7 7Harlan powered the big blue hauler out of the Huron speedway as soon as the Super Stock was tied down and the trailer buttoned up. Team Blu would not race again until Saturday night in Billings, Montana, with a promo stop in Gillette, Wyoming, on the way, but Harlan liked to get gone.
They had been under way only a few minutes when there was a light tap on Trace’s cabin door. He looked up with surprise. “It’s open.”
Jimmy poked in his head.
“Harlan take off without you?” Trace asked. Jimmy usually rode up front with his dad; there was no inner door between the hauler and the tractor’s cab.
“Yeah. He hates hanging around after a race.”
“No kidding,” Trace said.
“Says that after you win, only bad things can happen if you stick around—but I think he was scared of the cowboys,” Jimmy said with a yuk. He swayed in the doorway as the truck turned.
“Want to shoot some trolls?” Trace said, nodding toward the Xbox.
“Better not,” Jimmy said. “You’re supposed to be doing your homework.”
“I’ll get it done. Take a load off,” Trace said, nodding toward the couch where Tasha had sat. “I can never do much of anything right after a race.”
The Speed Channel was on, and they watched a show where drag strip fans guessed the quarter-mile pass times. Jimmy cleaned up; he was always within a couple tenths of a second. During a commercial break for new cars, Trace turned suddenly to Jimmy. “Hey—what’d you do with my car?”
“I met this girl, a single mom, at the concession shack,” Jimmy said.
“And?” Trace said.
“I gave it to her.”
They watched the next two cars do their burnouts—then power down the straight track. “Seriously, what did you do with the car?” Trace asked.
“I told you—I gave it to her,” Jimmy said. “Handed her the keys and the paperwork. ‘It’s yours,’ I said.”
“What’d she say?”
“Is that all?” Trace asked.
“Well, not exactly,” Jimmy said, and blushed.
Below, Harlan shifted gears.
“I figured she needed it more than us,” Jimmy said.
Trace looked up, as if he could see or smell something. “We’re heading south,” he said. “I can feel it.”
“Could be,” Jimmy said.
“Aren’t we going to Montana?” Trace asked.
“Yup,” Jimmy said. “Pops is dropping down to I-90 and then west.”
They were silent for a while. “You could spin me around blindfolded and I would always know my directions,” Trace said, his eyes on the next pair of drag racers.
“That’s another skill I don’t have,” Jimmy said.
“You got skills,” Trace said.
Jimmy shrugged. When he was away from his father, he was way more serious—a different guy altogether.
“Want some food?” Trace said, gesturing to the fridge.
“No thanks. Got plenty of comp food for myself, Pops, and Smoky from the concession girl.”
“I would hope so,” Trace said. “What else did she give you?”
Jimmy’s narrow shoulders bounced with silent laughter.
The truck’s engine pulled one more time, then settled back into high gear and lower rpm, as if the highway was clear ahead.
“The car ran great tonight,” Jimmy said.
They were silent for a while.
“How’d you meet Smoky?” Trace asked.
“Pops knew him. He was a driver out of Corbin, Kentucky,” Jimmy said. “In the sixties, before NASCAR came down on everybody with rules and template bodies, he raced with the big boys, like Jimmie Johnson—until he crashed.”
“What happened?”
“He was racing asphalt, a long-distance thing at Darlington or someplace like that. One of those races where the more fuel you can carry, the better. Drivers would come up with tricks to hide extra fuel in their cars—even one gallon could make the difference between winning and losing. Some guys welded up little minitanks here and there; they say Smoky might have had race fuel inside the pipes of his roll cage. All the tubing full of fuel. He never said that, but I guess when he crashed, his car went off like a bomb.”
Trace sucked in a breath.
“He was in the hospital so long, people forgot about him,” Jimmy said. “People thought he was dead, which was all right with Smoky. It allowed him to disappear, until Pops ran across him working in the back room of a filling station as a mechanic. People kept talking about this guy who could fix anything—especially Chevy motors. He could make ’em sit up and bark, they said. Pops was starting to race himself then. Smoky built him a motor, and they just hit it off.”
“How old is he?” Trace asked. It was good to get Jimmy talking; he knew stuff. He was way smarter than he acted.
“Sixty at least. Maybe close to seventy.”
“I thought he was, like, fifty,” Trace said.
“You should see pictures of Smoky before he got burned. Brown, curly hair. Big chin and nose. He could have been in the movies,” Jimmy said. “He says he’ll never get wrinkles because his skin’s burned tight.”
“Does he have family?” Trace asked.
“Nope,” Jimmy said. “We’re it. He’s sort of like a granddaddy to me.”
Trace was silent.
“He’s taken a real shine to you,” Jimmy said. “Says, as a driver, you remind him of himself back when he was young and bulletproof.”
“Are you kidding?” Trace said, turning to Jimmy. “He won’t tell me anything. Keeps all his stuff locked up. I’ve never been inside his trailer.”
“It’s pretty full in there,” Jimmy said quickly. “He’s got all this electronic stuff. Hardly room to turn around.”
“What kind of electronic stuff?”
“Beats me,” Jimmy said, his eyes flickering sideways. “I’m just the tire and setup guy.”
“All those antennas and stuff. It’s like he could run a radio station,” Trace pressed.
Jimmy’s phone beeped. He gave it a quick look. “I better go or Pops will think I’m bothering you,” he said to Trace.
“You don’t bother me,” Trace said.
Jimmy grinned shyly. At the door he paused, then said suddenly, “You want to know something funny?”
Trace waited.
“I’m a crew guy on a race team and I don’t even have a driver’s license.”
“You get in trouble and lose it?”
“Nope. Never got one. Never took the test.”
“Why?” Trace said.
Jimmy shrugged. “I was afraid. Still am.”
“Of the test, or what?”
“Sort of.”
“You can read, right? I’ve seen you.”
“Yeah. But slow. Sort of like my typing.”
“At the testing place I think they have people to help you with that part,” Trace said.
“It’s not the reading part. I just freeze up in general. I can’t do tests.”
“You could pass both parts easy,” Trace said. “It’s not like you can’t drive.”
“That’s what Pops tells me. I keep telling him I’m gonna do it, but then at the last minute I get the shakes and I chicken out. I’m twenty-two years old and don’t have a driver’s license—ain’t that sad?” he said with a laugh. He turned to leave.
“What are you going to do down in the trailer?” Trace asked.
“There’s always stuff to do. Clean up. Sweep. Or I’ll just sit by the car,” Jimmy said.
“Naw. Pops wouldn’t like it.”
The following two days, Trace chipped away at his MOHS assignments. They didn’t take long once he set to work; it was starting that he hated.
He got permission to write a research paper on the concept of the Volkswagen. His adviser, Sheila, thought it was the “perfect” topic for Trace, being that he was a car guy—though she asked him to make it more than just research. “Make it an argument,” she e-mailed.
“Huh?” Trace typed back. Team Blu was parked at a Wi-Fi rest stop near Spearfish, South Dakota.
“Not an argument argument, where people are shouting at each other, but a logical argument. As in making a case for one side or the other,” she replied.
Teachers—they were never satisfied with the original idea.
“What sides do you mean?” Trace typed back.
“Make one up. Take a position for or against. For example, that ‘people’s car’ issue that you mentioned—it’s a good thing or a bad thing, depending on your personal interest.”
“It’s a good thing,” Trace wrote.
“There you go,” she replied. “And don’t paste big chunks of stuff off the Internet. Do most of your research there if you have to, but the writing has to be your own. If you borrow something and use it, be sure to cite where it came from.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Trace muttered.
“And one more thing,” she wrote. “One of your sources has to be an actual book or magazine article that you found in an actual library.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Trace typed. “I’m on the road all the time.”
“Where are you now and where you headed?”
“Spearfish, SD–Billings, MT,” he wrote. When she didn’t reply right away, he Googled “Hitler and Volkswagen.” A ton of stuff came up instantly: the crazy Carhartt lady had been right. Trace clicked on one article about Hitler meeting with Ferdinand Porsche in 1933 to talk about a “people’s car.” Porsche designed the small car, then started his own company after World War II.
Trace’s e-mail icon flashed. It was his teacher, sending the addresses of the public libraries in Gillette, Buffalo, and Sheridan, Wyoming, along with Hardin and Billings, Montana.
“Here you go. Any one will do! j Sheila.”
“Cute,” Trace muttered. “No need. Just found everything I need online,” he typed back.
“Online research is overrated. In your citation put the name of the librarian you talked with—in person—and the phone number of the library.”
“Okay!”
After Sheila went away, Trace scanned through online articles, looking for facts and key quotes that he could use, and trying to avoid wacko sources. One site had “proof” that Hitler was still alive and had designed the Hummer.
In the middle of this, the Freightliner rumbled alive. Trace grabbed his cell phone.
“Can we hang here another half hour or so?” he said to Harlan. “I’m doing my homework online and I need the wireless.”
“How’d people do homework before the Internet?” Harlan grumbled.
That night, Team Blu stopped at the Wal-Mart parking lot in Gillette, Wyoming. As usual, Smoky tucked his little motor home tight alongside the Freightliner. They all ate together at a Denny’s; as usual, Smoky wore his wraparound sunglasses and Bardahl cap. Trace was used to the glances that waitresses and people nearby sneaked at Smoky, but when they gawked, Trace made it a point to stare back at them.
“It’s all right. It don’t bother me,” Smoky said to Trace.
“It does me,” Trace said.
Smoky’s narrow, scarred mouth turned upward in a part of a smile.
After supper Harlan and Smoky headed off to a casino. Jimmy came up to the cabin and played Xbox while Trace worked on his paper.
“I wish I could type,” Jimmy said after a while. “I just hunt and peck like a damn chicken.”
“They’ve got sites online, with timers to check your speed,” Trace said.
“Timers?” Jimmy looked over at Trace. “Whoa.”
“You don’t have to use them,” Trace said. “It’s not a test—they’re just for practice.”
Jimmy returned to giving his thumbs a serious workout.
Trace pushed ahead on his paper, getting most of the writing done, and even a start on the bibliography page. After an hour, he powered down and grabbed an Xbox controller. They played until three a.m., when Harlan and Smoky came back laughing and bumping around and cheerful.
“Pops must have won ten bucks,” Jimmy said. His phone beeped. “I gotta go,” he said quickly.
The next morning Trace’s cell phone rang just after ten a.m.
“Two-hour warning,” Harlan said. He, too, sounded groggy. “We got our mall thing at noon. And remember—Laura wants you suited up.”
“Got it,” Trace mumbled. He turned over in bed.
“We don’t want any more trouble from headquarters,” Harlan said.
Trace closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep—waking up when the engine rumbled alive and the air brakes hissed. He took a quick shower, pounded a small carton of orange juice, then got dressed. It felt weird putting on his racing suit when there was no race. Embarrassing, actually. Like the suit was not a suit, but a costume, and he was an actor.
Trace grabbed his cell phone. “What?”
“Whooo-ee! Look at this,” Harlan said as he braked the big rig.
Trace stepped to his porthole window and peered out. A mall was a mall, and a parking lot a parking lot—but in the center of this one were blue flag banners stretching in a giant half circle, with a Team Blu billboard erected as a backdrop. A bright blue refrigerated truck, medium-size, sat waiting.
“I guess we’re in the right spot,” Trace said.
“Show-and-tell time,” Harlan said. He eased the Freightliner into the lot and slowly up to the billboard and the Blu beverage truck.
Trace headed down into the trailer, where Jimmy was unhooking the Super Stock’s tie-downs. When the car was cable-ready, Jimmy opened the service door. There was a sudden commotion outside—girls’ giggling voices—and Jimmy jumped back into the trailer and slammed the narrow door behind him. “There are people out there!”
“Yes,” Trace said. “This is a mall.”
“No, I mean, girls.”
“Girls are good.”
Jimmy’s phone beeped. “Okay, okay!” he said, no doubt to Harlan. Jimmy took a breath, and headed back outside.
A minute later there was rattling at the rear of the hauler. The electric motor hummed, and the tall door, like the ramp of a castle lowering, let a flood of sunlight into the trailer. Trace shielded his eyes. As his vision focused, faces came into view—a couple dozen young girls, middle-schoolers, began to shriek.
“Trace! Trace!” they called.
“Hey,” Trace said.
“Over here,” Harlan called to Trace.
There was a table set up next to a kids’ swimming pool (blue of course) filled with ice and Blu energy drinks. Trace headed down the ramp, and the giggling girls crowded around.
“Here you go! Free stuff, kids!” the beverage truck guy called. He started tossing bottles of Blu. Some of the girls, and some teenage boys who had been hanging out at the perimeter, turned to catch theirs, but at least half of the girls stuck tight to Trace as he made his way to an autograph table. It was ready with a chair, pens, a stack of bright blue drivers’ cards, and Team Blu T-shirts.
“Can we have a picture?” one mom asked. Her daughter, cute and short, giggled.
“Sure,” Harlan said. “Step right up, ladies.”
Trace kept his sunglasses on, and the girl leaned in close and put her arm tight around him. The camera flashed—why, Trace was not sure, as it was bright sunlight.
“Thanks!” the girl said—then rushed off shrieking.
“Next,” Harlan called.
Trace signed cards and T-shirts as fast as he could. The line behind grew rather than shrank. He tried to say something, at least, to each kid. “Where’d you hear about Team Blu?” he asked one mom-and-daughter combination.
“You’re on TV,” the mom said. She was a big, weathered blonde—a biker type with tattoos.
“We are?” Harlan said. He was right behind Trace.
“Yeah!” the daughter said. “The Blu ads are really cool!”
“But your hair is shorter in them,” the mom said, smiling at Trace. “I like it longer.”
“Could you sign my arm?” the daughter asked.
“No body parts,” Harlan said.
“I wish this was Sturgis,” the mom said. “You could sign my—”
“Next!” Harlan said.
Off to the side, Jimmy and Smoky (through a crack in his window) kept an eye on the Super Stock—which drew its own crowd. A bunch of men, clearly car guys, leaned over the unbuttoned engine compartment, or into the cockpit, or else knelt to look underneath the Super Stock. Jimmy, in his company T-shirt, stood nearby; most of them, Jimmy included, held a plastic bottle of Blu.
“Jimmy needs to get his license,” Trace said to Harlan as he signed the next card.
“He told you that?”
“Yup,” Trace said. “Hey, thanks for coming today!”
“That boy ain’t right,” Harlan said softly. “Something missing inside him. I don’t know what it is, either.”
“No body parts!” Harlan said. “Maybe it was his mother. She was wild. Died when he was only ten years old.”
After a couple more young girls, the next one to step up to Trace’s table was a brown-eyed cutie, dark-haired and about thirteen. “Hi there,” Trace said.
She blushed, which made her even prettier.
“You’re going to be really beautiful,” Trace said to the girl as he scribbled his name.
“She already is!” her mother said from right behind the girl; she grabbed her daughter’s elbow and marched her away from Trace.
“Mother!” the girl screeched, and they walked off jawing at each other.
“Nice move, kid,” Harlan said as Trace signed the next T-shirt.
“Sorry. It just slipped out. Hey—thanks for coming today!” Trace said. He signed the next T-shirt.
Harlan said, “Car crash. That’s how she died.”
After the promo event, they saddled up and drove out to Gillette’s Thunder Speedway just to look around.
“If you go off the track, you’re certainly not going to hit any trees,” Harlan said as he stepped out. He lit a cigarette. Beyond the empty speedway was open butte country; a power line’s skinny towers shrank away, each one smaller, until the drooping lines disappeared in the plains. A couple of buzzards wheeled slow circles high overhead.
“Hey, the World of Outlaws sprint cars stop here,” Jimmy said.
“Man, I’ll bet they pack in the cowboys,” Trace said, with a glance at Jimmy.
“We should race here, Pops!” Jimmy said.
“Nooooo way!” Harlan said, and faked a giant shiver.
“What is it about cowboys?” Jimmy asked.
“Not sure,” Harlan said, taking a deep drag. “You’re afraid of clowns, I’m afraid of cowboys. Maybe it’s the hats.”
After Gillette, Harlan pointed them straight west, toward the front range of the Bighorn Mountains. Trace rode up in the cab to get a better look at the rising landscape.
“You ain’t ever seen mountains before?” Harlan asked Trace.
“Sure. I’ve been out West a couple of times with my old man, hunting.”
“Hunting what?”
“Elk.”
“Ever get one?”
“No.”
“That’s good,” Harlan said.
“Good?” Trace said.
“Those big wide horns, and the way they stand around in the water eating lily pads—it would be like shooting a duck on a pond,” Harlan said.
“That would be a moose you’re talking about,” Trace said.
Jimmy, stretched out behind in the sleeper, snickered.
“Elk, moose,” Harlan said.
“They’re sort of similar. They both have antlers—not horns,” Trace said.
“Antlers, horns,” Harlan said, and shrugged.
“There’s a difference,” Trace said. “Antlers fall off every year, horns don’t.”
“If you know that kind of stuff, you’ve had plenty enough school,” Harlan said.
“Which reminds me: we have to stop at the public library in Sheridan,” Trace said.
“What?” Harlan replied, turning to Trace.
“Keep it on the road, Pops,” Jimmy said.
Trace explained it in general terms. “It’s like an assignment,” he finished.
“Where in Sheridan is this library?” Harlan said.
“Right downtown, I think.”
“Downtown? Where we gonna park this rig?” Jimmy asked.
Harlan squinted ahead toward the mountains. “I can park this baby between the coffee and the cream. It’s libraries that scare me.”
“And cowboys,” Jimmy said.
After Buffalo, Wyoming, the Freightliner diesel and the Allison transmission buckled down through the rock and roll of U.S. 90. The land pitched upward, and Trace leaned forward in the cab to get a better view.
“You should see the Blue Ridge Mountains,” Harlan said. “Not as tall and sharp, but prettier in my mind.” He stared at the rising hills ahead. “This country makes me homesick.”
The public library was near the intersection with Main Street. Harlan docked the big blue hauler right out front and put the flashers on. Like most truckers, he let the diesel idle.
“Coming in?” Trace asked.
“No way,” Harlan said.
“Come on—it won’t hurt you.”
“I’ll go,” Jimmy said, surprising both Harlan and Trace.
“See?” Trace said. “Jimmy’s not afraid.”
“Okay,” Harlan said. He looked in the mirror, adjusted his red bandanna, then followed Trace and Jimmy.
The library’s reference desk was staffed by an outdoorsy-looking middle-aged woman with a reddish ponytail streaked with gray hair.
“Can I help you?” she said. Her eyes went from Trace and Jimmy to Harlan, who still wore his sunglasses.
Trace explained his assignment, which made the woman smile. Her name tag read JUDY.
“Well, I like your online teacher for sure,” she said. It didn’t take her long to show Trace the computerized catalog. “We might not have any books for you here, but certainly we can find some articles on microfiche.”
“I’ll look for books first,” Trace said.
She left him alone, and Trace clicked through the screens. Sometime later, he looked around; the librarian was showing Harlan the magazine and newspaper section. Then she pointed to the blue rig outside the windows. Harlan nodded. They stood there talking. They were still talking several minutes later, when Trace headed across the library toward them.
“I’ve never met a real crew chief,” the woman said.
“I’ll bet not,” Harlan said softly.
“You don’t have to whisper,” the librarian said to Harlan.
“I don’t?” Harlan whispered.
Trace paused and pretended to look at a book on the shelf; he hated to ruin the magic.
“When’s the last time you’ve been in a library?” she asked Harlan.
“Been a while,” Harlan said, his voice cracking just above a whisper.
“Some men are afraid of librarians,” the woman said. “I don’t know why.”
“I never met a librarian like you,” Harlan said, his big neck starting to color.
The woman blushed, too.
Trace cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said to her. “Could I get some help with the microfiche?”
An hour later, as they pulled away from the library, Harlan gave a toot from the air horn. The librarian stood on the front steps and gave a wave.
“Who-ee!” Harlan said. “I wished I lived in Sheridan.”
“No you don’t,” Trace and Jimmy said at the same time.
“Or within striking distance, anyway,” Harlan said, glancing in the side mirror.
“I’ve got her name and phone number,” Trace said.
“Are you serious?” Harlan asked.
“Part of my assignment. Had to prove that I stopped,” Trace said.
“I’ll have to get that phone number from you sometime,” Harlan said, faking a yawn.
“What’s it worth to you?” Trace said. He flashed Judy’s business card in front of Harlan’s sunglasses.
Harlan snatched at it. “Give me that!”
“No way,” Trace said.
“Keep it on the road, Pops!” Jimmy said.
The Billings Motorsports Park speedway lay several miles north of the city, toward Roundup. “It’s fast and it’s dirt!” was the BMP motto, and, as speedways went, it was better than many. To the north were buttes and open plains, but close in, early-bird fans had already spread out their blankets and stadium seats here and there on the sturdy aluminum bleachers. To the side, the pits were alive with race teams setting up. Harlan joined the lineup of haulers at the pit gate, and slowly crept ahead with the Team Blu rig. He kept looking in his side mirror.
“What?” Jimmy asked.
“Take a look behind,” Harlan said.
Only a few haulers back was the open trailer with the orange No. 77x of Jason Nelson.
“He’s everywhere,” Trace muttered.
“I thought that kid was from Nebraska,” Harlan said.
“He is,” Trace said.
“What’s he doing way up here?”
“Points?” Jimmy said, craning his neck to look.
“Billings is a long haul from Nebraska,” Harlan said.
Trace was silent. When they finally reached the pit shack, the team got out and stepped up to the counter for the computer draw. Trace touched the mouse: number 97.
“Could be worse,” said the cheerful girl at the pit shack computer.
“Yeah—like 100,” said another girl. The two of them laughed.
“Thanks a lot,” Harlan muttered as he paid for four pit passes.
“Four?” the first girl asked, looking behind as she laid out wristbands.
“That guy in the little motor home—he’s with us, too,” Harlan said.
“Two vehicles will cost extra,” the girl said.
“No problem,” Harlan said.
“Couldn’t do without your motor guy, eh?” said someone behind in line. It was Jason Nelson’s father.
Harlan gave him a long stare, but said nothing.
Beside his father, Jason lifted his chin at Trace. “Hey, man.”
Trace nodded back.
“Swap motors tonight?” Jason’s father asked Team Blu. “Just for the hell of it?”
Harlan spit to the side. “Ignore those farmers,” he muttered.
“Here you boys go,” the pit shack girls said.
Trace, Jimmy, and Harlan held out their arms; the girls looped their wrists with colored bands and sealed them.
“What about his?” the younger girl said, glancing toward Smoky’s motor home. She held the fourth wristband.
“He’s kind of . . . handicapped,” Harlan said. “He’ll drive up and put his arm out the window. Could you do his wristband?”
“Sure,” the girl said.
Harlan pulled the Freightliner up far enough to let Smoky stop his mini–motor home by the shack. Then he, Jimmy, and Trace hung out Harlan’s window to watch. As the shack girl came forward with Smoky’s wristband, Smoky held out his arm. The pit shack girl flinched—nearly tripped—at the sight of his claw-fingered hand.
“Yes!” Jimmy said, and pumped his fist.
“We are sick, sick puppies,” Harlan said as he geared the hauler forward.
Smoky followed close behind, like a little dog following a big dog, and parked alongside the big hauler. Soon the rear door came up, and Jimmy and Harlan rolled out the Super Stock. The early appearance of the Blu car surprised Trace.
“Are we ready to race?” he asked Smoky.
“We’re always ready to race,” Smoky rasped.
Trace glanced up toward the roof of Smoky’s motor home. The little satellite dish was not erect.
Trace started last in the third heat. The track was hot, black, and dry. “I swear it’s got coal in it,” Jimmy had said earlier, holding up a handful of dark dirt for Harlan’s inspection. But Trace got good bite out of the corners, and he finished third of eight cars.
“Looking good,” Harlan called as Trace rumbled up to the hauler. From habit, Trace braked before the loading ramps and killed the engine. “Setup is on the money,” he said, tossing his helmet to Harlan, “but the top end felt doggy.”
“Smoky says we’re good,” Harlan said. “Fresh rubber is all we need.”
Trace glanced inside the trailer at Smoky, who looked off toward the track.
In the feature, Trace started in the fifth row, outside—about the middle of the pack. Jason Nelson sat third row inside. Trace worked his butt off, high and low, to move up several slots, but some of the local cars were not set up right, resulting in spinouts and yellow flag after yellow flag. It was a race with no rhythm or flow.
On the fourth restart, single file, Trace powered up in sixth place, with Jason Nelson in third. Due to wrecks and mechanical problems, the field of Super Stocks was significantly down—Trace could count only a dozen cars. In any race there was always a moment, a window of opportunity. With ten laps remaining and the cars starting to string out, he found a high line and got ready to take names and kick butts. He mashed the pedal to the floor, but something was missing. He couldn’t pull by anyone, least of all Jason Nelson. There was just enough motor to get him into third place, where he hung on as the laps counted down. Nelson caught a break on the last yellow flag; the car in front of him spun out, which put Nelson in second place for the restart. Yellow flags closed up the field, and Nelson managed to get his nose inside yellow No. 27, a local car, on the green flag. The two of them banged away at each other for the final laps, with Nelson winning by a car length. The end of the race was a crowd-pleaser, with Trace finishing a close third.
Coming off the scales, he paused alongside Nelson and gunned the engine. Nelson nodded back—and grinned like a fool. Trace spun up dust and headed to the pits.
Jimmy was waiting by the hauler with the cable; Smoky was nowhere to be seen.
“Good going!” Harlan said as Trace pulled himself from the cockpit. “Third place every night would win a season’s points chase.”
Trace wiped sweat from his forehead. “If I had the motor we had in Huron, we’d have a checkered flag.”
“I’ll have Smoky look at it,” Harlan said.
“I told you after the heat race that it was doggy,” Trace said, and kicked dirt.
“Don’t get your shorts in a wad,” Harlan said. “I’m happy with third.”
“I’m not,” Trace said.
“That’s what I like to hear!” Harlan said.
“Next time you’ll have all the motor you need,” Smoky said to Trace. His gravelly voice came through the screened window of his motor home. “If we win every night, people will think we’re cheating.”
Harlan and Jimmy laughed like that was the funniest thing in the world.