. He held a bullhorn and waited impatiently for the drivers. It was standard procedure at every speedway for a track official to read off the general rules, and to orient drivers new to the speedway. It was also standard procedure for drivers to be in no hurry to gather; they joshed with one another, played little mind games, talked cars, and fished for information as they slowly migrated toward the bullhorn.

Jason Nelson and his father were already there. The older Nelson stood with a group of drivers, all of whom swiveled their heads to look at Trace. He ignored them and paused center-back, where he folded his arms and waited for the usual sermon.

“Let's go, let's go!” the official called to the drivers still on their way. “We do have to race tonight.” He was crabby, like all chief pit stewards, but getting race drivers to follow instructions was like rounding up cats and dogs.

“New drivers: you go on the track in turn 2, you go off on turn 1,” he began, and continued with restart and then return-to-the pit rules. “On a yellow flag, a driver with a
flat or minor mechanical trouble may return to the pits while the other cars complete two slow laps under caution. If you can make it back, fine, but we drop the green flag after two laps—any questions?”

There were none. Everything was standard procedure. As the race director went on, Trace gradually felt something strange. He looked behind, then to his right, then to his left. In the crowd of over fifty drivers, no one stood within ten feet of him. The chief pit steward began to stare at Trace—or rather, try not to stare. He swung his bullhorn right, then left, but purposefully didn't aim it toward Trace—who stood like an outcast animal at the edge of the herd.

Jason Nelson broke away from his father, and ambled across the open space toward Trace. He stopped nearby, folded his arms across his chest as if bored like everyone else, and continued to listen. The circle of faces gradually turned back to the race director.

“Hey,” Trace said. It was the least he could do.

“Hell, ah know it ain't you,” Jason said under his breath.

Trace looked briefly sideways, but didn't answer.

“It's your engine guy,” Jason continued, all the while watching the race director.

Trace concentrated on saying nothing.

“It's like he holds you back in the heats, then juices your motor for the feature,” Jason said. “Everybody knows.”

“Juices it?” Trace said.

Other drivers turned to stare.

“Yeah. Or whatever it is he does,” Jason said, not caring who heard.

“Something for sure,” his father said from nearby. “Ain't no Super Stock should run like yours does.”

“We're having a meeting here!” the race director said, his bullhorn louder.

“Money talks,” Harlan called to Jason and his father. “Like I always say, if you think we're cheating, put up two hundred dollars and protest our engine.”

Heads turned as Harlan shouldered his way through the crowd.

“We may be dumb, but we're not stupid,” Jason's father said.

“Too bad there's not an engine-claiming rule in Super Stock class,” another driver said. “Then we'd see if you could win with my motor.”

“If you don't mind—” the race director boomed.

But the drivers were all focused on Trace. “That's probably why Team Blu runs Super Stocks,” someone said. “They couldn't win with somebody else's motor.”

“Or maybe you boys just don't know how to build engines—let alone set up a car right!” Harlan growled as he stood next to Trace.

“I can handle this,” Trace muttered.

“Go back to the trailer,” Harlan replied.

Trace stepped away, angry and humiliated, but didn't leave.

“Hey, don't get your shorts in a wad!” a local driver said to Harlan. “We're just sayin' what everybody thinks.”

“Do your talking on the track,” Harlan replied.

“We're talkin' right here, you fat redneck!” another driver called.

“Okay, that's enough!” the race director boomed. “I'm calling the six-foot rule right now!”

Two pit stewards in green safety vests hustled toward the tightening group of drivers and crew members, which quickly broke apart at their approach. Jason Nelson disappeared like a gopher down a hole. The six-foot rule was designed to prevent just such in-your-face confrontations between drivers; it carried fines, point losses—even disqualification.

“We'll see your boy on the track!” a driver called over his shoulder to Harlan.

“You might see his rear end if you're lucky,” Harlan shot back.

Back at the trailer, Harlan sat down in his lawn chair and lit a cigarette. He drew deeply, then turned to Trace. “Want one?”

“No,” Trace said.

“That's the right answer,” Harlan said. “These things will kill you.”

Trace was silent.

“If they don't kill me, these farmers might,” Harlan added, looking around the pits.

Trace followed his gaze. “So why do we run Super
Stocks?” he asked suddenly. “If we ran Modifieds, we'd have way more places, way more speedways to race. Maybe they're right about the claimer class.”

Harlan barked out a short laugh, and spit to the side. “It's way simpler than that. The higher-ups, like Laura Williams? They thought Super Stocks would look cooler on billboards than other car types. Super Stocks are longer, bigger—more tin for advertising.”

“More tin?” Trace asked. “That's the only reason?”

“Yep,” Harlan said. “That engine no-claim rule just fell into our laps.”

Trace was silent.

Harlan glanced at him. “In racing, when a rule falls your way, you make it work for you. Squeeze it, stretch it, find the gray area, find the space inside it where you can operate.”

“Which is what Smoky does,” Trace said.

“I don't know what Smoky does,” Harlan said, and sucked again on his cigarette. “I only know that he gets you a lot of horsepower. I don't ask, and Smoky sure as hell don't tell.”

Just as Trace opened his mouth, Harlan said, “And you don't need to know, either. You're winning. You got the world by the short hairs, kid. Leave things alone.”

“Yeah. But all the other drivers want to wreck me.”

“They wreck you, we got another car,” Harlan said.

“That only pisses them off more.”

“Which makes them worse drivers,” Harlan said.

“Still—” Trace began.

“Still nothing,” Harlan said, cutting him off. “Let me give it to you straight: do you want to be Mr. Nice Guy? Or do you want to win?”

Trace was silent. He picked up a pebble, then pitched it away.

“Lemme tell you another thing,” Harlan said. “You're on the racing radar now. Lonny Marzones, other people—they've got their eyes on you. They think you might be the real deal.”

“What about you?” Trace said.

“Once in a blue moon, I do, too,” Harlan said gruffly.

Trace was silent.

“Stock car racing is like any other sport—there are scouts everywhere,” Harlan continued. “If there's some farm kid out of Podunk, North Dakota, who can throw a baseball through a barn wall, some scout's watching him. If there's a skinny city kid in Chicago who can dunk the basketball in sixth grade, some scout's got him in his computer. Well, you're a young dirt track driver they're watching.”

“Who's ‘they'?”

“You don't need to know,” Harlan said. “All you need to do is drive like you've been doing, and leave the rest to me and Smoky.”

Trace headed to his cabin—where he wanted to break or kick something—but just then his phone beeped. It was a text from Jimmy:
RED ALERT GIRL
.

Trace stepped to his cabin window—and saw Mel walking down pit row. He froze. She was the last thing he'd expected tonight.

He looked around the cabin. The first thing that came to mind was to brush his teeth. He gave them a five-second brush, spit, rinsed, then hustled downstairs—slowing at the hauler side door so as not to seem surprised or eager.

She was smiling as she came toward the Blu hauler. Mel was always taller in real life than she was inside his head (she should have been a basketball or volleyball player). Her jeans were nicer and tighter than usual, but otherwise she wore her standard speedway outfit: World of Outlaws cap with blond ponytail poking out the back, sunglasses, and a Trace Bonham T-shirt.