“I’m very much aware of that. It’s the ones without a contract on this circuit who interest me the most. I don’t want some big team’s leftover driver.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“And so do we—now, who are you thinking?”
“Based on our conversation three weeks ago, I thought that Fortson kid out of Ohio might be one to look at. He’s young, has those devilishly good looks all the ladies love, and he’s won six races on the Xfinity tour this season.”
Davis took a deep breath. “Eh, I’ve seen him interviewed a few times. I don’t think we’d get along.”
“The pickings remain slim after that, in my opinion.”
Davis heard footsteps outside the hauler. He stuck his head out the window but didn’t see anything. “No, there’s one driver I’ve wanted for a long time and this finally clears the way for me to hire him.”
“Who’s that?”
“J.T. Beaumont. If there’s ever been a tailor-made driver for this team, it’s him. We talked about it several months ago. I was just planting some seeds. Now it’s time to pluck the fruit.” He paused. “But there are a few other people we’re going to have to get rid of first.”
***
MOUTH AGAPE, CAL POKED his head out from underneath the Davis Motorsports hauler. He looked around and then scrambled to his feet. He checked over his shoulder before casually emerging from between the haulers. He was sure no one had seen him. He was also sure that the note shoved into his pocket wasn’t a joke.
CHAPTER 4
OWEN BURNS ENJOYED his Monday morning commute to the Davis Motorsports headquarters in the quiet suburb of Huntersville. Thirty years ago, he left Clemson University with a master’s degree in Mechanical Engineering, and a dream—to work in the auto racing industry. While his accomplishments stacked up, there was a glaring one missing. Not a single championship on his resume.
He’d come close several times, though he felt like winning a NASCAR championship was more a game of chance than skill. Mere hundredths of a second separated drivers on any given race day, but a bump here,,a wreck there, or an untimely start, and a good day’s work could vanish.
Ah, who cares?
But Burns couldn’t fool himself. He wanted to be able to say that he worked on a championship crew, yet he couldn’t. And as he entered the twilight of his career, he wondered if he ever would. This season seemed like his best shot, and now, not only was his chance gone, but so was Tanner.
He pulled into the parking lot and lumbered toward the facility. The Davis Motorsports headquarters covered 65 sprawling acres in the North Carolina hills. More than sixty employees worked daily at the building, doing everything to ensure that the team had the best opportunity to win each week. From the outside, the grounds gave the appearance of a successful entity, one that triumphed over its competitors. In reality, it was a cash-strapped team that sought to gain every advantage when possible.
While other race teams had the cash to hire car chiefs and crew chiefs, Burns shouldered the burden of both jobs. He welcomed the challenge of managing the egos of crew members while still having a firm grip on how the car was running and what adjustments were required. Today would consist of a frank discussion about both.
As he entered the building, Burns heard the crew bickering at the end of the hall. He stopped and clenched his fists. He wanted to join them and blame somebody—or hit something. But he took a deep breath and walked into the room.
“Quiet,” he said. “The last thing we need to do is start pointing fingers. Tanner’s gone and it was an accident. Our thoughts should be with his wife and family, not over who might have made a mistake. Stuff happens. It’s called racing.”
Jackson Holmes stood up. “I agree. There’s nothing good that comes out of blaming others. Everyone knows the risks when they climb into the car.”
Russ Ross folded his arms and grunted. “No driver ever expects to have his throttle stuck wide open on a track like that in Texas.”
“I swear that return spring on the throttle was perfect when I checked it,” Dirt said.
“Of course you’d say that,” Ross quipped. “It was your responsibility to check.”
Dirt stood up and bowed his chest. “Just what exactly are you implying?”
Ross rolled his eyes. “I think you know what I meant by that.”
“Come over here and I’ll knock your teeth—at least the ones you have left,” Dirt growled.
Ross stood up before Burns slid in between the two men and held them off. “Gentlemen, have you forgotten what I said already?”
“Nobody’s forgotten,” Ross said. “We just don’t believe this scum bag.”
Dirt lunged at Ross but didn’t make contact as Burns shoved him away.
“Look, we need to focus on getting a car set up for Phoenix and not trying to undo something that can’t be undone,” Burns said. “It’s the part of our sport that nobody likes, but you can’t avoid it sometimes. It just happens and you have to deal with it.”
Ross and Dirt backed away from each other and returned to their seats on opposite sides of the room.
Before Burns could utter another word, Ned Davis walked into the room. “Do we have a problem, gentlemen?” he asked.
The crew members all shook their heads.
“This is hard on everyone, but we need to stick together in times like these,” Davis said. “We’re all sad over losing someone as incredible as Tanner, but you all still have a job to do. There’s still a race on Sunday. There’s still a crowd to entertain.”
“Who do you plan on getting as Tanner’s replacement?” Ross asked.
“Just leave that up to me,” Davis answered. “I’ll find a driver that will get this team back in position to win it all again next season. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Ross said. “I’m just wondering if you’re going to be able to find any competent driver who’s going to want to join a team where a crew member doesn’t check the car sufficiently and may die as a result.”
Dirt glared at Ross. “You wanna go right now? Right here? Cause I’m ready.”
Davis put his hands in the air. “Gentlemen, please. Are you not listening to a word I’m saying? You’re not irreplaceable, just remember that.” Davis scanned the room. “Now, let’s be a little bit more respectful of one another. You do your job and I’ll do mine of finding us another driver who can win us a championship. Understand?”
The crew members nodded.
“Now that we’ve got that taken care of, let’s get down to business,” Burns said. “Anybody got any suggestions about how we can tweak the car for the race at Phoenix?”
Ross stood up. “Make sure the throttle doesn’t get stuck.” He glared at Dirt.
“It’s on,” Dirt said as he rushed Ross.
The two men grappled for a few moments before Ross threw Dirt to the ground and delivered a few punches. Dirt scrambled to his feet and lunged at Ross. Once Dirt grabbed him, their clash spilled in Holmes’ direction. They tumbled toward Holmes, who tried to get out of the way but couldn’t. Dirt jabbed at both men, landing punches to the face on both of them.
Burns sat back in his chair, arms folded.
Just get it out of your system, boys.
The trio tussled for another minute until they all stood up and resigned themselves to the fact that fighting wasn’t going to change anything or get any answers.
“Are you three done?” Burns asked.
Dirt felt his bloodied lip with his index finger and stared at the blood. “Why I ought to—”
“You ought to what?” Ross asked. He checked his lip for blood, but there was nothing to be found. “Apologize?”
Dirt’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mock me. I’ll take you out right now.”
“Enough!” Burns shouted. “I thought I worked for Davis Motorsports with a bunch of adults, not a bunch of middle schoolers. Now, let’s turn our attention to the task at hand—which is getting a car ready
for Phoenix, no matter who’s driving it.”
The men settled into their chairs and stared at Burns.
“Well, does anyone have anything to say?” Burns asked. He scanned the room for any inkling that one of the men might want to speak, conciliatory or not.
“Maybe we can find someone who can drive worth a damn now,” Dirt said.
CHAPTER 5
CAL’S PLANE BOUNCED and bumped on landing before rolling to its gate at the Charlotte airport. He glanced down at his hands, knuckles white after gripping the armrest for a nervous thirty seconds. It had been a while since terror like that had stricken him, though a bumpy landing seemed rather benign compared to having a gun pointed at his head. But at the moment, Cal considered the mundane direction in his life better suited for him now that he and his wife Kelly had a young daughter and a different lifestyle.
He spotted Kelly and Maddie as soon as he emerged from the secured terminal area. Maddie, who was just learning to talk, held up a sign: “Welcome home, Daddy!” Cal smiled and went for a group hug before he pried Maddie out of Kelly’s arms and twirled her around.
Once they arrived at their car, Cal fastened Maddie into her car seat and got into the passenger’s side. He leaned over and kissed Kelly as she cranked the engine.
Kelly cut her eyes toward him. “How many more weeks of this do we have with you being gone?”
He patted her on the leg. “The season’s almost over, honey. Two more races and then life gets back to normal.”
She let out a sigh. “I hope so. You being gone every weekend is getting old.”
***
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Cal drove downtown for a meeting with his editor at the Observer office. He shook his head as he passed the Bank of America Stadium, home to the NFL’s Carolina Panthers. Covering an NFL team meant eight short road trips per season. He’d already taken half that many trips in the past month and two more loomed on his schedule. Cal needed some assurances that this wasn’t going to be a permanent move, as rumors on the staff began to circulate that Hal Thompson needed to retire for his health. Everyone knew it would kill Thompson to quit, but it would kill him if he didn’t, according to his doctor.
But that wasn’t the only thing Cal wanted to discuss. There was the more pressing matter of the note slipped into his pocket and Ned Davis’ phone conversation that he overheard.
While Cal was new to the racing scene, he wasn’t new to the idea that conspiracies are real. Over the years, he’d earned quite a reputation for being a conspiracy theorist. From the stock market to international politics to the NBA playoffs, he ascribed to more theories than most. Though he didn’t mind the incessant teasing from his colleagues whenever a new theory emerged, Cal feared it hurt his chances of getting the green light to pursue sketchy happenings in the sports world. He’d have to handle his pitch to his editor with just the right aplomb or risk getting reduced to writing bland game stories and notebooks for the rest of the season. Like any other multi-million dollar enterprise, people who ran teams and had controlling interests didn’t always play nice or fair.
Cal entered the building and walked by a somber Lisa Samuels, one of the advertising reps. A No. 39 flag adorned the side of her cubicle and she always wore a Carson Tanner t-shirt on casual Fridays during race season.
“You all right?” Cal asked.
She shrugged. “The good always die young, right?”
“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”
“Well, it’s not fair. Tanner was a great driver and an even better human being with his whole life in front of him. He could’ve broken every record given time. It’s just so sad.”
Cal nodded. “Hang in there, okay?”
Lisa put her head down and continued working.
While there were plenty of race fans around the office, no one seemed as shaken up about Tanner’s death as Lisa—at least not as Cal walked through the building. However, the more die-hard race fans worked on the press, though most of them considered Carson Tanner too much of a pretty boy for their taste. They liked the rugged old timers, the drivers who didn’t mind bumping another racer into the wall. Tanner wasn’t one of those drivers, even though he’d banged a car or two out of the way when necessary. But it just wasn’t enough to impress the long-time fans. Ever since Thompson’s illness, the pressroom guys summoned Cal to break down all the weekend’s action that he couldn’t print or was cut from his story due to space limitations. Cal always wondered why they never seemed to read a word of his story. Their insatiable appetite for all things NASCAR made him realize why the paper spent so much money for him to fly around the country and watch drivers race circle a piece of asphalt 250 to 350 times, and write about it. Cal arrived at his desk fifteen minutes before the meeting with his editor, just so he could talk racing with the pressroom guys. He hustled downstairs where they were waiting for him.
“Quite a weekend of racin’, Cal,” Buster Farnum said. “It don’t get any better than that.”
“Yeah, unless you’re not a fan of that jerk, Cashman,” Gary Black said. “Burnin’ out his tires while Tanner lay there dyin’. What a piece of trash.”
Jody Phillips stood up. His 6-foot-4-inch frame cast a long shadow on the pressroom floor. “What’d you say about Cashman?”
Everyone stopped talking and turned toward Phillips. He glared at everyone on his crew.
Cal knew he was the only one present who could say something and not suffer repercussions later. “Settle down, Jody. We’re just talking about the race. No need to get offended.”
Jody grunted and sat back down.
“So, Cal, who’s gonna take over for Tanner?” Buster said. “I heard it’s gonna be Adelman—I love that guy.”
Cal smiled. “And in what chat room did you hear that?”
“RubbinsRacin.com.”
“I suggest you stay off that one,” Cal quipped. “It’s gonna be Beaumont.”
“Beaumont?” Gary asked. “Are you kidding me?”
“You can post that one on your website chat room, just don’t cite me as a source, okay?”
Buster nodded. “I can’t believe that. I was sure it was gonna be Adelman.”
“Nothing’s for sure, but a little birdie told me that Beaumont is at the head of Ned Davis’ short list.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Gary said.
“Gotta run, guys, but I’ll let you know something before it breaks,” Cal said as he hustled toward the door.
***
WHEN CAL SETTLED into the chair in Marc Folsom’s office, he received a directive that irked him.
“Good story on the race yesterday,” Folsom said. “But I want you focused on racing, not off-the-track stuff this week. Got it?”
Cal leaned forward in his chair. “What do you mean? There’s a ton of stuff happening that needs to be covered.”
Folsom tapped his pen on his desk and stared at the television screen mounted in the corner of his office. “Thompson is on it.”
“From his bed?”
Folsom looked at Cal, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, from his bed. You got a problem with it?”
“No, I—”
“Thompson is the most connected writer on the NASCAR beat. If anything is happening, he knows about it. And I’d rather have him working on that stuff as opposed to you.”
Cal sighed. “Well, there are two things we need to talk about.”
“Shoot.”
“First, your plans for next year with NASCAR coverage. I know you’re using Thompson now, but I’ve heard he might be gone at the end of the year.”
“You won’t be on it—don’t worry. I want to use your talents elsewhere, but this is where we are for now. What’s the second thing?”
“I’m not sure what you’re going to think about it now based on how you opened our conversation.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
“It’s because I’ve come upon some reliable information regarding the direction of Davis Motorsports’ next target.”
“No. I also have reason to believe that Carson Tanner’s death was no accident.”
Folsom looked down and propped his forehead up with his hand. He closed his eyes while he spoke. “Cal, why must you be an insufferable conspiracy theorist? His throttle was clearly stuck and he slammed into the wall. End of story. There’s nothing else to it.”
“That’s what somebody wanted you to think.”
“And you know this how?”
Cal took a deep breath and reached into his pocket and pulled out the note. “Someone slipped this into my pocket yesterday after the crash.” He handed the piece of paper to Folsom.
Folsom cracked a grin. “That crash was no accident—that’s your big tip?”
“No, there’s more. I was outside the Davis Motorsports team hauler after the race and I heard Ned Davis on the phone talking about how now that Tanner was out of the way, he could pursue Beaumont to take his place.”
“Beaumont? Of all the driver’s he’d take Beaumont?”
“You’re not listening if you think that’s the most important part of that conversation. Hello? What about ‘now that Tanner is out of the way’? Doesn’t that concern you?”
Folsom grunted and glanced back up at the television screen behind Cal. “You’ll concoct a story out of anything, won’t you?”
Cal leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t concocted anything. Just start looking at the facts.”
“The facts is, NASCAR is investigating the accident, and until they release anything contrary to what obviously happened—a stuck throttle—then there’s no need to write such nonsense. Am I clear?”
“Yeah, but I think you’re making a mistake. This is big news.”
“It’s big news if it’s true. I doubt it is. Somebody was just messing with you. Maybe another writer trying to make you look stupid.”
Cal stood up to leave. Folsom handed him the slip of paper and Cal slid it back into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone, which buzzed to let him know he’d received a direct message from his Twitter account.
Dead and Gone Page 3