Last Ride (4 page)

“I don't need the hassle.”

“It wouldn't be a hassle.” I pop the tab on my can of cream soda and gulp some courage.

“Are you nuts? Sure it would be. I'd have a pile of paper pushers crawling all over this place, looking at how we do things. They might see stuff they don't like.” His gaze shifts to a new box of parts that arrived that morning. Hot parts, I'm guessing.

“Plus there'd be all that paperwork to fill out. And they'd probably want to look at my books too.” He snorts.“It'll be a cold day in hell before I let anyone see those.”

“But I'd be able to work full-time. We could set up a plan to pay back what I owe on the car.” And the most important thing—I could keep it.

Ray drains his beer and leans forward, his paunch almost resting on his knees. “It'll be six or eight months before you graduate and enroll in any kind of mechanics program. I ain't waiting that long for my money.” He tosses his can toward the rest of the empties in the corner. “Five grand by this time next week, Shields, or ten grand in work. Otherwise your car belongs to me.”

That's not happening. And that means I have to convince the guys to get their cars in to Ray.

The text comes just before eleven.
Twenty mins. The old auto wrecking yd. Nr Green Rvr.

“I gotta go,” I tell Ray as I shrug out of my overalls. “I'll be in early tomorrow.”

The night is clear. Diamond-bright stars litter the sky as I fly past a string of nurseries, a weathered old barn and berry patches. Soon the fields give way to chain-link fences and industrial parks. A few minutes later my headlights pick out a familiar site looming on my right: ghost cars flattened and stacked like a heap of pancakes. The old wrecking yard.

My heart skips a beat. Is Logan's Lexus in there somewhere? Has it been turned into a ghost car?

I don't want to know.

Rounding the corner, I come face-to-face with a bank of cars parked off the road. The hoods are open, and people are inspecting them. It's a small crowd tonight. Twenty or thirty people. Maybe a dozen cars. I see Luc's Civic. Blair's Mazda. The red Lancer everybody's talking about. And the white Porsche Boxster that showed up at Ray's last night. Interesting. I back in beside Blair and pop my hood.

“Hey, man, you made it,” Blair says.

“Wouldn't miss it.” I stare down the long straight stretch of pavement. Tonight's track.

“Come see the Lancer. Driver's name is Isaac.”

Issac is a skinny, pimply-faced guy with too-long legs and a bad attitude. “I hear you're the guy to beat,” he says as I lean over to check out his engine.

“Yeah, but I'm not racing. Not tonight.” Not ever.

“Why not? There's three hundred bucks on the line.”

As if I need reminding. Lucas and Drew wander over, along with a couple of guys I don't know. Engines are being revved. Tires spin. The air is heavy with the smell of exhaust. “I'm watching. That's all.”

“Good thing.” He smirks. “You'd lose anyway. I hit a hundred and forty the other night. You'd never beat that.”

Blood rushes to my head. He has no idea what I have under my hood. I'm about to say so when I remember why I'm here. To discredit him. To make him nervous. “No way you hit a hundred and forty.”I gesture to his hood like his parts are fish guts. “Not with what you have there.”

A flush hits his cheeks. Murmuring breaks out behind me. “We clocked him,” someone says. “He hit at least a hundred and forty.”

“It was a fluke,” I say as Santiago, the Boxster driver, joins us. “A onetime thing.”

“Yeah?” The flush crawls up Isaac's forehead. “Let's go then. You and me.”

Santiago raises his eyebrow. He's enjoying this. I can tell. “I'm not the guy to beat.” I point to Santiago. “He is.”

Santiago studies me for a second, his dark eyes unreadable. I'm counting on him not being able to resist a challenge. Most of us can't. Finally he turns to Isaac. “I'm in.” His thunderbolt tat ripples as he gestures to the track. “What about you?”

Isaac hesitates just a second too long. He's unsettled. Maybe even a little spooked. Which is good. Spooked drivers lose. “For sure,” he says.

Hoods are slammed down. Isaac sends a buddy down the track. The two cars pull up to the start line. My pulse starts to hammer. I'm not racing, but I have a lot riding on the outcome.

“Good thing you didn't take your transmission in to his mechanic,” I tell Lucas. “From what I saw under that hood, the guy couldn't fix a go-cart.”

“You're nuts,” Lucas mutters. “The Lancer will take him.”

“The Lancer's going to lose.” I hope. I stare at the two cars lined up side by side. The Boxster has a rear engine. It'll get better traction off the line. With any luck, Isaac will overcompensate and spin his wheels. I'm counting on it.

Suddenly it's like I'm no longer watching. It's like I'm in the car, ready to race. My blood surges with anticipation, with adrenaline. My foot is poised, as if I'm ready to slam down the gas pedal. Shoot for the finish line.

At the arm drop, the cars fly forward. The Boxster launches smoothly. Isaac struggles for traction and is slow off the start. The Boxster edges ahead. My heart thrums as I watch the taillights disappear into the darkness. With any luck, the Boxter's lead will hold. A few minutes later, the call comes from the finish line.

“The Boxster took it.” Blair's face mirrors shock. “By five car lengths.”

“Told you. The other night was beginner's luck.” My knees are like butter. “His mechanic sucks.” I look at Lucas. “You'd better let Ray do your rebuild.”

He nods. “I'll come in tomorrow.”

I didn't race. I turned down three hundred in cash. But I've got Lucas coming in for a transmission job. That's five thousand for Ray. I'm halfway to keeping my car.

Chapter Six

Saturday and Sunday my mood goes up and down a dozen times like the elevator at the Space Needle in downtown Seattle.

When I show up for work Saturday morning, Ray's standing beside the coffee machine, waiting for it to finish dripping. Half a dozen homemade muffins sit in a square Tupperware container on the desk. His wife must have baked them.

“I hear you were at the track last night.”

His pissed-off tone makes me uneasy. What I do in my spare time is none of his business. “That was fast,” I joke. “Did Santiago call you at dawn or what?”

Ray doesn't answer. The coffee machine sputters the last of its brew into the pot. He pours a cup, adds sugar and cream. When he turns, his lips are twisted in disgust. “Why the hell would you hang around the track if you aren't going to race?”

“I can watch, can't I?” I grab a muffin. They're still warm.

Ray scowls. “Why sit and watch when you owe me twenty grand? You should be out there racing.”

My anger starts to boil. I put the muffin back down. “I don't need to race. I've got Lucas coming in at ten for a trannie job. That's worth five grand.”

He grunts. “Four maybe. Not even half of what I want. And you have less than a week to go.” He eyes me over the rim of his mug. “You're gonna lose your car, Tom. It's gonna be mine.”

Alarm clutches my gut. “I didn't
ask
you to fix my car. You came to me when I was in the hospital after my second operation. You offered!” Mom didn't like the idea, but when I told her there was no point in having my car in pieces, she agreed. I should've known Ray would attach strings.

“And now I want to be paid.” My rage boils over. “When you fixed it, you said I could take as long as I needed to pay you back. No rush, remember?”

“I've changed my mind.”

“That's not fair.”

“It's not fair that you changed your mind either.”

“What are you talking about?”

“About racing. You used to race. Now you show up and watch.”

You kill your best friend and see
how you feel about racing afterward
. “I didn't change my mind. I stopped. There's a difference. And it's none of your business anyway.”

“It is my business. When you race and win with a car I build, my business goes up.” He shakes his head. “Plus you pocket three, maybe four grand a month. And you end up with your cut from all the extra business you bring me. It's a no-brainer.”

Maybe to him.

“If you raced, you'd have me paid off in six or seven months.”

And then I could start helping Mom with my medical bills. I know. I've thought about it. “I'm not racing,” I say again. “Lucas will be here at ten. I'll get you another five grand in business by the end of the week.”

I take a break when Lucas comes in, mostly to convince Ray to put his other job aside so Lucas can get his car back Sunday. After that, I choke down a muffin, and then I take my phone and shoot a picture of a new engine Ray's dropping into a Honda. Ten minutes after I post it to Facebook, Drew makes a comment and I answer back.

“I'm not paying you to socialize,” Ray gripes as the texts start to fly.

But within the hour, I manage to generate enough of a buzz about Ray's work that one of Blair's buddies texts to say he needs a new set of tires and rims and he'll be in the next day at one.

He never shows up. When I text him at two on Sunday, he says he's decided to wait until January. And my mood plunges again. It goes even lower just before five when the white Boxster pulls up to the back door.

“Santiago's here,” Ray announces. “I thought we could have some beer.”

I don't think so. “I've gotta go.”

I throw the wrench I'm cleaning into the toolbox. “Mom's got dinner waiting.”

Santiago gets out of the car, wanders over to my Acura and spends way too long eyeing it. I pretend not to notice. I slide out of my overalls and hang them up, grab my keys from the desk. “See you Tuesday, Ray.”

“Nice set of wheels,” Santiago says when I reach the driver's door. He pats my hood and gives me a smile that could freeze fire. The guy's got no warmth whatsoever. Although he must have a wicked high body temp because he's wearing another T-shirt—black this time—and the temperature outside has to be hovering around zero. A challenge dances in his dark brown eyes. “I hear you're the guy to beat.”

I glance back at the shop. Ray's watching us. Plotting something. I can tell.

“Not anymore.” I slide behind the wheel. “I'm done with racing.”

It's true, I vow as I head for home. I'm not racing again. I'll find another way to keep my car.

I drive home on autopilot, not realizing until I see the playground sign up ahead that I've forgotten to take the long way around. I've taken my old route instead, past the elementary school and park, and within a block of Logan's house.

Logan. The prickles start up on my neck. I catch a whiff of cherry Twizzlers. I crank the stereo, hoping bad rock will distract me.

Old Mr. Chang's store is still on the corner. The guy must be 105 by now. I ease up on the gas and check my speed. The cops used to wait behind Chang's blue dumpster to catch drivers speeding in the school zone. I remember when Chang caught me and Logan stealing bubble gum in grade two. He made us clean out his vegetable bins for an entire week. Logan almost threw up when he touched a bag of rotten carrots.

I can still hear him gag.

At the curb, a woman wearing a puffy red coat raises her arm and signals for me to stop. A badass would boot it through the intersection, but I see a small group of kids waiting behind her so I slow down. Even badasses stop for kids.

Tapping my fingers impatiently on the wheel, I wait for them to cross. They waddle in front of my car like a flock of baby ducks, laughing and shoving and making too much noise. One straggler brings up the rear. She's carrying a grimy basketball and wearing a yellow jacket.

No way. It can't be. Shock waterfalls through me. Amy? What are the odds?

Apparently, pretty good.

I slouch down in my seat, hoping she won't see me.

She's taller, I realize as she passes my car. Her face is sharper too. Maybe because she's older. I haven't seen her since the funeral. But the truth is, that kind of sharpness doesn't come from being older. It comes from sadness.

One of the kids in the group says something to her. She smiles and dips her head toward him. Logan does that. Or he did. Their mom does too.

Tears ball in the back of my throat, and my eyes start to sting. Thank God I'm in the car. Thank God my steel shell is protecting me. I couldn't stand her seeing me like this.

She is past me now, almost to the curb. She still wears her hair in pigtails. And they are still crooked. Logan always used to razz her about that.

My guts twist. I've taken something from Amy that she'll never get back. Her big brother. No matter how sorry I am, no matter how much good I do for the rest of my life, I can never do enough good to make this right.