Running Wide Open (13 page)

“I take it we won’t be going there any time soon.”

“Not hardly.”

That was fine by me. While I had to give Grandma credit for taking the time to come see me once a year, I’d never looked forward to her visits. Three days of etiquette lessons, forced cultural experiences, and mind-numbing shopping expeditions were not my ideal way to spend a summer weekend.

Kasey’s place was all brick and cedar. A long staircase led from the driveway to a deck that ran the entire front length of the house, providing an awesome view of downtown Eugene.

Jim was there when we arrived, sitting at a picnic table with his kid and his wife Laurie.

“Cool shirt,” Robbie said.

“Thanks.” I’d found it at a crazy little shop on 13th near the U of O bookstore. It read,
Don’t make me release the flying monkeys
. Amazingly, Race had started giving me an allowance after the pizza incident, providing me with funds to supplement my wardrobe. I guess he wasn’t convinced I wouldn’t forge a check. His generosity surprised me a little because he could hardly afford to pay his bills, and I knew he’d never ask my dad to send more money.

“Cody, would you like something to drink?” Kasey asked. “The cooler’s full of pop. And I picked up some Guinness for you, Race. It’s in the fridge.”

“I say, will we be having the Guinness tonight?” mocked Jim in the worst Irish brogue ever to pass through human lips. He held up his Budweiser as if to offer a toast.

“Forgive me for not being able to choke down that swill you drink,” Race said. “It’s a damn shame they allow people to waste good hops that way.” He went to collect his beer, nearly tripping over an enormous tabby cat that scrambled out the screen door under his feet.

“This is Winston,” Robbie informed me, leaning over to drag the animal up onto his lap.

I tapped a cigarette out of my pack and was about to light up when I saw Kasey frowning at me. She never said anything about my smoking, she just eyeballed me like I’d blown a spelling bee by messing up on the word “dog.” I tucked the Camel filter away and helped myself to a Pepsi.

“So how are things down at the shop?” Jim asked Kasey. “You ever get it sorted out with that employee who was giving you trouble? What was his name—Harley?”

“As a matter of fact, I had to let him go yesterday.”

“So now you’ve just got Jake,” Race said. He sat down beside me at the table.

“And a Mustang that needs to be wrapped up by Friday. It’s going to be a busy week. But if I work through the weekend, I think I can manage.”

“You need some help?” Race asked.

“I can’t ask you to bail me out. You’ve got customers of your own.”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

Kasey smiled. “And I appreciate it. If I run into trouble, I’ll give you a call.”

A car pulled into the driveway and a couple minutes later Denny and his family joined us on the deck. It surprised me that Denny hung out with Jim and Race, because he seemed to be a lot older—probably forty. His kids were younger than Robbie, though. I hoped nobody was expecting me to entertain the little ankle biters.

As it turned out, they were pretty good at entertaining themselves. In fact, it looked like they were having more fun than I was. While they ran around the property playing hide and seek, I hung out on the deck with the adults. Naturally, all
they
talked about was racing. I had to amuse myself by plowing through a bowl of Doritos and trying to sneak occasional swigs off Race’s beer.

“So what’s this rumor I hear?” asked Jim, tipping his chair back on two legs.

For the third time, Race slid his bottle of Guinness out of my reach. “Which rumor is that?”

“The one about Addamsen having you stuffed into the wall tomorrow night.”

Kasey looked up from the grill where she was flipping burgers and chicken. Winston wound around her legs. I could identify with the cat—my stomach was growling at the rich, smoky smell of the meat.

“I haven’t heard anything about it,” Race said.

“The way I heard it, he was gonna pay Tom Carey fifty bucks to do it,” Jim continued.

“Fifty bucks!” said Race. “I’m only worth fifty bucks? Hell, when Chris Ackerman got stuffed into the wall last season everyone said Tom got paid a hundred.”

Kasey didn’t even crack a smile at Race’s comment. Closing the grill, she came over to sit with us. “Where did you hear about this?”

“After practice Wednesday night,” Jim said.

“For heaven’s sake,” said his wife, Laurie, “the man was drunk. You know how he gets when he’s drunk.”

“He didn’t look any different than usual to me.” Jim’s comment earned a chuckle from everyone but Kasey.

“So what did he say?” Race asked.

“Oh, he just mentioned that crack you made awhile back, about hooking up the other four spark plug wires.” Laurie was obviously trying to dismiss it. “He had an audience, and too much to drink, so he was bragging.”

“If it bothered him that much, you’d think he’d have taken me out the following week. He had plenty of opportunity.”

“Well, everyone knows that’s not what’s really got his knickers in a twist,” Denny said. “Fact is, you shamed him good, taking the points lead. But he’s got better sense than to wreck you.”

“That’s why he’s hiring Tom to do it,” Jim said.

Laurie smacked her husband’s shoulder. “Just stop! You’re not funny.” She glanced at Kasey, then at Race, like she was trying to read whether they were the least bit freaked by the news. “Nothing’s going to come of it,” she said. “You hear this sort of thing all the time.”

“You scared, Race?” I asked, smirking at him.

“Hell, no. And leave that beer alone.”

“Laurie’s right,” said Kasey. “Nothing will come of it. And if it does, Race is perfectly capable of dealing with whatever happens on the track.” She got up to check the food again. I studied her as she piled the meat onto two plates. Her expression was as calm and businesslike as ever, but there was something in it, some little hint of preoccupation, that told me she was worried. And Race thought she didn’t care.

On the way home that night, I brought it up, but Race laughed it off.

“Kasey doesn’t worry, and even if she did, it wouldn’t be about some stupid rumor.”

“I’m telling you, she likes you. She bought you Guinness. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Yeah, good taste on her part. Generosity and friendship. Anything beyond that is your imagination, kid.”

I gave up. She could probably send him an engraved wedding invitation, and he’d find a way to write it off.

Chapter 10

The following evening, Addamsen took fast time. It must’ve appeased him because nothing out of line happened in the trophy dash, which Race won. Nothing much happened in the heat, either, other than Denny’s carburetor going south. Addamsen took that race, bringing himself back up even in the points.

“You gonna get the lead back in the main?” I asked Race a little later. He was sitting on his toolbox, sketching one of the Street Stocks that sat across the pit road from us. Taking advantage of the fact that Kasey had wandered over to the concession stand, I lit up a cigarette.

“I’m gonna try.” Race coughed and waved away the cloud of smoke I’d accidentally sent in his direction. “That is, if you haven’t killed me off by then, getting toxic waste in my airspace.”

“Whiner,” I said. But I blew my next lungful away from him. “So, you think Addamsen’s gonna try anything?”

“Nah, it’s just a rumor.”

“But a few weeks ago he said—”

“Kid, people shoot their mouths off all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“He seemed pretty serious to me.”

Race gave me a speculative look, a grin slinking slowly across his face. “You’re
worried
about it.”

“I am not!”

“You think he’s gonna try to do me in. You actually
care
.”

My face went hot and I looked away. “Get over yourself.”

Before my uncle could taunt me any more, Denny stepped up beside us, smelling strongly of that high-tech gasoline. “Hey, Race, you still got your old carb?”

“Sure. If I can find it.” Race closed the sketchbook and got up to root through the parts boxes. “Here it is.”

“Thanks, I’ll get it back to you next week.”

“Why’d you do that?” I asked as Denny rushed off. “What if he beats you tonight?”

“Then I’ll congratulate him on driving a good race.”

“But—” it didn’t make any sense. Why would you want to help the competition, especially if you were so close to losing the points lead?

“Look, kid, it’s just the way things are. Racers help each other out. If I needed something, he’d be the first guy to give it to me. Hell, I’ve seen him lend out his spare race car so people could keep up their points when they wrecked.”

“He’s got a spare race car?”

“Yep, Big Red, a ’69 Chevelle. It’s the car he drove before he built his Camaro.”

For a few seconds I pondered how fanatical a person had to be to have a whole extra car. Then something occurred to me. “How can that carburetor even work on Denny’s car if he’s not running a Dodge?”

“Because it’s not stock, it’s a Holley. All the Sportsmen run the same kind of carb.”

I shook my head. “I’m never gonna figure out this racing stuff.”

Race laughed. “I didn’t think you wanted to.”

* * *

The Street Stock main took forever. Every time they got the race restarted someone wiped out. Usually when things were slow, Race and I tossed around his blue Nerf football, but the Sportsmen were already lined up, so I was on my own. I cruised over to BS with the paramedics.

“Back for more stories of blood and gore?” Alex asked as I boosted myself up onto the hearse’s fender.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t talk about that stuff.”

“I won’t.” Alex checked out my T-shirt. “‘
As is
.’ Cute. I need to get one of those for Steve.”

“One of what?” asked Steve, returning from the concession stand with a couple of hot dogs, a Pepsi, a bag of Fritos, and a red licorice rope.

Alex indicated my shirt.

“Hey,” Steve said. “I might be fat, but at least all the parts are in working order.”

“Are you trying to insinuate something?” asked Alex.

“Me? Of course not. Why, is there something to insinuate?” Steve hefted himself up beside me. The fender sank a couple inches under the added weight.

While we waited for the Street Stocks to finish, I listened to Steve and Alex swap insults. There was one final wreck—a nasty collision in turn three that sent the fragrance of wild mint wafting through the pits—and I had to hop off the fender so the paramedics could zip onto the track to check things out. They were back almost immediately.

“No dead bodies,” Steve reported. “No severed limbs or spurting blood. You disappointed?”

“Only a little.”

“You two are sick,” Alex said.

The Street Stock Main was finally cut short due to time constraints, and as twilight faded the Sportsmen pulled onto the track. It took Race nine laps to get up to fifth place. Tom Carey, in the white #68 Camaro, dawdled half a lap behind, so he didn’t worry me, but Addamsen was coming up on Race like Jaws on a shoreline full of swimmers. One more circuit of the track left him tapping at the Dart’s back bumper.

Race, busy working an intimidation act of his own on #43, ignored the threat. After a few laps with the Dart hounding him, the driver of 43 got nervous and drifted high in turn one. Race slipped expertly into the groove. As the 43 car slid up the track, Addamsen wedged his Camaro between it and the Dart. He cut low coming out of the turn, trying to slam the door on Race, and clipped the Dart’s right front fender. Another driver might’ve backed down and let Addamsen have the position, but Race kept his foot in it. Slick as hot oil, Addamsen’s Camaro spun off the front of the Dart, pirouetted across the backstretch, and came to a rest in the infield.

“Uh oh,” I said. “That’s gonna torque him.”

“Race didn’t have much choice,” Kasey said. “If he’d let off or tried to steer out of it, they both would have spun.”

“You think Addamsen’s gonna see it that way?”

“Of course not.”

When the race restarted, Addamsen tore up the track like he had a solid rocket booster strapped to the roof of his Camaro. But with only eight laps to go and a pack of slow traffic to fight his way through, he didn’t have a chance of catching up to the Dart. Race crossed the finish line in second place. Addamsen barely squeaked into fifth, his engine howling in annoyance at being outrun.

Throttling back for the cool-down lap, the Dart slowed through turns one and two. The Camaro didn’t. It rammed into Race’s car, catching the left rear wheel and lifting the back end off the ground. The Dart skittered across the backstretch and slammed into a big tractor tire at the edge of the track.

While the rest of the pack scrambled to get around Addamsen’s limping Camaro, the Dart sat motionless. A tow truck bounded out onto the track, yellow lights flashing through the darkness. Catcalls from angry fans echoed through the bleachers. Race was out of the car within seconds, surveying the damage. I was so busy watching the wrecker hook up to the Dart that I almost missed seeing the black #1 Camaro skulking past me down the pit road.

“You son of a bitch!” I launched myself at the car, whaling on the roof and kicking the door. Kasey’s grip on the back of my jacket was the only thing that kept me from diving through the passenger window to rip Addamsen’s head off.

“Cody, stop! You’ll just make things worse.”

I spun around to face her, fists clenched. “How the hell could things get worse?”

“You could get yourself thrown out, that’s how. The officials have absolutely no tolerance for fighting.”

“But it’s not fair! They didn’t even black flag him!”

“It wouldn’t have done any good. The race was over. Now get a grip on yourself.” The no-nonsense edge in Kasey’s voice put a dent in my outrage, but it was the appearance of the wrecker, pulling up beside us with the mangled Dart in tow, that stopped me short. They’d had to hook up to the back bumper because the impact had jammed the left rear tire up against the wheel well. The front end didn’t look much better. The hood was buckled, the fender was twisted up like some crazy metal sculpture, and even I could see that the angle of the right front wheel was all wrong. Race jumped down from the cab of the tow truck, stormy and a little dazed.