Once Around the Track (33 page)

“Laraine is family,” said Tuggle. “Nobody gets in to see Badger without her okay.”

Melodie frowned. “Well, I don’t suppose anyone has told you, Grace, but I have it on good authority that Badger will be let go from the 86 team.”

“Thanks to you.”

Melodie took a deep breath and looked as if she wanted to dispute the point, but then she shrugged. “Oh, it’s no great loss,” she said. “There are other ways to make money. And lots of other rides out there.”

Tuggle narrowed her eyes. “Well, no, there aren’t. This is a non-union sport, with maybe a dozen or so team owners, barring the little independents. If you play fast and loose with one of them, the others will know about it before the end of the week. Just how much experience do you have managing drivers, anyhow?”

“Don’t let her in there!” A woman’s shrill voice echoed down the corridor of the hospital, and they turned to see Melanie Sark running toward them. She had clapped her hand over her mouth in a belated attempt to be more quiet. She had changed out of the power suit she’d worn as team publicist at the All-Star race. Now she wore Nikes, jeans, and a Team Vagenya sweatshirt, but she was still carrying her laptop case, and her labored breathing suggested that she had run all the way from the parking lot and up three flights of stairs with it.

Seeing the astonishment on their faces, she said, “Badger. How is he?”

“We don’t know yet,” said Tuggle.

“He’s no longer your concern,” said Melodie. “Badger has been released from the 86 team.”

“I know,” said Sark. “They want me to change the Web site tomorrow: put up a picture of Judith Burks and say she’ll be the relief driver next week. But I still care what happens to him.” She glanced pleadingly at Laraine. “I need to tell him something.”

Melodie said, “You can tell me privately. I’m in charge of his business affairs.”

“That,”
said Sark, “is the problem.”

“I think you’d better tell us,” said Tuggle. “Laraine is family, and Badger is in no shape to make decisions right now.”

Sark hesitated. “But here in the hall? I have papers to show you.”

“Lounge,” said Tuggle. “I think Laraine could use some coffee, anyhow.”

Laraine shook her head. “I shouldn’t leave Badger.”

“Ten minutes,” said Sark.

They walked down the corridor to the waiting room. Sark sat down in a chair next to the coffee table and pushed aside ancient copies of
Parents Magazine
and
National Geographic
so that she could spread out the paper trail.

“First,” she said, “I have a confession to make. I’m a journalist.”

“Publicists generally are,” sniffed Melodie.

“Yes, but I didn’t switch to being a publicist. I considered myself working undercover. I was planning to do an exposé of the 86 team for some national publication like
Vanity Fair.
”

Tuggle glared at her. “An exposé about what?”

“Whatever I could find,” said Sark. “Badger’s sex life. The team’s incompetence. Drugs. Financial irregularities. Whatever was going.”

“How very unethical,” said Melodie. She had thought better of sitting on the sofa beside Tuggle and Laraine; instead, she was pacing in front of the snack machines, trying not altogether successfully to look bored.

Sark stared at her for a moment, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes, well, I decided not to write that article.”

Tuggle’s scowl had not lessened. “Why not?”

“I became a convert. Badger is pretty amazing. I was an expecting an arrogant jerk, and he’s not one. And the team—everybody was trying so hard. Julie and Roz and the pit crew. It would have been like drowning kittens to make fun of them in a national article. I couldn’t do it.”

Tuggle grunted. “You’re still fired.”

“I can’t afford to keep the job, anyhow,” said Sark. “Doesn’t pay enough, and it’s rather a waste of a good journalist. Ed just got a book deal—Memphis jazz musicians—and he’s asked me to go along as his research assistant. But there is another bit of research I wanted you to have before I go.” She opened her laptop case and took out a stack of papers. “One thing about being a journalist is that you have friends who are good at finding things out. My friend Ed is one of the best.”

“You had him investigate us?” said Tuggle.

“No. Not you.
Her.
” Sark nodded toward Melodie Alibgre, who was still pacing in front of the Coke machine.

“Why?”

Sark shrugged. “Mostly because she annoyed me so much. The way she orders people around. How rude she is to Badger. So Ed and I went on a fishing expedition.”

Melodie stopped pacing. “You had no right!” She rushed to the table as if she meant to grab the papers, but one look from Tuggle made her think better of it.

With a grim smile, Tuggle said, “What’d you catch?”

“Barracuda,” said Sark. “For starters, she isn’t a sports manager. Oh, she works for Miller O’Neill, all right, but not as a manager. She’s a clerk! They had stored all their old paper files in boxes from the past twenty years in a storage facility in Charlotte, and they hired her to go there and sort through the boxes to see which folders they needed to keep and which could be discarded. That’s what Eugene Miller thought she has been doing all this time. Imagine his surprise to learn that she landed herself a client.”

They turned to look at Melodie whose mulish expression did not indicate repentance. “I would have been a great manager,” she said. “All I needed was a chance! It’s not like you have to have a degree or anything to do it.”

Laraine sighed. “Poor Badger. He always takes everybody’s word for everything. Never checks.”

“I did a good job,” said Melodie.

“No,” said Tuggle, “you didn’t. This business runs on goodwill, and you cost him a ton of it. Badger may need somebody to ride herd on him, but the one thing in his favor is that he is kind and sweet-tempered, and people love him. But when they had to deal with a bitch like you, it cost him that advantage. Was she stealing his money?”

“Maybe,” said Sark. “We had to put all this together in a hurry, so we can’t really prove that. Besides, there’s worse,” said Sark. “She really was trying to drum up business deals for Badger.” She handed a printout to Laraine. “I think this would interest you.”

Melodie blanched. “Where did you get that?”

“Ed hacked into your computer,” said Sark, grinning. “We’re hoping you’ll sue him. It would make a great story.”

“What is it?” asked Tuggle, seeing the stricken expression on Laraine’s face as she read.

Sark saved her the trouble of answering. “Melodie has been negotiating the sale of Badger’s land at the Georgia lake to a development company specializing in golf resorts.”

Tuggle stared. “Badger agreed to that?”

“Of course, he didn’t,” said Laraine. “He’d die first. It says here that she has his power of attorney, and she’s using it to broker the deal.”

Sark nodded. “That’s why I have to get in to talk to Badger. So that he can stop it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Laraine. “I can stop it.”

“You? How?”

Laraine sighed. “I’ve had Badger’s power of attorney for years. I got my uncle the judge to draw it up for me, and Badger signed the form one time when he was down at the diner autographing posters.”

“Did he know what it was?”

“Sure. He was all for it. He said if he ever got hurt real bad, he wanted somebody he could trust looking after him. And I mean to.” She nodded toward Melanie. “What I’m wondering is how
she
got his power of attorney.”

Melodie smirked. “Badger never reads what you give him to sign. Have you ever noticed that?”

Laraine nodded. “You can generally trust people where we come from. Not like here.”

“So can you stop the sale of the land?” asked Sark.

“Oh, I already have,” said Laraine. “I was afraid that some day some crook would try to screw Badger out of the land. I sorta thought it might be Dessy, but even she wasn’t that cruel. So I talked it over with my uncle…”

“The judge?”

“Yeah. He suggested that we put a conservation easement on the land so that nobody could ever develop it. We figured that’s what Badger would want.”

Sark said, “But suppose he needs the money some day?”

“He’d starve first,” said Laraine. “But he won’t. I’ll see to that.” She turned a level gaze at Badger’s erstwhile manager. “I don’t think Badger needs a manager any more, ma’am. And if he finds out what you’ve been trying to do, he just might shoot you. And if he didn’t, I would. So do yourself a favor and get gone.”

Had she been dealing with men, Melodie might have burst into tears, but theatrics cuts no ice with furious women. As she left, she favored them with a final withering glare, and said, “Why would I want to stick around? It’s not like Badger has a future.”

Sark shuddered. “How could he let that horrible creature get control of his life?”

“Well,” said Laraine, “when he was a kid, he used to keep snakes as pets.”

They sat in the waiting room for a few more minutes, drinking bad hospital coffee and talking to dispel the chill of Melodie Albigre’s visit.

“It’s late,” said Tuggle, glancing at her watch. “Or rather, early. But I’d like to go look in on Badger again before I leave.”

“Don’t tell him yet that he’s out of a job,” said Laraine.

“No,” said Tuggle, “that can wait. How is he?”

Laraine glanced at the clock on the wall above the nurses’ station. “We’ve been out here half an hour,” she said. “Go back in and see.”

So Tuggle pushed the door open and looked in on Badger. He was still lying there pale amidst the white bed linens, and his eyes were closed, but an instant later, he opened them and beamed a welcoming smile when he caught sight of her. “Hey, Tuggle!” he said. “What the hell happened?”

Tuggle stared at him for a moment. Then she said, “Um…In the race? Well, like I told you earlier, you were second behind the 38 car.”

He brightened. “I was running second?”

“Yeah. It was looking good, but then you came up on that lapped car, and the Weapon was running with you on the inside right after Turn Two, and he got into you…”

“The Weapon, huh?”

Tuggle closed her eyes and willed her voice to become steady. “Yeah, Badger. You took a hard hit. But you’ll be okay. Excuse me just a minute.” She closed the door again.

Sark was still waiting outside in the hall. When Tuggle came back out she pointed to the door, but Tuggle shook her head. “He’s not up to it yet, Sark,” she said. “And he won’t remember that you came.”

Then she said to Laraine, “This is temporary. Happens to all of them at one time or another. It scares the hell out of you, but he’ll get over this.”

Laraine nodded. “I know. The doctors already told me that. I’m staying until he’s well enough to go home.”

“Figured you would,” said Tuggle. “Let one of us know if you need anything. We’re Badger’s family, too, no matter what the team owners say. Get somebody to spell you before you get too worn-out. You’ve got my cell phone number.”

When Laraine had gone back into Badger’s room, Sark said, “I don’t know what to say in this press release.”

“Say whatever the doctor tells you,” said Tuggle. “
Resting comfortably,
maybe. Don’t say he has been replaced yet. Christine’s orders.”

“Is he going to be all right? Physically, I mean?”

“It’s too soon to know,” said Tuggle. “It will take a couple of days for the brain swelling to go down, and then if he’s left with balance problems, he’ll never race again. But I think he’ll be all right. At least he has someone to look after him.”

Sark nodded. “She loves him so much.”

“More than he deserves.”

“Do you think he’ll stay with her?”

“Depends,” said Tuggle, thinking about first husbands and restrictor plates on hearts. “He may never be able to drive again. And if he does fully recover, maybe no other team will want him. He’s not twenty-something anymore. So if he’s done with NASCAR, then, yeah, I think he’ll settle down with her. If he has any sense.”

Sark shivered. “But if he does go back to Cup racing?”

Tuggle hesitated. She was thinking of a starry-eyed girl named Grace and of a race car driver who had put her so far into the wall she thought she’d never get over it. It was an old story. One that had happened many thousands of times. Maybe somewhere, just once, it ought to turn out all right. She said, “I think they’re going to make it.”

M
eet the Drivers.
On the days leading up to the Sharpie 500 race in late August, the town of Bristol hosts a street festival dedicated to stock car racing. The Sharpie is the hardest ticket to get in sports: harder than the Super Bowl or the NCAA Finals. The Bristol Motor Speedway event is sold out every year, and race fans from all over the country begin turning up days in advance, clogging campgrounds and selling out motels in three neighboring states. To give the fans something to do in advance of the race itself, there are racing-related events nearby—hence the street fair.

Show cars are parked on the street for the public’s inspection, and there are the sort of booths one might expect at any sports fair: food vendors, hat and tee shirt sales, NASCAR-themed artists displaying their work, and exhibit booths showcasing charitable organizations connected to motorsports.

Occasionally, for an hour or so in the afternoon, a Cup driver would appear at one of the booths to sign his name for the hundred or so fortunate people that the line would accommodate during his allotted time period. You could tell which booths featured appearances by Cup drivers, because those lines were a block long. But other drivers also turned up at the Bristol Street Scene. Local speedways or racing organizations with driver development programs often sent lesser-known drivers to such events to give them experience in dealing with the public before they became famous enough for it to matter much.

Like their famous NASCAR counterparts, these local luminaries would chat with fans, pose for pictures, and sign autographs on publicity photos of themselves. Often, they, too, would have dozens of people in line, because when you’re giving away free stuff, autographed, many people don’t care if you’re famous or not. Besides, once upon a time every driver was an unknown: They had to start somewhere. Prudent fans collected the autographs of the aspiring NASCAR stars in hopes that someday these guys would turn out to be famous.

It was rumored that Roush driver Carl Edwards would be along later in the afternoon, but he had not turned up yet. Badger Jenkins was not driving in the Sharpie this year, and his fans missed him. Some passersby still proudly wore old Badger Jenkins tee shirts, and they would tell you in a heartbeat that one of these days he would be back out there. At his unofficial fan Web site
Badgers Din
there were conflicting reports: Badger was considering a ride in the Craftsman Truck Series; Badger would replace a driver at RCR next year; Badger was sponsoring a turtle rescue operation; Badger had married a girl from his hometown, and he was enjoying his time off at the lake; Badger was going to star in a Civil War movie. Nobody really knew for sure. They hoped he was happy. They missed him.

At the curb on State Street a line had formed at a table where three young men sat in front stacks of eight-by-ten autograph cards: photos of the driver in a brightly colored firesuit standing beside the vehicle he raced in local competitions.

Taran Stiles surveyed the crowd with the practiced eye of a recovering fan. She was here to see that her driver did not have to face the crowd unassisted. She wore a team polo shirt and a badge identifying her as a driver’s assistant, but she had graciously volunteered to look after the other two drivers as well. Her job this afternoon was to hand out fresh bottles of water and new Sharpie markers for autographing, and to retrieve more autograph cards if anyone ran out.

The blue-eyed young man on the left side of the table had the longest line, mostly female fans, armed with cameras. Many of them wore the emblems of Cup drivers, but they were shopping for new talent, because, hey, nobody stays out there forever.

“They say he’s a natural,” said one dishwater blonde in a red #8 tank top to her frizzy-haired friend.

“Did you hear that he has a Busch ride next year? Grace Tuggle has just been named as his crew chief.”

Taran smiled at the fan. This rumor was true. Tony had finally got his chance in NASCAR.

“I like the shape of his face,” said an older woman. “He’s got that cute cleft chin, and his haircut is really hot. Is he married?” They weren’t bothering to lower their voices. Perhaps they thought that drivers weren’t quite “real,” that he was at most a robot or an animated poster with no life beyond his public persona.

Taran, who was handing out more marker pens, heard them, though. “Tony is engaged,” she said sharply. She paused for a moment, letting the afternoon light catch the sparkle of the very small diamond on her third finger. She and Tony glanced at each other and shared a brief smile. Then it was back to the business at hand.

At the front of the line a dark-haired girl in a white sweatsuit handed her camera to the driver’s minder. “Would you take my picture with Tony?” she said. “I’ve been following his career ever since he started driving around Mooresville. I swear I’m his biggest fan. Does he have a fan club?”

“He has a Web site,” said Taran, trying to sound pleasant, or at least civil. These were Tony’s fans, and he would need fans in order to succeed in racing. “The address is on the autograph card.”

“He’s gonna be a big star one of the days,” said the fan.

“We hope so,” said Taran. She lifted the camera and motioned for the dark-haired girl to pose with Tony.

Flashing a triumphant smile at the rest of the long line, the dark-haired girl walked around the signing table, leaned down to show off her cleavage to its best advantage, and snuggled up close to Tony Lafon, whose wary eyes would not match his public smile. Taran took the picture.

As the girl retrieved her camera, she smiled again at Tony, and said, “Would you like me to send you a copy of the picture? I will, if you give me your address.”

“Just e-mail it to the Web site,” said Taran briskly. “Who’s next?”

The wispy young woman who was next in line was shaking. “I’m next,” she said, barely speaking above a whisper. “I think you’re wonderful, Tony.”

Badger would have smiled and drawled, “Waal, thank you,” but Tony Lafon was not yet accustomed to the kindness of strangers. He reddened and squirmed in his seat, and finally said, “I’m just lucky to be here.”

Her pale eyes blinked at Tony through thick glasses, and she looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Tony smiled up at her reassuringly, scrawled his name across the autograph card, and held it up to her. She looked like a boiled rabbit.

“Thanks for coming out today,” he told her.

Tears coursed down the woman’s pale cheeks. “I love you, Tony, “she whispered.