by Mary Clay
Chapter 23
October 2, New Smyrna Beach, FL
The race was scheduled to begin at seven-thirty, but teams were required to meet in the infield at five o’clock to set-up and receive instructions. There were seven teams in all: The DAFFODILS, Woody’s team, NASA retirees, a local realtor, and three teams named Racing Thunder, Hell on Wheels, and Speed Demons. Our team was a standout, what with our custom suits, newly painted mini-car and Corolla, and our spotter, Annie, who wore an obviously expensive headset. Timothy had the spare headset with strict instructions to keep it away from Guthrie. We were also the only team with a pit crew. Timothy, dressed in black bike shorts and a spandex tank top, carried a large washtub of ice and oxygenated-water. Guthrie was, well, Guthrie. He had on his Arlo Guthrie tee shirt, baggy khaki shorts, and lugged an old-style metal TV tray and five large pans of brownies.
The Demons had chosen the right name. They were big, scruffy, and scary looking. Racing Thunder all looked alike in their Driving Experience fire suits and helmets. They were medium height, clean-shaven, with dark, slicked-back hair. Hell on Wheels was a bunch of teenagers (“They could be dangerous,” Annie whispered.), while the other crews appeared to be nice, normal folk.
We drew numbers from Andrew’s cowboy hat for pit assignments, then went to move our cars and store our gear. Guthrie set up the TV tray with a pan of his ‘signature’ dish. “These are for you,” he said, indicating the team. “No nuts. Have one—you need the strength.”
I chomped down on brownie, and had to admit this was a good batch. I waved at the other pans. “You don’t expect us to eat all of those, do you?”
“They’re for the other crews. It’s not polite to eat in front of people.”
Huh? Since when did pit crews pass out brownies to their competitors? I was about to say something when a familiar voice wafted from the track.
“Back off, buddy, I’m with them.” It was Frannie May, shooing away a speedway employee who blocked her from crossing to the infield.
“Frannie May,” I waved and nodded to the employee who let her pass. “Our good luck charm has arrived. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.” I gave her a big hug.
“Almost didn’t, my plane was late. Carl, Jr. and his friends are in the grandstands. See them? The center, toward the top.”
I followed her arm and was pleased to see Carl and his buddies, sans their Star Trek Klingon and Romulan battle gear. I waved; they stood and whistled.
“Have a brownie?” Ruthie offered. “No nuts.” She nodded at Guthrie. “Our friend made them.”
Frannie eyed the pans Guthrie held. “I like nuts.” She pulled up the corner of the foil covering the top pan. “Do these have nuts?”
Guthrie whirled around putting his back between Frannie May and the brownies. “You can’t have these—they’re for the other teams.”
Frannie gave us a what’s-with-him frown. Timothy shrugged. I gave her a palms-up and whispered, “He’s a little high strung.”
“I see that. What did you do, put Metamucil or something in those brownies?” Frannie May teased.
Guthrie’s brows furrowed. “Of course not.” He stalked off toward the other teams.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea, would it? Use a little Exlax instead of cocoa,” Frannie joked.
My eyes went wide. Certainly Guthrie wouldn’t do that. Would he? I didn’t have time to ponder the question. Andrew called the crews to the infield to go over the rules. I noticed almost everyone was eating brownies and all of the teenagers had one in each hand.
“Remember, this is a charity marathon, and it’s all for fun. We don’t want anyone to get hurt. We want a nice, clean race because there’s a lot of news media here.” He searched our faces. Everyone nodded.
“Okay, we’ll start with the mini-cup cars. Ten laps. Spotters are only allowed for this and the school bus race. Spotters, you can go up to the top of the grandstand now.”
Annie winked at us and headed across the track with six men.
“The second race is the bag race.” Andrew’s assistant handed him a heavy brown paper bag. The sack had several strips of silver duct tape across the center. “As you know, the driver in this race must wear a bag over his or her head. The passenger directs the driver. I don’t expect a problem with this group, but people have tried to cheat in the past by putting pinpricks in the bag over the eye area. That’s why we’ve added duct tape, and my assistant will distribute the bags just before the race begins. Also, to insure the passenger doesn’t ‘accidentally’ steer the car, both of the passenger’s hands must be on the top, outside of his window, throughout the race.
“The final leg is the bus race. It’s the most fun for fans, but the most dangerous for drivers. This is a short track, and the buses are light in the rear. I know you’ve all practiced. Be careful out there, I don’t want any buses going over the wall.”
Everyone nodded again.
“I hear donations total over a half million dollars and some teams have matching offers. This is a good cause, so be safe.” Andrew clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s do it!”
We all jogged to our pit areas. Our team was number four, putting us on the outside of the second row. That was a definite disadvantage for the school bus race, mainly because they were cumbersome, but shouldn’t make much of a difference for the other two cars. I was so excited my skin tingled. Chris looked like she was about to jump out of her shoes. Ruthie was serene, doing her mantra, I supposed. Penny Sue was Penny Sue, swishing her butt and waving to the crowd. Timothy handed us all a bottle of water. I looked around. Where was Guthrie? Water was his job. I spotted him dishing up brownies to the Demons.
Chris took a swig of water, gave us a thumbs-up, and vaulted through the roof of the mini-car. Timothy attached the Hutchins device to her helmet, and Chris did several microphone tests with Annie on the spotters’ platform that overlooked the track.
“Ladies and gentlemen, proceed to the starting line,” the announcer said over the speaker system.
The mini-cars sprang to life with a loud roar. One by one they left the pit area, lapped the track, and stopped, two-by-two, at the finish line in front of the grandstand. A hush fell over the crowd, all eyes glued to the starter who stood on an elevated platform. I held my breath.
The starter, a wiry guy with a gift for dramatics, gave the green flag a vigorous swirl. The mini-cars peeled out. Chris was trapped behind the two starters, Hell on Wheels in the number two spot and Racing Thunder with the inside, pole position. The Demon car was on the inside of the second row on Chris’ left. As the cars approached the first turn, Racing Thunder lagged behind and started to drift toward Chris. The Demon car, either annoyed or not paying attention, bumped Racing Thunder from the rear, sending it through the infield. The bump created a temporary opening that Chris zipped through. She floored it and pulled in front of Hell on Wheels, taking the lead.
Meanwhile, Racing Thunder ran through the infield and spun onto the far side of the track just as the pack of cars came around. Drawing a bead on the Demon car, Thunder rammed it from the side, sending it into Hell on Wheels. Hell hit the wall, bounced back into Demon, which then rammed Thunder. Thunder skidded into the infield followed by Demon and Hell on Wheels. Thankfully, Chris was far enough ahead to miss the melee. However, the realtor car caught a piece of Hell and went into a three-sixty degree spin that landed it in a puddle of mud and out of the race.
The starter waved the caution flag with one hand and angrily thrust black and red flags at Demon, Thunder, and Hell who were now pursuing each other around the infield. Obviously intent on getting even and not the race, the mini-cars ignored the starter and chased each other in circles until they all eventually were bogged down in muck, the final remnants of Hurricane Jeanne.
The race finished under the caution flag with Chris in the lead followed by Woody and Team NASA.
Chris lapped the track one time, then pulled in at the finish line. Timothy was waiting to unhitch her helmet. A moment later, the top
of her car popped open and Chris stood, arms held high and bowed to the crowd. Carl and his Star Trek friends went into a frenzy of extraterrestrial victory cries. The people sitting around them probably wished an alien ship would appear and beam them up.
The announcer called a brief intermission as Mr. Hart, the starter, and several speedway security personnel stomped across the track for a conference with Hell, Thunder, and the Demons. A lot of finger pointing, hand waving, and nodding later, the track crew stalked back to the grandstands and the bag race was announced.
Considering the bizarre shenanigans that had just transpired, I was absolutely stunned by Ruthie’s serenity. We took our places in the Corolla and put on our helmets. Ruthie snapped her visor shut without hesitation. A clue I missed at the time. Once again, Timothy hooked the Hutchins tethers to our helmets.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the loudspeaker blared, “proceed to the starting line.”
Good thinking, no bags until we were out of the pits. We lined up in front of the grandstand, outside second row. A moment later, Andrew’s assistant reached in the window and placed a bag over Ruthie’s helmet. I didn’t detect a wince or whimper. Something was very strange. Had Penny Sue given Ruthie a couple of tranquilizers? Lord, I hoped not.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Ruthie flicked her wrist. “Better than ever,” she said loudly.
Uh oh, I knew that tone. It was Millie! Gawd, should I be happy or sad? Millie had lived a long time ago. Could she drive? Did they even have cars in her day? The starter shook his finger at me, and I put my hands on the outside of the car. “Now, let’s start off slowly, going straight. Like we practiced,” I started. “When I say—”
“Thanks, Leigh, but we’ll be fine,” Ruthie replied.
Oh, crap was my last thought before the green flag came down.
Ruthie eased on the accelerator, and we were off. The Demon car to our left was moving erratically and suddenly went through the infield where it promptly mired.
“The guy on our inside just ran off the track,” I told Ruthie. “If you ease to the left, you can pass the lead cars on the inside.”
Ruthie waved off my comment. “We’re fine, Leigh, don’t worry.”
Ruthie turned the wheel and expertly guided the Corolla to the inside, passing the cars in the lead.
“Millie’s directing you, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she thinks it’s fun. She wasn’t allowed to drive in her day.” Ruthie giggled.
Good Lord, what was I in for? “Don’t drive too fast,” I cautioned. “Go just fast enough to stay ahead. If you zip around the track, the judges will know something’s up.”
Ruthie nodded. “Millie wants you to know that she was always honorable and wouldn’t commit this dastardly deed if the race weren’t for charity.”
As it turned out, my worries about being conspicuous were unfounded. The cars behind us provided such a show, no one noticed the DAFFODILS car. Out of the clear blue, Racing Thunder simply crashed into the wall. Luckily they weren’t going fast. Then Hell on Wheels moved into second spot, only to be bumped by the NASA team. The two cars spun into the infield. That left Woody and the realtors—driving cautiously. To them, five laps must have seemed like an eternity, but to us—thanks to Millie—it was a piece of cake. I had a slight tinge of guilt about our otherworldly help, but shed it fast when I remembered the storeowners from the interview.
Once again the DAFFODILS crossed the finish line first. As we did the victory lap to the finish line—Ruthie was allowed to take off her bag to insure we made it—I told Millie, “You have to leave now. We like you, and we appreciate all the help you’ve given us, but it’s time for you to go home. Millie, do you hear me?”
On the back straightaway, Ruthie twitched and immediately opened her visor. “Millie’s gone back to the Casa Monica. She says there’s a good party going on there. If we get a chance, Millie said we should come up. She had fun with us.”
Ruthie was back to her shy self by the time we reached the finish line. She waved self-consciously to the crowd and took off for the pits. Once again our alien friends—the Klingons and Romulans—went into full victory whoops.
The third, final, and toughest contest was the bus race. It was fitting that Penny Sue was the driver, considering all the terrorist avoidance classes she’d taken. True to form, Penny Sue took a swig of oxygenated-water, slapped on her helmet, and strapped into her seat. She and Annie did several sound checks, then Penny Sue raised her thumb, ready to go.
There was some confusion at the starting line with buses getting out of the proper order. Too difficult to fix, the judges decided to leave it alone, meaning Hell on Wheels (the teenagers) were on Penny Sue’s inside instead of the Demons.
“Annie, we’ve won the last two races, I’m going to win this one, too,” Penny Sue said.
“You will if you listen to me,” a male voice replied.
Penny Sue glanced at the spotters’ booth where Annie was pointing to her headset and shaking her head.
“Who the hell are you? Get off this channel, I can’t hear my spotter.”
“Who worked on your helmets and headsets?”
“Larry?”
“I go by that name sometimes. Listen carefully. There are some very mean people who plan to kill you in this race. I’m here to see that they don’t succeed.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in what remains of the billboard next to the digital time clock. Penny Sue, you have to do exactly what I say. Your life depends on it.”
“Okay, but who’s after me?
“Racing Thunder, which is part of Al’s mob. They don’t want you to give a deposition. They figure if they kill you, Leigh and Ruthie will be too scared to talk. The Speed Demons are Russian and trying to protect you because they want you to testify. Their mob wants Al put away so they can horn in on his drug operation. It was the Russians who nailed your assassins.”
“Our assassins? The guy on the balcony and the casino guy?”
“Them and a couple of others. Now listen, whatever you do, stay to the inside. Racing Thunder is going to try to push you over the wall.”
“Inside? I’ve got Hell on Wheels next to me.”
“They won’t be for long. Stay exactly beside them. Don’t try to pass or make a move. I’ll take care if it. Are you with me?”
“How do I know you’re who you say you are and not one of Al’s goons?”
“You haven’t been out of my mind since I first saw you.”
“You sent the roses?”
“An old friend of yours from Roswell asked me to send them, Honey Bunny.”
“Rich!”
The starter waved the green flag and the buses took off. Penny Sue stayed against the wall, matching the speed of her second row opponent.
“Take your foot off the gas, now.”
Hell on Wheels moved ahead and there was a sudden ping. Hell’s front tire started to go flat and the bus dropped back, finally pulling into the infield.
“Pull into that inside spot, now!”
Penny Sue did it, with Woody slipping into her position. As this was going on, Racing Thunder was running next to the Speed Demons and nudging them at every opportunity.
“Drop back, Thunder’s trying to flip Demons over the wall and Thunder may succeed at the next turn.”
Penny Sue did as instructed and Woody pulled ahead, right on the tail of the Demons. As they came down the backstretch, another ping sounded. What do you know? Thunder’s front left tire started to lose air.
“Drop back, drop back, give him room.”
Penny Sue let off the gas and was rammed from behind by Team NASA. The rear of her bus skidded to the right, dusting the wall. She hung a hard right and corrected the skid.
“Good move,” Larry said in her ear. “Watch Woody, he’s starting to weave.
For that matter, everyone except Penny Sue was driving like they were drunk.
“These people are crazy,” Larry
called. “Drop low and floor it.”
“Don’t worry, I know what to do.”
Penny Sue set her jaw, hung a left, and put the pedal to the metal. She passed the other buses as if they were standing still. The starter was berserk, stabbing the black flag at the other buses. Penny Sue ignored it all and kept a hefty lead for the rest of the race.
Once again, the DAFFODILS came in first—a clean sweep. Of course, we had some help, but hey, it was a charity race! All the money went to hurricane victims. Our clean sweep also meant the Hamptons crowd had to pony up an extra $100,000. Oh well, they could afford it!
We were in our pit area, ogling the trophy and doing press interviews, when a small caravan of grey Crown Vics with dark windows sped down the track and surrounded the Speed Demons and Racing Thunder. Men with guns piled out of the cars and circled the teams. Surprisingly, the mobsters put up little resistance. In fact, some of them seemed to be laughing.
“I wonder what that’s about?” Ruthie said.
“I’ll tell you later,” Penny Sue replied nonchalantly. Then suddenly panic crossed her face. “Where’s Guthrie?”
“Here I be,” he answered, staggering up.
Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “Guthrie, have you been into the booze?”
Guthrie stumbled backward. “No man, like, I was helping win the race.”
Timothy was not amused. “Win the race? I did everything you were supposed to do.”
“I made the brownies.” Guthrie gave us a goofy grin.
“Big deal,” Timothy said. “They were good, but nothing special.”
Guthrie swayed like a wet sock in the wind. “Yours weren’t, but theirs were.”
“Exlax,” Frannie May exclaimed. “I knew it!”
Timothy gave Guthrie the squinty eye. “It wasn’t Exlax, it was grass, wasn’t it? You promised you’d given up all that hippie stuff.”
“Well, I had a few bags left from the olden days.” Guthrie was still wobbling. “I knew this thing was for the hurricane victims, and the Hamptons people had promised a lot of money if the DAFFODILS won every race.” Guthrie put his face within an inch of Timothy’s. “You know, I us-sed to be an accountan-nt. I got a list of pledges and figured the victims would get the most money if the DAFFODILS made a clean sweep. So, like, I decided to make sure they won.” Guthrie shook his head. “I wasn’t being crooked or anything, I only wanted those poor people to get the most money they could get.”