Once Around the Track

Laraine, who had been hovering in the background, coffee pot in hand, giggled. “P.O.S. means piece of shit,” she announced. “That was the problem with his last team, wasn’t it, hon? They had an underfunded p.o.s. car, and they wanted him to stand on it, and ’course he wouldn’t. Be crazy to’ve.”

Suzie blinked. Apparently, when one comes to north Georgia, one should bring along an interpreter. Well, whatever all that meant, it wasn’t her concern. Her mission was simply to arrange a meeting between the investors and their chosen driver. The rest would be someone else’s problem.

Badger looked at his watch again, and she found herself faintly annoyed that the prospect of a NASCAR job-not to mention her own elegant self-did not seem sufficient to hold his interest. “I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “Am I keeping you from something?”

He looked uncomfortable. “No, I’m real interested in what you have to say, ma’am. It’s just that the body shop closes at five, and I need to get there before Jesse goes home.”

“Body shop? You mean, like car repair?”

He nodded unhappily. “Yeah. Only it’s not a car I’m taking in. It’s a turtle.”

Suzie frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m not very familiar with racing terms. What is a turtle?”

Badger gave this question serious consideration. “Well,” he said at last, “it’s sorta like a lizard but with a hard shell.”

“An actual turtle?”

“Uh-huh. This one is about so big.” He positioned his hands to indicate something the size of a garbage can lid.

“Do you mean that you are taking a live turtle to a car repair shop?” She was sidetracked in spite of herself.

“Have to,” said Badger as solemnly as ever. “I found it in the lake just as I was putting in to come here. Motorboat propeller had tore up his shell pretty bad, so I hauled him in and put him in the truck. I figured me and Jesse could fix him.”

Suzie stared. “How?”

“Fiberglass. You know how to apply fiberglass for repair work? No? Well, it comes in a close-woven mat, and you just mix it with resin and paint it onto the split part of the shell, smooth it down with a roller, maybe sand it down after it dries, and it’ll just knit that shell right back up into one piece. Only take a couple hours, I reckon.”

She was gazing into those drowned eyes again in bewildered fascination. “So you are going to spend the evening saving the life of an injured turtle?”

“Uh-huh.” He glanced away. “Laraine, do you have any lettuce you were going to throw away? Figure he might get hungry while we’re waiting for the stuff to harden.”

Like one who is hypnotized yet still awake, Suzie saw her hand place itself on the young man’s arm, and she heard herself say, “Do you need any help? I could come with you. Maybe bring you some dinner while you’re working?”

“Well, thank you,” said Badger. “But I expect you ought to be getting back to Atlanta before it starts getting dark. The roads aren’t too well marked up here. But thank you for coming. And you can tell those folks I’d be glad to talk to them about driving.”

He stopped just long enough to accept a plateful of chopped lettuce from Laraine; then he was gone. Suzie stared for a few moments at the door to the cafe, and then, still dazed, she shook a packet of Sweet & Low into her empty coffee cup and tried to drink it.

From behind the counter Laraine was watching her with a pitying smile.

Finally, Suzie murmured, “But he’s so sweet. From what you said, I thought he’d be some kind of leering, sex- crazed playboy.”

Laraine shook her head sadly. “Oh, no, hon. You got the wrong end of the stick. Badger ain’t the motorboat. He’s the turtle.”

CHAPTER II

Drive My Car

ENGINE NOISE

Your Online Source for NASCAR News & Views

Wonder Women? Engine Noise is hearing that a new team is being formed in NASCAR-with a twist. The crew chief and pit crew will all be female. An all-woman group of investors, spearheaded by chemical heiress Christine Berenson, is supposed to be putting together this Ladies’ Team for NASCAR Cup racing with the intention of running a full season beginning next year. The wheel man will be a guy, though, because they need a veteran Cup driver to add some experience to this novice team. Who will they choose as their token man? Berenson isn’t ready to announce yet, and since EN ’s prognostication skills are rusty, we might miss the mark, so to ward off all your questions, we say: “Don’t badger us for an answer!”

#30

Christine Berenson tapped her computer screen with one perfectly manicured nail. “That last bit is in code somehow, isn’t it?” she asked her visitor.

The big man leaned across the desk to read the Engine Noise article with its vastly premature, yet accurate, assessment of the new NASCAR team. Then he settled back in the leather visitor’s chair with an enigmatic smile. “Of course, it is. In that last sentence the writer managed to work in the names of Rusty Wallace, Mark Martin, and Ward Burton-all veteran drivers who might conceivably be lured back into Cup racing if the right deal came along. Oh, and Badger Jenkins, of course. So they hedged their bets a little on who the driver would be, but they did come up with the right answer. They usually do.”

She frowned. “How do they find out these things?”

Her visitor shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by this security leak. In the world of motorsports, the man was a cross between a rock star and the secretary of state. He knew everything and everyone, and in another sphere of influence, he had been an acquaintance of Christine Berenson for twenty years. They had served on several advisory boards together and had exchanged pleasantries at the usual charity events that pass for a social life among the moneyed classes. The man’s current role was that of a friendly expert, giving her advice out of the goodness of his heart, because of their longstanding association. She thought of him as the Big Wheel.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Christine,” he said. “Engine Noise just reports rumors, which means that word about your team has already leaked out from somewhere. At least this way you know that the news is in the wind. And it isn’t such a worrying disclosure, after all, is it? You were planning to announce it soon anyhow.”

“But how did they know?”

He shrugged. “People call in tips to the Web site, just for the hell of it, I guess. The people at Engine Noise talk to hauler drivers, waitresses, shop people. You’ve been looking for a place around Mooresville to locate your operation, aren’t you? Maybe your real-estate agent blabbed. Or someone could have overheard your dinner conversation in a restaurant. But it will be common knowledge soon enough, once your NASCAR application is formally approved, so why fret about it?”

Christine sighed. “NASCAR application. You have to apply to join this sport, as if it were a country club.”

“It is, in a way. NASCAR is the only privately owned sport in the world. You should be fine, though. They are chiefly interested in whether you intend to play by the rules and whether you can afford to compete. I don’t think there’s any question of that.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Christine. “But it is a rather unsettling feeling to know that one is being