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“Good run, Rix. You hit one forty easy and early.” She actually sounds excited for me, and considering it’s probably one of the faster runs of the non-juiced cars, that’s understandable. Mostly, I think she likes having another woman around who likes cars because other than her and me, we only see the occasional bored girlfriend or wannabe car magazine model.
“Thanks, Patricia. How’re the kids?” She and Ed have two kids, a son who’s almost thirty and a daughter who’s twenty-three and lives in a group home an hour away.
She tells me about her son and daughter-in-law who have decided to become electric car-driving vegans. “Ed about had a heart attack, but I held him back. Those kids are gonna give me grandbabies one day, and I’m not letting a diet or a car get between me and those chubby cheeks.” She pinches the air as though there’s already a sweet baby in front of her. “And Jennifer got herself a job! She’s working at a warehouse doing inventory. It’s perfect for her. She gets to count and make spreadsheets and track discrepancies. Right up her alley.”
“Good for her, glad to hear that.”
Our conversation is drowned out by the roar of engines running. I smile and wave at Patricia, knowing our time has been cut short because those two racers will want their time slips to analyze. She waves back as I pull on around and park Foxy.
I walk up to the crowd of spectators, who offer me high-fives and congratulations.
“Thanks. Another day, another run.” I’m happy with my performance and Foxy’s, but bragging after a win is unsportsmanlike and asshole-ish. I try to follow a mantra I heard once, ‘humble in victory, gracious in defeat’, and so far, it’s served me well.
“Gassers are done. Ed’s doing bottle-feds now,” Jerry tells me. “Todd’s up against a new guy with an import.” Foxy is a pure gasoline engine, along with Jerry, both Mikes, and a handful of other cars. Todd’s part of the more heavily modified group that runs nitrous.
“What’d Todd put for his dial-in?”
Dial-in is what a racer estimates his car will do and is an important part of deciding who races whom. If you fudge your numbers, you can be disqualified, so honesty is key.
“Nine flat,” Jerry says disbelievingly. I eye him, not reacting in the slightest, but he reads me anyway. I make a mental note to never play poker with Jerry. “That’s what we all thought too. What’d you do to his Challenger?”
“Nothing,” I say carefully. “I ordered some stuff for him, but he canceled. Said he figured something else out.”
A million thoughts run through my head at once. Mostly, I try to figure out how in the hell Todd thinks he’ll pull numbers like that. His car is fast, and he’s a good driver, but that’s nearly half a second off his best time. There’s no way.
Todd and a blue Toyota Supra do their burnouts and hit the line, both revving their engines and purging their nitrous.
The tree lights switch from the first yellow to the second, to the third, and then the green illuminates, and both cars rear up before lurching forward. Right off the line, Todd doesn’t seem like himself. The tires spin slightly and the front end lifts off the ground. Even once he gets all four tires connected with the asphalt, he’s barely in control, not holding his line the way he usually does.
“What the fuck?” I say.
At the same time, Jerry hisses, “Shit.” I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard him cuss and not even need all my fingers.
In slow motion, there’s a deafening pop, and flames rise from under the Challenger’s hood. Instantly, people are on their feet and running toward Todd.
That’s what family does for one another.
“Get out! Get out!” I yell as the flames rise higher. I’m close enough that he should be able to hear me, but another burst of flames ignites loudly. I’m the first one to approach the flaming car, so I automatically flip the kill switch on the back to shut off the ignition and pull the driver side door open.
Todd is banging on the steering wheel. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Or I assume that’s what he’s saying, but it’s muffled by his helmet and overwhelmed by the hiss of extinguishers as several people aim the hoses under the hood to put out the fire.
I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull. “Get the fuck out now, Todd!” He turns, and his eyes are glassy with shock, not focusing on me. But he sticks a leg out and then the other, letting me yank him out of the car. “You okay?” I yell.
There’s another pop, and flames leap out from underneath the car, catching both Todd and me by surprise.
