Checkered Flag Cheater (13 page)

“Nothing wrong with that,” Trace said.

“Makes me nervous,” Jimmy said; he meant being away from the big hauler.

“I told you: if we need some work done between heats and the feature, Trace drives back to the hauler,” Harlan said.

“Still . . .” Jimmy said, and trailed off.

“You boys worry too much,” Smoky said from behind his window screen. From inside the Gulf Stream came the sounds of NASCAR on television. Smoky's satellite dish was cupped to the sky.

Time trials were another sign of a professional speedway. Each car took two fast laps, with the best time used for
heat race placement. On his first lap Trace got squirrelly in turn 2, but on his second lap he hit his marks and knocked off a full three seconds.

“That first lap was me—my fault—don't change a thing!” Trace said as he came into the pits.

“That's what we like to hear,” Harlan said.

Super Stocks ran second of four classes, right after Street Stocks and before Late Models; Trace's time trials numbers put him in the second row, inside, for the heat race. Jason Nelson—who else?—lined up two rows back.

On the second lap the lead Super Stock threw a right front tire—pitching the car sideways, where he was T-boned by the following car. Both left for the pits and could not make the three-slow-laps window to return. That put Trace in second place. He had good power—not great, but enough to gradually reel in the lead car and complete the pass on the eighth lap. From then on it was a question of hitting his spots in the corners. He avoided mistakes, and took the checkered flag by two car lengths.

Back in the pits, Harlan and Jimmy each pretended to be reading a newspaper as Trace rumbled in. Except that they held the newspapers upside down.

“Very funny!” Trace said as he killed the motor.

Harlan caught his helmet, and Jimmy almost tipped his chair over, laughing. “That's the way to do it!” Harlan said.

Smoky was actually outside, in daylight, though he wore long sleeves, gloves, and a wide, floppy fishing hat for maximum sun protection.

“Motor feel all right?” he rasped.

“Decent,” Trace said, exiting backward from the cockpit, “but no real sweet spot.”

Smoky nodded to Jimmy, who quickly hooked up the hauler cable. As Jimmy stood uncertainly by the car, Smoky said to Trace, “Would you go over to the food shack and get me a cola?” He fished a twenty-dollar bill from his shirt pocket.

“Why don't you go with him, Jimmy?” Harlan said. “Trace might run into those cowboys from Nebraska and need some muscle.”

“Sure,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, what do we know about engines?” Trace added.

When Trace and Jimmy returned, Smoky was all done working on the car.

In the feature, Trace ended up in the pole position—his least favorite starting slot. The inside, first-row spot was overrated. All the pressure was on the lead driver; there was no car ahead to draft or to learn from. A good part of racing strategy was watching the cars in front—how they handled the turns, where they rocked and rolled over a hole or a soft spot. Having the pole position was like being point man on a combat patrol: get out there and draw fire while everybody else hangs back.

After leading for three laps, Trace got overly aggressive and missed his spot in turn 4—doing a loop-de-loop right in front of the grandstand. The worst part was hearing the cheers as he was waved to the rear for the restart. There
were very few times on the racetrack when anger was helpful, but this was one of them. Starting in the rear after beginning in the pole position was a driver's ultimate humiliation; Trace fixed his eyes on the lead car—red No. 47, already a half lap ahead at the green flag—and stepped down hard with his right foot.

He made up two or three spots quickly, then ground it out through the middle laps. As the laps counted down on the scoreboard, his car got faster and faster; it wasn't like down in South Dakota, where his engine surged. This time it grew in rpm, slowly, lap by lap. With more engine, he had a better feel for the track, for the suspension, for the turns; as with riding a bicycle or planing across a lake on water skis, the more speed, the sharper the turns. With huge torque out of the corners, and red-line rpm down the stretch, he began to eat up cars like an alligator swimming behind a line of ducks.

By lap 17 of the twenty-lap feature, he was in fourth place. Jason Nelson, in third, tried to block him right and left, but Trace had too much car for Nelson and got by him. Some races belong to a driver from lap 1, and Trace felt ashamed that he had—even briefly—let go of that feeling.

He kept playing the lead two cars, probing for daylight. When he found a crack, he slipped between and challenged them three-wide. The triplicate of Super Stocks roared deep into turn 4, drifting sideways like three fish in the same school, but it was Trace who nosed
stronger out of the turn. The other two tucked in behind him, and Trace surged the last two laps to take the checkered.

He pounded the wheel and pumped his fist all the way to the scale. After a moment on the scale, he was waved toward the winner's circle for a quick photo. Emerging from the car, he waved to the crowd. Sara—he was sure it was her—jumped up and down and waved. There was cheering, but more than a few boos and jeers.

“You and Kasey Kahne,” the trophy girl said as she leaned against Trace for the photo. “People love to hate you.”

“I'm a tough guy,” Trace said.

“You sure look like one,” she murmured. “I love those Blu TV ads—how you get in and out of the car—but you really need a chick in them.”

“Like who?” Trace said, keeping his smile fixed for the cameras. There was some commotion in the stands, but Trace could not see well after the flash from the camera.

“Like me, sweetheart,” the girl said. She kept her face toward the camera.

Then it was off to tech lane.

“Nice work, kid!” Harlan shouted as Trace pulled in behind the other top-four finishers.

Jimmy hustled over to spray the radiator, aiming his hose and disappearing in a hissing cloud of steam.

“Don't thank me!” Trace said, watching the temp slowly fall. “I was red-lining every lap. I can't believe this motor!”

“Neither can a lot of people,” said Jason Nelson's father. He was standing just ahead, by Jason, who had finished fourth.

“Maybe it's your driver—ever thought of that?” Harlan threw back.

The older Nelson swore and came forward.

A tech guy in a green safety vest hustled over. “Please stay with your car,” he said to Nelson. Then he turned to Trace. “Please drive forward to the tech shack.”

“What did I tell you?” the older Nelson said.

Harlan ignored him, and followed Trace forward.

Inside the tech shack, the crew was quick and efficient; two guys worked on the top end, while another pair worked underneath the car, dropping the oil pan in order to get a look at the crankshaft. Within twenty minutes they were done.

“Have a nice day,” the lead tech guy said, like a cop after a traffic stop.

“You can bet on it,” Harlan said.

Jimmy put the oil pan back on to keep out the dust (they would need fresh oil and a new pan gasket), after which a speedway ATV bumped up behind, and pushed the Blu car back toward their pit slot.

Steering the silent Super Stock down pit row, Trace kept his eyes forward. In his peripheral vision, he saw other drivers and their crews turn to look. And it was Trace's forward focus that made him see it: Smoky's Gulf Stream, and the satellite dish on top. It was pointed not skyward but toward the track.

Worse, waiting by the little motor home was Laura Williams, Team Blu's big boss; Carlos, the photographer; and Tasha.

“We've got visitors,” called Harlan, who had caught a ride on the back of the ATV. “Didn't tell you earlier because I didn't want to make you nervous.”

“Thanks a lot,” Trace muttered.

Laura was dressed in her usual power business suit—black short skirt and pale silk blouse—with her signature flaming red lipstick. Carlos had his artsy look going, with tight black pants and a lime-green Hawaiian shirt; a big digital camera covered his face as he snapped away.

“Did we pass inspection?” Laura asked. She was not big on greetings.

“Always do,” Harlan said with a big smile.

“What was that all about over in the stands?” Laura said. She was not smiling.

“You mean, fans not happy that we won?” Harlan asked.

“Yes,” Laura said. “And there was a fight of some kind. I didn't like that booing, that ‘checkered flag cheater' stuff.”

“Redneck locals,” Harlan said dismissively. “Like I told Tasha down in South Dakota—people root for the home-town boys.”

“But why would so many of them not like us?” Laura asked.

“Because we're winning,” Harlan boomed. He threw a beefy arm around Trace. “People hate winners, and we're
winners because Team Blu has the real deal for a driver—did you see him come from last to first?”

“Yes. Pretty swift,” Laura said. “Literally.”

“Glad you caught the race,” Trace said, unzipping his suit partway as he wiped his sweaty, dusty face. “Didn't know you were coming.”

“Hold that!” Carlos called.

“We like to check up on our people from time to time,” Laura said to Trace. “Especially since we missed you down in Iowa.”

“Trace and I had our talk,” Tasha said.

Laura pursed her narrow, bright lips. “Actually, we all need to have a little talk—a team meeting,” she said.

“Uh-oh,” Harlan said, trying to make a joke.

“Now?” Laura asked, turning to Tasha.

“Why not?” Tasha said.

“Somewhere out of the dust?” Laura said as a car on an open trailer rumbled by. She waved dust away from her pale face.

“Let's meet back at the office,” Harlan said, nodding across toward the Blu hauler.

“Uh, Laura?” Carlos interrupted. “Can I shoot Trace outside while he's still sweaty?”

“Sure,” Laura said.

“I need a bunch of new shots by the car,” Carlos said, taking Trace's arm and steering him into position. “The light is fabulous right now—still some sun, but the overhead track lights are working great as fill-in.”

Tasha and the others watched.

“Can you unzip your suit a little more?” Carlos asked as he fired away.

Expressionless, Trace obeyed. Tasha looked away.

“Your hair's getting long,” Carlos said with a pained look. “You're starting to look Italian playboy.”

“I noticed that, too,” Laura said.

“I told him he was looking like a hippie,” Harlan said.

“You thrash the car, I'll worry about my hair,” Trace muttered.

“No,
we'll
worry about your hair,” Laura countered.

Trace set his jaw and said nothing.

“Fabulous—love the angry look!” Carlos exclaimed. “Hold please!”

Laura turned to Tasha. “Be sure to find Trace a good stylist before our next photo shoot.”

“Sure,” Tasha said flatly.

They headed back to the Freightliner, where Jimmy quickly clattered together some chairs. Team Blu, with Laura and Tasha, and Carlos shooting away, assembled inside the brightly lit trailer.

“I'm here with good news,” Laura said.

“Better than winning a feature?” Harlan said, with a nudge to Jimmy.

“Yes, actually,” Laura said. “You might have noticed some ‘movement,' we'll call it, in your promo appearances?”

“No kidding,” Jimmy said.

“That's because our Blu ad campaign has been successful beyond anyone's expectations,” Laura said.

“Yahoo!” Jimmy said.

“Pipe down,” Harlan whispered.

“In the corporate and financial world, there's always a
but
that follows good news,” Laura continued. “But in our case”—she laughed at her own joke—“there is none. In its first three months, Blu energy drink has achieved a five percent share of the national energy drink market.”

“Is that good?” Harlan asked.

“It means that Red Bull and all the other drinks had better be looking over their shoulders,” Laura said.

Jimmy and Harlan high-fived.

Laura went on. “Our marketing strategy of authenticity, grassroots, heartland appeal—”

“And a very hot driver,” Carlos added as he fired away.

“Yes, that, too,” Laura said, stepping over to fluff up Trace's sweaty hair. “All of it has been on the money in every way. In the big world of Karchers and Ladwin Agribusiness, Blu energy drink is a rising star. And everybody at headquarters loves Team Blu.”

There was silence in the trailer. Laura looked at the group with a smile, and kept her hand on Trace's shoulder. He stared across the trailer without expression.

“Somewhere there's gotta be a
but
or a
however
,” Harlan said.

“We can't think of any,” Tasha said. “Trace has even been taking care of his homework.”

“So this means we can keep racing?” Jimmy asked, with a wink to Trace.

“Remember when we launched this program?” Laura said, looking down at Trace. “How I said that we didn't
need to win every race? That we just needed to compete?”

Trace nodded.

“Well, corporate has changed its mind. We like winning—winning is fun,” she said. She pushed back a lock of hair from Trace's forehead.

“We like it, too,” Harlan said. There were grins all around—except for Trace.

“But to answer Jimmy's question: yes, Team Blu can keep racing,” Laura said. “In fact, our budget has been increased. Assuming the rest of this year goes as well as it is now, we have plans to expand Team Blu racing.”

“Expand?” Harlan asked.

“How so?” Jimmy said quickly.

“We are considering moving you up to a more national car class,” Laura said.