Checkered Flag Cheater (16 page)

“Thank you,” the tech chief said. “You're good to go.”

“No—thank you!” Harlan said sarcastically.

When the Blu Super Stock returned to the hauler, Trace turned to look at Smoky's trailer. The satellite dish was down, folded up and put away.

“I need to talk to Smoky—and you, too!” Trace said. He was still cranked with postrace adrenaline—a swirl of emotions.

“Later,” Harlan said. “You've got company.”

Cal Hopkins and Lonny Marzones walked up to congratulate Trace. He did his best to put on a happy face. After that, a few fans lingered for autographs on 18x T-shirts, but the Modifieds were roaring, and Trace was soon finished.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Harlan asked.

Trace paused. Let out a breath. He was coming down from his checkered flag high—to a checkered flag low.

“Later,” he said. “But for sure later.”

“Okeydokey,” Harlan said with a shrug.

Trace headed to his cabin, where he used the toilet, then sat on his bunk. He took some more deep breaths, and ate an apple. When he came downstairs, the Blu Super Stock was strapped down in travel position, and the big rear door was closed. There were men's voices outside, but no one was inside.

He stepped over to the car. He stared intently at the nearest hood pin. Just then voices from outside—Harlan's and Smoky's—grew louder, and the side door clattered. Smoky stepped in.

“Nice driving,” he croaked to Trace.

“Thanks,” Trace said. He turned to face him. “But I couldn't have done it without you.”

There was a moment of dead airspace.

“None of us could do any of this without each other,” Harlan said. “That's what a team is.”

“Shucks, Pops, you're making me all weepy,” Jimmy said from behind.

“Dry up,” Harlan said.

With the hauler locked tight, and Smoky wearing his floppy hat and sunglasses, they all walked over to watch the Late Models—with a stop beforehand at the concession shack. Trace pretended that this was just another night at the speedway, but he glanced over his shoulder, back toward the Blu hauler. He touched his pocket to make sure he had his keys to the side door.

“I'll have the chicken with dirt,” Harlan said to the plump girl.

“Got the chicken, dirt's free,” she said. She was redfaced and steaming from the heat of the fryers, but still smiling.

“Nothing for you?” Harlan asked Trace.

“Stomach's a little iffy. I'll eat later,” Trace said.

“Too much fun driving that sprint car,” Smoky said.

When Harlan, Jimmy, and Smoky had their cardboard trays of food, they all made their way to the pit bleachers.

“Mmmmmmmm-mmmh!” Harlan said, sniffing the air. “The only smell better than speedway chicken is V-8 methanol.”

“You're sure happy tonight,” Smoky said to Harlan with his gravelly voice.

“Another feature win. Cal Hopkins and Lonny Marzones in our corner, life is good—eh, boys?” Harlan asked.

“Yahoom,” Jimmy said, his mouth full.

“Sure,” Trace said. “Life is great.” He could feel Smoky's gaze.

“Big checkered flag, sprint car seat time—did you call your girlfriend yet?” Harlan asked.

“Which one?” Jimmy asked.

They all laughed—except Trace.

“His real girlfriend,” Harlan said. “That tall, skinny blonde from Headwaters, the one who doesn't like us.”

“Mel,” Trace said.

“She's not that skinny,” Jimmy said with appreciation.

“Yes, I called her,” Trace said.

“I would, too,” Harlan said.

During a restart in the Late Model feature, Trace gestured to the crew that he was heading over to the concession area. Harlan nodded and turned back to the action on the track. When the green flag dropped, and the cars strung out, the Blu crew's faces pitched left, right, left like those of spectators at a tennis match. Trace started toward the concessions; then, after one more glance behind, he headed back to the Blu hauler.

With his key he let himself inside. The Blu Super Stock hood was still warm. He carefully unpinned it. Setting it aside, he removed the circular air cleaner, then leaned close to the carburetor. A Holley two-barrel. Standard issue—at least from outward appearances. He looked at it from all sides, and even took some cell phone photos of it from all directions—especially down the throat. Why he took pictures, he wasn't sure: if experienced track tech guys couldn't see an issue, how was he supposed to?

He buttoned the hood, making sure to position the four bonnet pins exactly as they had been. Then he straightened up and looked around the trailer at the various tool drawers labeled
REAR END
and
STEERING
and
BRAKES
and more—including two padlocked drawers marked
SMOKY
. He squinted to look closer, then bent down. A flat metal washer about the size of a dime was
stuck on the outside of the first drawer. With a fingernail, Trace pried it loose—but the washer didn't fall to the floor. It swapped sides and went
clack!
back against the steel-sided drawer. Trace tried it again. The magnetic pull of the drawer front was strong enough to suck the washer from the palm of his hand:
schwack!

Just then a key slid into the lock; Trace scrambled away from the drawer. He managed to be rummaging in the
BATTERIES
drawer when Smoky stepped inside.

“Find what you're looking for?” he asked in his sandpaper voice.

“I need some batteries—triple A—for my TV remote.”

Smoky looked around the trailer, as if making sure everything was in place. Then he said, “I thought you were hungry.”

“Can't take the grease,” Trace said. “Thought I'd grab some snacks from my fridge.”

“So you're going to watch TV while the races are on?” Smoky asked.

“I just wanted to check the NASCAR results.”

Smoky paused. “There's double A batteries in there but not triple A.”

“No big deal,” Trace said, turning away. “I'll find some later.”

As he headed to the cabin door, Smoky watched him all the way. “You forgot your snacks,” he said.

In the sprint car feature, several local sprint cars joined the World of Outlaws on the track, but they didn't
have the engines to compete. Still, the local fans cheered for the “farmers,” as Harlan called the independent cars, one of which—the Moffett Farms sprint—hung tough in the middle of the pack. But the World of Outlaws cars gradually took over the top ten or so places. Lonny Marzones and Larry Rizer had a hard bump in the far turn, spinning Marzones through white chalk dust and into the infield. As yellow lights flashed and the sprints rolled along under the caution flag, Marzones's car sat dead. A push truck, lights flashing, quickly tucked in behind—but Marzones waved him off. The driver and two on-track officials crouched to look underneath Marzones's car—then one of them waved for a tow truck. One sped over, then backed up, cable dangling, and hoisted Marzones's front end off the ground.

“Damn,” Trace said. “He was running third.”

On the hook, Marzones got a free, slow ride back to the pits. Trace and Team Blu left the pit bleachers, and were waiting with the Marzones crew when Lonny arrived. His right front tire dangled like a bird's broken wing. Behind, the race thundered up without him.

“All right, boys, you know the drill,” Bob said to the crew. He seemed almost cheerful.

“Tough luck,” Marzones called, tossing out his helmet. “Larry and I got our signals crossed in turn 2.”

“Looked that way,” Bob said.

“Oh well, that's racing,” Marzones said, his voice muffled as he pulled himself out. Then he stood and hitched
himself upward in a little shimmy that most drivers did (if they were male) when they got out of the car. He spotted Trace to one side.

“What do you think, Trace?” he said.

“I liked it,” Trace answered. “Up until you got hammered.”

Marzones shrugged. “You got to like it all, son,” he said, “because a bad day at the track is better than a good day in real life—ain't that right, boys?”

His crew laughed as they worked on the car, and Marzones disappeared into his trailer.

Trace met his father again after the races. He had driven over to the speedway alone—no Linda this time.

“You want to get something to eat?” Trace asked.

“Sure!” his father said. He seemed surprised.

They headed down to Whitey's Café, near the Red River and the flood dikes.

“Did you happen to notice that Marzones car all alone out there during intermission?” Trace asked.

“Yes. He must have been tuning and testing.”

“That was me in the car,” Trace said.

His father's brown eyes widened. “Are you kidding?”

Trace couldn't hold back a grin. He told his dad the whole story.

“Damn! That is
something
!” his father said. “You looked great out there!”

“It went all right,” Trace said.

“Jeez, Son, you'll be running with the big dogs before we know it!” His father drummed his fingers sharply on the table.

Trace was silent. Then he glanced around the café, and back to his father. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Son—anything.”

“Have you ever cheated?”

His father drew back slightly; his gaze flickered sideways, then back to Trace. “You mean, like, cheated on your mother?”

“No—not that,” Trace said quickly. “I mean in business.”

His father took a moment to answer. “I once bought an eighty real cheap from this old farmer because he didn't get along with his family, and he didn't like real estate agents. Called them ‘bloodsuckers,' and threatened to shoot the next agent who showed up. He sold it to me just to spite everybody else.”

“But it's not like you lied to the old guy,” Trace said.

“No. I was in the right place at the right time—like you with this racing thing, Son.”

Trace toyed with a little creamer cup.

“Why? Is something wrong?” his father asked.

Trace shrugged. “Sort of,” he began. “All I'm allowed to do is drive. They never let me even look at the engine.”

“Lonny Marzones doesn't work on his engines,” his father said.

“I'm not Lonny Marzones,” Trace said.

“True,” his father said. “But you have a professional team behind you.”

“Yeah,” Trace said, lowering his voice. “But some nights we have way too much engine.”

His father was silent.

“It's like we're running a four-barrel carb. Or something . . .” Trace trailed off.

“Have you had any trouble in the tech inspections?” his father asked.

“No.”

“Well, there you have it,” his father said, leaning back. “You're probably still not used to a genuine, pro-built motor.”

Trace took a sip of his water.

“And anyway,” his father continued, “most people would say it's the driver who wins races—not the car.”

The waitress came with their steaks. Trace's dad flashed her his big smile, but she was looking shyly at Trace. “More water?”

“Sure,” Trace said.

She returned with a pitcher. As she poured, she blurted, “You look just like that race-car guy on the Blu commercials.”

“He is that guy,” Trace's father said.

“Oh my gosh!” the waitress said with a tiny shriek.

“Please,” Trace said to his father.

“Well, you are him,” his father said to Trace. It was like his father hadn't heard any good news for a long time.

The waitress blushed deeply—and sloshed water from her pitcher. “Oh shoot!” she said.

“Hey, it's all right,” Trace said, grabbing a napkin.

“Don't worry about it—it's only water,” his father said.

As the waitress went away, Trace's father's eyes dropped briefly to her backside. “What a sweetheart,” he said.

Trace let it ride—the waitress and the motor thing. The moment was past.

10

Sunday night brought Team Blu into Minnesota, and Buffalo River Race Park. Just east of Moorhead on Highway 10, it was a sticky black-gumbo, quarter-mile oval with a freshly remodeled white metal grandstand. A driver favorite—Trace had raced here before—Buffalo River was also where he had met April, who worked in the concession stand. They had seen each other a couple of times, though not recently. He had stopped returning her calls.

“Jimmy, do me a favor,” Trace said. Team Blu was parked in the pits, and the concession stand was now open.

“Sure.”

Trace leaned in and murmured his request.

“You mean that chick April, from the last time we were here?” Jimmy said.

“Yes,” Trace said, glancing around. “See if she's working here tonight.”

“And if she is, what do I say?”