by Claire Adams
Eli’s a hard guy to pin down.
When I first met him in the ER, he came off as brash, cocky—good sense of humor, but definitely a bit of a jerk. Ever since then, though, every time I see him or talk to him, there’s something else that seems to blow that assumption out of the water.
The sun is gone and the sky is becoming more black than blue, now, but I’m not in any rush to get out of here.
I reach over and take Eli’s hand as we watch the last bit of sunlight fade from the world.
Chapter Four
Snakes Can Walk and the Tale of Two Warehouses
Eli
So, the Galaxie’s back in the shop to get a new transmission, and I’m telling myself for the twenty-ninth time that it’s just time to let the thing die like it wants to. Even as that’s going through my head, though, I’m typing in the make and model on the computer and ordering a new tranny.
Today, I’m getting off a little early. I’m taking Kate out for a ride in the Chevelle after I’m off, just to make sure she’s actually got the nerve to go anywhere with racing.
To be honest, I’m not really expecting her to start rolling up against someone for a pink slip, but I like her. People that like each other should have things in common, right?
There’s another reason Maye was willing to let me go early, though.
Mick is finally coming back to work today.
He finally made it out of the hospital, surprisingly still alive, and this is going to be his first day back. To mark the occasion, Maye and I have left him a bit of a “welcome back” present: I’m leaving early, Maye’s locking herself in her office after he shows up, and we’ve got seven cars on the docket and nobody else scheduled to work.
I love a boss who’s willing to risk customer happiness in favor of a prank.
“Hey, Faust!” Maye’s voice comes from somewhere behind me.
I tighten the alternator I’m replacing and turn around. “He here already? I would have thought he’d do the fashionably late thing.”
“No,” she says. “He just called, he’s going to be a few minutes late.”
“Ah, so the world isn’t ending then?” I ask.
“There’s a guy out front that wants to talk to you,” she says. “Tall guy, bald, goatee, really expensive-looking black suit. I wanted to give you a heads-up in case you got in over your head with a race and need to get out of here before that guy puts a couple in you.”
“How thoughtful,” I respond, smiling. “I notice that you didn’t tell him I wasn’t here, though.”
“Well,” she says, “I figure if he does kill you, I might be able to convince him to throw some money at the problem so I keep my mouth shut. I like you and everything, but you’re hardly a big payday.”
“Nobody is here to kill or otherwise cause harm to anyone,” a man says, coming through the open bay door. “I am here to discuss cars.”
“You want me to stick around?” Maye asks quietly.
“Then there would be two bodies instead of one, wouldn’t there?” I ask. “I think I’ll be fine.”
Maye pats me on the shoulder, really milking the whole killer bit, and she heads back into the office.
“How can I help you?” I ask the man. “We’re a little backed up at the moment, but if you don’t mind waiting, I’m sure we can take a look at whatever you’ve got going on.”
“I am here to talk about cars,” he says, “not repairs.”
“Okay,” I tell him, wiping my hands on a sham cloth. “What can I do for you?”
“I hear you have become quite the driver to beat around town.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “Where’d you hear that?”
“It does not matter. What matters is that I have a business proposition for you.” The look on his face is stern, his eyes unblinking.
“I already have a job,” I tell him, “but thanks for the shady offer. It’s been a while since some jackass who wants to knock over a bank has come by asking me to be his fall guy.”
“Who do you think I am?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure who you are, but I know any racer would keep his or her mouth shut about any other. Talking is bad for business, and I think you should probably forget you ever heard my name.”
I know I’m laying it on a bit thick, but this is the sort of thing that gets people imprisoned. Well, that and the illegal racing part.
How Kate went about the topic—that’s the way a noob is supposed to do it. You don’t just walk up to someone at their work and talk about the circuit.
A wide, toothy grin comes over the man’s face. “I am not just some nobody off the street,” he says.
“Well,” I tell him. “You look like nobody and you just came off the street, so…”
“Rans!” Mick calls from the direction of the shop. “Guess who’s back?”
“Hey, look at you,” I say and leave the guy who’s trying to get us all arrested standing there with a stupid look on his face.
He’s not responding to me, though, he’s looking at the man I was just talking to.
I get up to Mick and give him a pat on the shoulder, saying, “You look like an ear of corn that’s been in the bottom of a dumpster for a while.”
“What’s he doing here?” Mick asks in a whisper.
I glance back. The man is staring at us.
“Just some jerk-off who came in here asking about racing,” I answer. “I was just about to kick his ass out of here.”
“Don’t,” Mick says. “Eli, just speak when you’re spoken to and be respectful. I don’t know why he’s here, but it can’t be good.”
Ding.
“You mean-” I ask.
“Yeah,” Mick interrupts. “That’s him.”
He means Jax. The king of this city’s underworld, if there is one, is standing in my shop and I just called him a punk and told him to get out of my shop.
“You’re full of crap, man,” I tell Mick. “Jax isn’t even a real person. He’s just a legend based off of some guy who won a few races back in the day. I know you like to talk all big, saying you went to school with him and everything, but-”
The man Mick is calling Jax interrupts, saying, “Greenville Junior High.”
“Dude, he’s real and he’s standing right behind you,” Mick says.
“I get this is your first day back and you want to jump right back in with a prank, but this one’s pretty stupid…” I trail off as I notice all of the color has drained from Mick’s face and he’s taking long, slow breaths out of his nose. He’s trying not to let on that he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.
Mick’s like me when it comes to pranks: he keeps his cool until everything’s played out.
I turn around.
“Jax?” I ask.
The man nods.
“Now,” he says and takes a few steps toward us, “if we are finished with introductions, I believe I was about to make you a proposal.”
“Hold on,” I tell him.
I walk past Jax and out the open bay door. One of the many legends I’ve heard regarding “Jax” over the years is that he drives a platinum-colored LFA when he’s not racing.
Personally, I’ve never seen an LFA of any color even driving past this town.
“Where is it?” I ask.
“Where is what?” Jax returns.
“You know,” I start.
Jax is shrugging when I look back at him.
“Without being more specific, I really do not know to what you are referring,” he says.
He’s even talking the way Mick says he did. Of course, that’s a strike against this guy. Mick makes stuff up all the time, especially when it’s to mess with someone.
“Okay, Mick,” I say, turning. “You got me. I’m really scared.”
Only, Mick hasn’t budged from his spot near the office. Why would he do this if he couldn’t see the look on my face?
The man calling himself Jax sighs, saying, “If you choose not to believe I am who I say I am, that works for me. How
ever, I doubt you will take what I am about to say very seriously unless I confirm your friend’s story, so…”
He unbuttons the top button of his sports jacket. I’m scoffing until he undoes the second button and opens one side of the jacket, revealing a very large handgun in a holster on his hip.
“Are we done with the foreplay, or do I have to fire a couple of rounds to convince you I am not here to play games?” Jax asks.
“What do you want?” My voice is about half the size it’s been the rest of the day.
Jax smiles at me. I’m still not certain it’s him, but I am certain that’s a gun on his hip. Maybe it’s a fake, but it sure doesn’t look like it. Whoever this is, even if it is the real Jax, my best bet is to just go along with it.
I go along with it, the worst case scenario is that I make a fool of myself. I don’t go along with it, the worst case scenario gets a lot worse.
“I trust you’ve heard at least some scattered rumors of a tournament I’m putting together,” Jax says.
I turn back toward Mick. He was telling the truth.
“I’ve heard about it,” I answer.
“What you may not have heard is that it is by invitation only,” Jax continues. “Maybe we are different, but I do prefer knowing a driver can race before I put him on the line.”
“So?” I ask. “What do you want with me?”
He reaches inside his jacket, and I’m already halfway turned toward the nearest exit, but he just laughs. I glance back to find he’s just reaching into one of the inner pockets—much too high for him to be going for the gun.
Of course, if this is the real Jax, the rumor goes that he’s got at least three guns on him at any given time, so all things considered, I should probably start running.
“Why would I want to kill a man who calls himself Ransom? You are not a threat to me. I am merely here to give you this,” he says, pulling a card from his inner-jacket pocket.
It’s the size of a normal business card, but the only word on the front is the name “Jax.”
“On the back, you will find instructions on where to go and who to talk to if you are in,” he says. “Three heats. If you make it to the third heat, you have made it to the final. If you win the final, you win the tournament.”
“And what happens then?” I ask. “Based on your reputation, you don’t really strike me as the kind of guy to put up a quarter-”
Jax holds up his hands. “I am not here to discuss specifics. I am here to offer an invitation.”
Mick, who has slowly made his way over to my side, breaks his silence. “What about me?” he asks.
“What about you?” Jax returns.
I turn my head and whisper, “Maybe you shouldn’t be trying to get more involved in this right now.”
“I want in,” Mick says. “If you don’t have me, you don’t get him.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I retort.
“Hey, Eli!” a cheerful woman’s voice comes from back toward the office, and I’m really hoping it isn’t who I think it is.
“Leave now,” I tell Jax, “for all our sakes.”
“Hold on a minute,” Mick says. “I’m the one who told you about the tournament, Eli. You’re not just going to cut me out like this.”
“Dude, shut up,” I mutter.
“I don’t think I will,” Mick says.
This is the wrong time for him to display how butt hurt he gets when he’s left out of something.
“I trust one card will be enough for the both of you, then?” Jax asks.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just starts walking toward the bay door until he’s out of the shop and around the corner.
“Sorry,” Kate says from behind Mick and me, “I didn’t know you were talking to a customer.”
Yeah, a customer.
“It’s all right,” I tell her. “We were done, anyway. Are you ready to go?”
“Ready when you are. Hey, Mick,” she says. “It’s good to see you up and walking around.”
“Thanks,” he says with a smile, then whispers to me, “Dude, we need to talk about this.”
“I have plans and none of them include getting my brains blown out by some phantom mob guy,” I whisper back. “Now be cool or I burn the card.”
“It’s great to see you, Kate,” Mick says, “but I’ve got a few things to go over with the boss before I can get back to work. You two have a good afternoon.”
His face is red as he walks to the office.
“Shall we?” Kate asks.
“Hold on just a second,” I tell her and point in Mick’s direction.
When he gets to the office door, he tries the knob, only it’s not turning.
“Hilarious,” Mick calls over his shoulder. “Toss me your keys.”
“I’m already clocked out, man,” I tell him. “I gave my keys back to Maye so you’d have a set for the night.”
Mick knocks on the door, calling out “Maye!” and I’m finally ready to go.
“Okay,” I tell Kate. “Tonight, I’m going to take you around town in the Chevelle. The point of tonight is to start teaching you when you need to drive like you’re just heading to the store and when it’s safe to race.”
“Where is it?” she asks.
I smile.
One of the lovely things about being involved in a somewhat less-than-legal deal with my boss is that I get some great perks: clean money, a place to make repairs or upgrades, and a nice spot to hide a car that police will chase on sight.
We head around back to the junkyard.
Maye owns the junkyard, but she doesn’t run it. The shop keeps her too busy for that. I’ve never talked to the guy who actually does run it, but where I’m going isn’t near his office.
“Are you all right?” Kate asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, though my mouth is a little dry. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear you rip on Mick back there and you’ve been quiet. I figured something pretty serious must be going on.”
“No,” I say forcing a laugh. “I was just trying to get out of there so we could be on our way.”
It’s a flimsy explanation, but she doesn’t pursue the question further.
“So,” she says, “you keep your car in a junkyard?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “It’s not exactly street legal, so most of the time, we have to load it onto the back of Maye’s flatbed tow truck and then cover it so the cops don’t know what’s under it.”
“They know your car, huh?”
I shrug. “It happens. In about half an hour, they’re going to think they’ve got it where they want it, too. They’ve been trying to pin me down for a while now.”
“You’ve never been caught?”
“I’ve gotten pulled over in the Galaxie,” I tell her, “but I’m usually long gone in the Chevelle before the 5-0 shows up.”
“So you’ve been to jail, then?”
“No,” I tell her. “Not for racing, anyway. I got into a lot of trouble when I was a kid.”
We’re in the junkyard about five minutes before she finally asks, “So, where’s the car?”
“We’re almost there,” I tell her.
We come around a stack of compacted cars and there, in a little alcove and covered, is the Chevelle.
“There it is,” I tell her.
“Wow,” she says blandly.
“It’ll probably be more impressive once the cover’s off of it.”
Going around the car, I untuck the car cover from under the frame and slowly lift it off the car.
“Wow,” she says again, only this time, there’s animation in her voice.
“I call it a 454 because that’s the engine that was in it when I got it,” I tell her. “I’ve upgraded since then.”
“How many horses under the hood?” she asks and crosses her arms over her chest. I think she’s having a little fun with the car talk.
Still, I’m impressed enough with
the answer that I still give it to her. “About twelve-hundred, last I had it tested.”
“That sounds like a lot,” she says. “Is that a lot?”
“Have you heard of a Bugatti Veyron?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she returns.
“It comes with about a thousand,” I tell her.
What I don’t tell her is all of the incredibly expensive mods I had to get on the Chevelle to be able to say that.
“So this is faster than a Veyron?”
“It accelerates faster, anyway,” I tell her. “I’ve never topped it out on the road. It’s pretty heavy, so it takes a couple hundred more to get it going.”
“So,” she says, “when do I get to drive it?”
Judging by her glare, I get the impression my laughter is out of context.
“Oh,” I say, “you’re serious?”
“I did tell you that I’m interested in seeing what it’s like to be a street racer. In order to find out if I’m any good, don’t I have to be behind the wheel of a car?”
“Let’s start with something that’s not going to kill you just to see you die,” I tell her. “This car’s a little hostile until you get to know it.”
Her shoulders slump a little, but I really am just looking out for her safety. Besides, once cop sees this car, the lights go on, and if either of us wants to get out of there without shiny metal bracelets, I’ll have to need to pull every trick in the book.
I’m not trying to be mean; she’s just not ready for something like that. Hell, I barely am.
“Okay,” she says, “so what are we doing today then?”
“I told you,” I smile. “Today, we’re going to learn how to run from the cops.”
“Whoa, whoa. I knew there was a possibility of that, but you didn’t tell me that was actually a goal of yours.”
“Actually, I like staying as far away from cops as possible,” I tell her. “If you’re going to get into this, though, you’re going to need to know how to lose a very active tail.”
She swallows.
“Okay,” she says, her voice almost too soft to hear.
“If you’re not up for it,” I tell her, “we can do something else.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I’m trying not to smirk. Giving people just the right kind of push is one of my many hidden talents.