Checkered Flag Cheater (18 page)

“Surprise!” she called.

“Wow—that's for sure!” he said as he came forward to meet her. “I thought you had to work tonight.”

“I changed my mind,” she said. “Girls get to do that.”

“I'm glad,” Trace said. They paused a long step apart. “Nice T-shirt,” he added.

“I know the guy,” she said. “Sort of.”

They both stepped forward at the same moment and had a major hug. He could not help burying his face briefly against her neck. She always smelled good; today it was like flowers—clover or lavender.

“Did your dad come?” Trace asked. Johnny Walters was a former sprint car driver, now in a wheelchair; together he and Mel ran Headwaters Speedway.

“No. Just me.” Mel's face colored slightly.

“Great,” Trace said. He glanced behind; Jimmy was working too quietly underneath the car, Harlan was conveniently out of sight inside the hauler, and Smoky's side window was cracked open a few inches. “Let's walk,” Trace said.

As they headed toward the grandstand, Gerry Harkness called out, “Hey, Mel—when's our speedway going to be done?”

She waved. “Soon. Fourth of July at the very latest.”

“We can't wait,” Gerry's wife said.

“Fourth of July? Me neither,” Trace murmured.

Mel ignored him. “Construction is pretty much on schedule,” she said to the Harknesses. “The grandstands get knocked down next week. New aluminum bleachers are coming.”

“You should have a workday,” Gerry said. “Put out a call for all the drivers and their crews to help pick rocks or pound nails, whatever.”

“I like the idea! I'll be in touch,” Mel said.

As they walked on, Mel said softly, “I can't wait until the Fourth of July, either—which is why I drove over here tonight.” She spoke quickly, as though she needed to say it now or it wouldn't get said.

Trace stumbled to a halt.

“I'm staying over,” she said.

“Overnight?”

She nodded.

“Where?” Trace asked.

“Well, I have an aunt in Fargo, but my nieces and nephews are way wild,” she said. “So I got a motel room.”

“A motel?” Trace said.

“Yes. They're places where people pay to stay?” she teased.

Trace heard himself mouth-breathing. “Are you serious?” he said. His voice was suddenly croaky.

She laughed, but blushed deeply at the same time. “You clearly weren't listening. I just said, ‘I can't wait until the Fourth of July, either.' ”

“Wow,” Trace said.

“Do you need to sit down?” Mel said. “You're not going to faint on me?”

“I might,” Trace said. He put his arms around her.

She turned away from his kiss. “Ummm, this is not the motel,” she said, but let him hold her.

“Maybe I'll ditch the races tonight,” Trace said.

“Yeah, right!” she said. She broke away and pulled him along, her arm through his. At concessions, she ordered a major tray of food, including a taco in a bag and a large cola, after which they sat in the stands. They watched the Pure Stocks and the Bombers, but Trace couldn't concentrate on the track.

“What?” Mel said.

Trace turned to her. “I wonder if Harlan would let Jimmy drive tonight.”

“Are you crazy? And anyway, your boss, Laura, wouldn't like it,” Mel said.

“She wouldn't have to know.”

“As if that witch wouldn't find out,” Mel said; she was not a fan of Laura—her red lipstick, short skirts, and silky business blouses.

“You're probably right,” Trace said.

“You just do your thing on the track like always,” Mel said. “The faster you drive, the sooner your race will be over. Think of it that way.”

In his heat race, Trace drove like a crazy man, spinning out once, pressing too hard, and finishing seventh of eight cars.

“What the hell?” Harlan asked as Trace hoisted himself up from the cockpit.

“Sorry, my fault,” Trace said.

“No kidding,” Harlan said.

“Got in a hurry,” Trace said, wiping sweat from his face. Mel lingered across pit row; she had been watching from along the fence, and did not come over now. She was also not a fan of Harlan—he had insulted most everyone at Headwaters Speedway on Team Blu's one and only stop there.

“You can't win a race on the first lap—you know better than that,” Harlan said.

“Don't know what I was thinking,” Trace said, his gaze drifting to Mel's long legs and tight jeans.

“I do,” Harlan said, following Trace's look. “We should have a damn rule: no girls in the pits before the races.”

“What about after?” Trace said.

“After is fine,” Harlan said, then realized that Trace was joking—but only slightly.

Trace glanced once more at Mel, then stepped closer to Harlan. Keeping his voice low, he explained the situation.

“Holy moly!” Harlan said, looking over at Mel.

“I told you not to look!” Trace said.

“Sorry,” Harlan said, focusing back on Trace. He manufactured a pained look. “You know I like to hit the road right after the feature, but, all things considered . . .” His gaze sneaked sideways to Mel.

In the feature, thanks to a bad draw and his poor heat finish, Trace rolled toward the green flag in the ninth row, outside. There were only two cars behind him. Sara Bishop was in the middle of the pack, and Jason Nelson in the third row, inside. Impatiently, Trace drummed the throttle, breaking loose the rear tires again and again. He pressed close against the car ahead. As the lead car dropped the hammer and surged forward, Trace broke to the outside. He loved this Buffalo River black gumbo, and the Blu Super Stock, thanks to Jimmy's tire and setup magic, clawed past several cars. However, the higher Trace went the looser he got, so he backed off slightly. He probed down low for a crack, a sliver of daylight between cars—like trying to merge into heavy freeway traffic on a day when all the drivers were pissed off. A local white car
rocked Trace—forcing him higher—but Trace pulled away, and the other car fell back. The other Super Stocks were equally happy to pinch off or bump Trace's car. His Blu Super Stock had an invisible bull's-eye stuck on it tonight.

After another hard thump, Trace muttered, “Okay, we can do that!” He hit back hard as he forced his way into the flow. His left front fender tin tore loose and began to flap—but didn't fly off. It chattered against his left front tire—sharp tin rubbing the sidewall rubber—and a half lap later sliced through the tire like a knife blade popping a balloon. The Super Stock shuddered and slewed. Trace cranked the car sideways—a calculated spinout—which brought out the caution flag. Without slowing, he high-tailed it to the pits, flat tire thundering inside the wheel well as the rubber plies tore apart.

Jimmy was waiting with a floor jack and a fresh tire mounted on a new wheel. Trace sat, engine revving, while Jimmy air-hammered the lug nuts partway loose, lurched the front end off the ground with the jack, then zipped off the nuts and clattered on the new wheel. As he worked, Harlan used a rivet gun on the loose fender tin. Jimmy's air hammer rattled like a crazy woodpecker.

“Go!” Jimmy shouted. Trace humped the Super Stock off the jack, and burned his tires back down pit row.

He powered onto the track in the nick of time: the green flag was down, and he dove into line just ahead of the lead car—which meant he was a full lap behind. “Let's do it!” he said to himself, and concentrated on racing
against the track, not the other cars. There were still twelve laps to go in the twenty-five-lap feature. Trace drove hard and smart, taking advantage of another yellow flag to pick up several places.

On lap 16 a green Super Stock tangled with somebody, rode up over a front wheel, then flipped twice. It happened just ahead of Trace—he dove low to avoid wrecking himself. The green car landed upside down in front of the grandstand in an explosion of dust and flapping metal. Red lights flashed, and the cars stopped dead as EMTs raced to the upside-down pile of a Super Stock. The driver, a local guy, emerged unhurt but staggering, to a standing ovation. His car was wrecked. Totaled. As he put both hands on the flattened roof and lowered his head, Trace flashed on the late-night waitress back in Iowa: her comments on family life, racing, and money.

After a long delay (which helped him get his mind right), Trace powered up, and the remaining cars rumbled forward again under yellow. In the thunder following green, Trace soon clawed his way back to the middle of the pack—right beside Sara. He gave her plenty of room, however. This race was about finishing, not winning; if he caused a second yellow flag, he was done for the night. However, the engine found a sweet spot, Jimmy's tire setup was fist-in-glove rubber to dirt—so on lap 20 he went for it.

Sara pinched him hard, but Trace got by her down low. After that it was Gerry Harkness—who also rocked him—and
eventually Trace rode the orange bumper pipes of Jason Nelson. On the next lap, Trace got his nose between Nelson and a green Super Stock. The cars glued up three-wide through the turn—Trace caught a flash in his side vision of the crowd jumping to its feet—then powered down the straightaway. Trace felt his engine quicken—like some kind of overdrive—and he gradually pulled away by a car length, and then two. By the white-flag lap he had two more cars to pass, which he did with a sweet high-low dive. His engine thrummed at 8500 rpm, with still more left—but he didn't need it. He took the checkered by three car lengths.

In victory lane, the trophy girl (there was always a new one) hung on tight, smiling as the crowd booed. Trace held up a fist, a victory salute—which only brought louder boos.

“Don't worry, I like you,” the trophy girl said.

“You might be the only one,” Trace said as the cameras continued to flash.

“You got a girlfriend?” the trophy girl asked.

“Yes.”

“A real one?”

“Very,” Trace said. “She's waitin' for me in the pits.”

After the photos, Trace headed to the tech lane. “Don't see many guys go last to first after a flat tire,” a scruffy tech guy said—and motioned Trace toward the tech shed.
There Trace, Harlan, and Jimmy stood around while the tech guys did their thing. The pits were shadowy enough that even Smoky stood nearby. Mel lingered opposite Smoky, and as the teardown stretched on, Trace walked out to her.

“I see what you meant about your motor,” she whispered. She glanced sideways at Smoky.

“Yeah,” Trace said. Arms folded, he stared into the tech shed as the men worked with wrenches, trouble lights, and micrometers. “But they never find anything out of spec.”

Mel was silent. Then she ventured, “Maybe it's not—”

“It has to be,” Trace said. “Nobody has a Super Stock motor that runs like Smoky's.”

They watched in silence.

“So what are you going to do?” Mel asked.

“I just drive,” Trace said, a hard edge in his voice. “And I keep winning.”

After a few more minutes the head tech guy stepped away from the car and turned toward Harlan. “Thanks—and have a nice day,” he said.

Trace looked sideways toward Smoky, but he was gone.

The tech crew gathered up their tools, leaving a mess of Blu V-8 heads, pushrods, gaskets, valve covers, and an oil pan.

“You fine gentlemen have a great day, too!” Harlan said with exaggerated politeness.

“I gotta go,” Trace said to Mel. “See you back at the hauler.”

“Then you're done for the night?” Mel asked.

Trace blinked. He had almost forgotten that part—but certainly wasn't going to tell her. “Yes. Ten minutes and we're out of here.”

With a push truck behind, Trace steered the dead Super Stock down pit row. Most of the other teams had buttoned up their cars and gone to the concession area for food or to the stands to watch the races. Trace coasted up to the Blu hauler, where a few people waited, and pulled himself out. Smoky was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Trace—can I get a driver's card?” a kid called.

“Trace, can you sign my T-shirt?” another boy asked.

Trace took care of business while Jimmy opened the big rear door and then hooked up the winch cable. The electric motor whirred as Harlan and Jimmy, working from the back of the trailer, maneuvered the Super Stock inside.

“Great driving,” said a woman's deep voice. It was the chicken-wing lady he'd met the night before at the other end of the pits at Rivers Speedway.

“Thanks,” Trace said cautiously.

She stepped up to Trace. “It's not for me to say what's in your engine, but after the reception you got, I didn't think you'd be walking through the pits—so I brought you some chicken wings.”

Trace swallowed. “Thanks,” he said, and took the foil package, which was still warm. He felt a weird burning in his eyes—like he could cry—but he fought it off.

“Shirley,” she said.

“Thanks a lot, Shirley.”

“Who was that?” Harlan said from the side. He straightened to watch the woman walk away.

“Just some lady.”

“ ‘Just some lady'? And you took a package of chicken wings from her?”

“I talked to her last night,” Trace explained, but then stopped.

“Hey, Trace, can I get a picture with you?” a skinny young girl in a racing cap asked. She was all teeth and elbows; her mother stood poised with a camera.

“Sure,” Trace said. He handed the wings to Jimmy, and knelt down for the flash.

Mel had arrived, and watched from the side. When Trace was finally done, he turned her way and waved.

“No, I don't want a photo,” Mel called.

“Very funny,” Trace said.

“We're going to get some food,” Harlan called to Trace. “Smoky—are you coming?”

“Okay,” Smoky rasped from close behind his motor home window screen. He was always watching, listening.