Running Wide Open (11 page)

“The condenser coils are filthy,” she told Race.

“Imagine that,” I said. “And in such a surgically sterile environment.”

When Race went out to the van to get the Shop-Vac, Kasey eyed me in a way that made me want to crawl under the nearest large object.

“You’re a smart kid, Cody, and I realize Race plays right into your hand, but just because you know how to push his buttons doesn’t mean you should.”

“It was a joke! It’s not like he doesn’t know how to sling it right back.”

Kasey patted my shoulder. The gesture sent a tingle surging along my spine. “I’m just suggesting you might want to tone it down,” she said, smiling to take the sting out of her reprimand. “Try using your gift of intuition for good instead of evil.”

* * *

At the speedway that night, my uncle qualified faster than everybody in his class. It was apparently the first time anyone but Addamsen had done that since halfway through the previous season. The announcer made a big deal about it, and about the fact that Race was now only two points behind his rival. The idea must’ve torqued Addamsen, because he smoked Race in the trophy dash. Fortunately, the dash wasn’t worth any points. That was one thing I’d learned this week.

“So when are you gonna let me take this baby out for a few laps?” I asked later, patting the hood of the Dart where I sat scarfing down a hot dog. Out on the track, another trophy dash was heating up.

“Maybe in thirty years or so.”

“Aww, c’mon. I won’t wreck it.”

Race gave me a measured look. “Do you even know how to drive?”

“Nah, Mom wouldn’t let me get my permit.”

“Well, that’s just a crime. On Monday, I’m taking you to the DMV right after school.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I can’t have it getting out that my fifteen-year-old nephew doesn’t have his driver’s permit.”

A couple of the Super Stocks tangled and smashed into the wall. Within seconds the stomach-turning stink of burnt rubber drifted into the pits. Both tow trucks scrambled toward the track and a big black car rumbled past us through the cloud of dust they left behind.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The track ambulance.”

“It looks like the Ghostbusters car.”

“Almost,” said Race. “It’s a ’67 Cadillac hearse. You’re only off by about eight years.”

“Isn’t that kinda morbid, having a hearse for an ambulance?”

“Well, it’s not like it’s a real ambulance. If anyone ever got seriously hurt they’d call 911.”

“Still,” I said. There was something warped about the idea.

Race’s heat began with a snarl-up that slammed him against the outside wall. In spite of it, he immediately gained three positions when they got the race restarted. Then after a couple of laps, something began to change. Each time Race went into a corner, the back end of the Dart would hang out so far that the car was sliding almost sideways through the turn. It looked way cool.

“Why’s he doing that?” I asked Kasey.

“It’s not intentional. I think he has a tire going down.” She glanced at me, weighing my level of interest. “When the rear end wants to come around that way, it’s known as being ‘loose.’ I just hope he makes it through the next three laps.”

One advantage to having the Dart handle like that seemed to be that it took up an awful lot of the track in the corners. The car directly behind Race, a white Camaro, didn’t have a chance of getting around him. When I mentioned that to Kasey, she pointed out that the slightest tap from the Camaro would send Race into a spin.

“Driving at the limit like that, he wouldn’t have a prayer of getting it back under control.”

Addamsen hovered right behind the Camaro. If he passed it, I knew Race would have a real problem on his hands. Last week I’d seen how closely Addamsen could ride a guy’s bumper. After the threats he’d been slinging around at the payoff window, I figured he wouldn’t be above spinning Race intentionally. I spent the last two laps holding my breath.

Race managed to keep his position, coming in third behind Denny and Jim. Then, just after he crossed the finish line and headed into turn one, a loud bang made me jump damn near into the next county. The Dart spun toward the top of the track. Addamsen and the white Camaro swerved under it, but the guy behind them plowed into the right front fender.

“Ouch!” cried the announcer, “doesn’t look like that’ll buff out, folks. Let’s hope Morgan can get that car back in shape for the main. He’s dead even with Jerry Addamsen, now. If Morgan can finish ahead of him tonight, it’ll be the first time anyone’s taken the point lead from Addamsen in three years.”

The Dart limped back into the pits, its front fender digging into the tire and shaving off rubber with every revolution. Since the wheels didn’t seem to want to turn properly, Race had to bully the 8 car into its parking spot.

Almost before the Dart stopped, Kasey was inspecting the damage.

“How bad is it?” asked Race as he fumbled with the window net.

“I’m not sure yet.” Kasey rolled the jack under the front end, lifting the Dart off the ground before Race even had a chance to climb out. Then Jim and Denny appeared. Finishing ahead of Race, they’d missed all the action.

“What happened?” asked Jim.

“Blowout. Carter nailed me when I spun.”

“It’s amazing it didn’t happen sooner,” Kasey said. “That tire was a ticking time bomb. You should have brought her in.”

“Hell, Kasey,” Jim said. “You oughta know by now that Race isn’t gonna bring a car in off the track as long as it can make another lap.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to see him
push
one across the finish line,” Denny added.

“Well, one of these days he’s going to break something I can’t fix.”

Race laughed. “You always say that, but it’ll never happen. I have complete faith in your automotive genius.”

“Can you fix it this time?” I asked.

“Fortunately, yes. I’ll just have to replace the two tires and an outer tie rod end.”

While Kasey and Race got to work putting the Dart back together, I wandered down to the north end of the track where the tow trucks and ambulance were parked. Creepy as the hearse was, it was pretty cool. One of the paramedics was kicking back beside it in a lawn chair, eating a cheeseburger while his partner rooted around in the Cadillac’s back end.

“Can you guys get the poltergeists out of my attic?” I asked.

“’Fraid not,” said the guy with the cheeseburger. “All my training is with the living.”

“Where’d they get this car?”

“Dunno. It’s been here as long as I have.”

I circled the Cadillac. How awesome would it be to drive this thing around town?

“Your dad one of the drivers?” the guy asked. I noticed that his name,
Alex
, was stitched on the front of his uniform.

“No, my uncle. Race Morgan.” I checked out the enormous chrome grill.

“Ah. You’re practically royalty.”

“I guess. Is this a pretty exciting job? You see a lot of blood and guts?”

“Not here. There’s plenty of that on the highway, but racing’s pretty safe. I don’t think I’ve seen a serious accident in the five years I’ve worked this gig.”

“There was Greg Shackleford last year,” said the second paramedic, slamming the back door of the ambulance and coming around to join us. He was a heavy dude, and his nametag read
Steve
.

“The guy busted his leg,” countered Alex. “I’d hardly call that life-threatening.”

I hung out with the paramedics for most of the Street Stock main, trying to weasel gory details out of them about their work. Steve indulged me a little, but Alex said it was serious business, not a source of entertainment for the bloodthirsty.

When I saw the Sportsmen lining up for their main, I jogged back over to Race’s pit. Kasey was finishing some kind of adjustment under the front of the car.

“Okay. That should do it,” she said.

“You wanna check the toe again?” Race asked.

“There’s no time. Get in the car.”

“Let’s move it, Sportsmen!” hollered Ted Greene, making his way down the row. Race scrambled through the window.

“Did you get it fixed?” I asked Kasey.

“Yes. Of course it’s always a little unsettling, sending a car out without a few test laps, but that can’t be helped.”

Hearing Kasey sound doubtful was what unsettled
me
. In just a week I’d come to admire her assertive, businesslike attitude. She wasn’t the type to stew over something without good reason. I realized what I was thinking and almost laughed. How could I be nervous about a stock car race?

“Why’s Race so popular, anyway?” I asked as I watched the cars pull out onto the backstretch. “Doesn’t Addamsen win more?”

“It’s not just about winning. Jerry Addamsen may be a successful driver, but he’s a mean-spirited bully. Your uncle, on the other hand, is the most kindhearted person I know. And he’s got a sense of humor. Fans like a driver who’s willing to laugh at himself. It shows humility. That’s something Jerry doesn’t even know the meaning of.”

I felt like asking her why she wanted to keep their relationship all business if Race was such a great guy, but I kept my mouth shut. I had no doubt that Kasey would verbally flatten me if I gave her any crap. Besides, I wasn’t gonna go around playing matchmaker like some twelve-year-old girl.

“The thing you have to realize, Cody, is that in spite of Jerry’s talent, he has a lot of enemies at this track. Most people don’t like a rough driver. Personally, I find the way he treats women distasteful. I’ve seen him with one arm around his wife and the other hand goosing the trophy girl.”

The word that popped immediately into my head was ‘ambidextrous,’ but I didn’t share the thought.

In spite of Kasey’s doubts, the Dart performed flawlessly in the main. Race drove it like he’d just committed a double homicide and had the cops from four counties after him. Even so, Addamsen got a better start and zipped ahead. For eight laps, Race fought to pass him, but the slower guys kept getting in the way.

Halfway through their ninth time around, Addamsen ducked by the lead car. Race followed, zeroing in on his bumper. For six more laps Race nagged the Camaro through the turns and pulled even with it on the straightaways.

“Can you see the line Jerry’s taking through the corners?” Kasey asked. “It’s just high enough that Race can’t get around him on the outside, but not so high that he can slip underneath. Race’s only option is to sit back and wait for Jerry to make a mistake.”

Race seemed to have a different opinion about his options. Instead of backing off and dropping down behind Addamsen the next time they went into a corner, he kept his foot in it. The black Camaro drifted up into the side of the Dart, and I thought sure Race was gonna lose it and skid off the top of the track. Worse, the Dart looked lined up to smack head-on into the leading edge of the wall. But somehow Race squeaked through the dwindling gap between Addamsen and the concrete barrier. The Dart roared onto the front stretch only a fender length behind the Camaro. Kasey let out a breath and shook her head, muttering about dumb luck and a lack of good sense.

Edging ahead of Addamsen on the straightaway, Race dove into the first turn to claim the lead. The grandstands exploded with shrieks and applause. But Addamsen wasn’t giving up that easy. He hounded Race down the backstretch and played woodpecker with the Dart’s back bumper as the cars plowed through the corner at the north end of the track.

“He’s gonna spin him out!”

“No, he won’t,” Kasey said. “Jerry has better sense than that.”

I shot her a skeptical look. “You didn’t hear what he said last Saturday.”

“Cody, Jerry’s been racing for a long time. He knows how much he can get away with without being black-flagged. What he’s doing now is known as intimidation. It’s a very effective tactic with nervous or inexperienced drivers, but it won’t faze your uncle in the least.”

“But—”

“Trust me,” Kasey said.

Addamsen went right on with his intimidation routine, but as Kasey had predicted, he didn’t spin Race. Five laps later, the two cars tore out of turn four neck-in-neck. Race beat Addamsen to the checkered flag by a bumper.

The Dart circled the track and parked on the start-finish line. I didn’t think the crowd could get any rowdier, but when Race climbed out of the car the noise level jumped a good twenty decibels.

“And here he is,” the loudspeaker blared. “From
YOU
-gene, Oregon, sponsored by Eugene Custom Classics, Rick’s University Video, and Willamette Electrical Supply, your new points leader, RACE—MORGAN!”

Race shook both fists in the air and the crowd cranked it up another five decibels. It was a good minute before the announcer could get on with details about the Dart and Race’s one-woman pit crew.

As the photographer tried to usher my uncle and the trophy girl into position for a picture, Race turned and gestured to Kasey and me.

“What’s he want?”

“It’s customary for a driver to have his family and crew join him for the photo.”

Race thought of me as family? I mean, I knew I was, but I didn’t expect him to act like it meant something.

Kasey gave me a gentle shove toward the wall and I balked. “I can’t go out there!”

“Yes, you can.” Kasey latched onto my wrist as she climbed over the concrete barrier, dragging me with her.

I felt like a dope walking out onto the track. But as I stood with her and Race, listening to the fans whoop and holler, my embarrassment began to fade. I couldn’t help wondering—what would it be like to have all those people cheering for me?

Chapter 8

I couldn’t let Race think I was getting completely soft, so the next morning I woke him up by shooting a bottle rocket down the hallway. It was sort of a ritual I’d created, finding new and creative ways to get him off the couch before 9 a.m. For sheer reaction, the bottle rocket was the best thing I’d thought of yet. But it lacked the finesse of my prank a few days earlier, when I’d set the clock ahead two hours. Race was up, dressed, and on his way out the door before it occurred to him that at nine-thirty, I should be at school.

Over the next couple of weeks, as I waited impatiently for my karate class to begin, I settled into life in Eugene. I was even sorta starting to like the place, especially the university area, which was always a whirl of people and activity. Downtown was cool, too. In one part, the streets were paved with brick and closed to traffic. I liked to take the bus down there to explore quirky shops, listen to street musicians, and watch kids play hacky sack. The town had a whole different energy than Portland—beatnik and artsy and way more close-knit, with the college acting as a rallying point. It seemed like every business had “Go Ducks!” painted in a window.