Isle of Dogs (42 page)

“So if I win the race, it will look like I’m getting a police escort out of here?” Brett rather liked the idea.

“Even if you don’t win, you will,” Hammer said.

“But you will win,” Andy added.

Brett sat at a table and blew out a big sigh. He suddenly looked small and uncertain and not at all like his heavily endorsed, highly exploited self.

“Truth is, I’m not so sure,” he confessed, hanging his head in shame. “Everybody says I’m the favorite, which only puts more pressure on me, and truth is, Labonte’s taken a whole lot better advantage of the season than I have. You know, he took over the points race from Jarrett in the third race in Vegas, and that ol’ boy’s held a real strong position since. See, my problem is, I like trophies. Like ’em way too much. And that means I don’t rely on consistency like Labonte does. And if I’m honest about it, Richmond’s not my favorite track. Hell, I finished eighteenth in the Pontiac Excitement Four Hundred last spring, can you believe it?

“That really shattered my confidence, even if the general public don’t know it. I think that’s one of the reasons I had to go out and get me that big chopper. You know, the crowds go wild when I fly in and out in that thing, and it helps my confidence and maybe makes the fans think I’m the Big Guy even if the way I’m heading, I’m not gonna be big for much longer.”

Hammer was getting impatient as she glanced at her watch and Andy pulled out a chair, listening intensely to what Brett was saying.

“Look,” Andy said, “There are twenty or twenty-five cars out there and every one of them, including number eleven, has the capability of running up front.”

“Yeah, now you are right about that,” Brett said, sipping his Pepsi and looking pretty miserable. “Anybody could win. The competition’s about as tight as it can get, and that’s why my confidence just cracked when I came in eighteenth last time I was on this damn racetrack.”

“On any given race weekend,” Andy went on, “any driver can make a big move and win, and I think you’re the one to make that big move tonight. You can do it, Donny. You’re a Bud Pole winner just like Rudd, Labonte, Skinner, Wallace, and Earnhardt, Junior, are. You sat on the pole for the Daytona Five Hundred and had a starting position in the Bud Shootout, right? And don’t forget, you still lead in the Raybestos Rookie of the Year standings and you grabbed the checkered flag at The Winston in Charlotte.”

“But I came in eighteenth, man . . .” Brett obsessed. “That’s the only thing I’m thinking about as I get ready to go out there tonight, and when you start choking, that’s when you start beatin’ and bangin’ off the corners or get nudged into a spin ’cause you aren’t really focused and are misjudging which way someone’s going.”

“You’ve always been known for your instinct and judgment,” Andy reminded him. “Remember the Busch Series in ninety-nine?”

“We’ve got to go,” Hammer said as her tension mounted to a screaming pitch. “If we don’t go now, it’s going to be too late!”

“How could I forget?” Brett replied with a shake of his head. “That was one of my best.”

“Exactly,” Andy encouraged him. “And why? You had to work for every piece of the track you got, and there were wrecks and door-banging tussles going on everywhere. And what did you do? Right after an accident in Turn Four took out number forty and caused a seven-lap caution, and Hamilton spun off Turn Two and took out Burton and Fuller, you
were smart enough to get off the gas and get on the brakes, and then you shot out ahead on the back straightaway and just stayed in it.”

“Yeah,” Brett said, looking up and greatly fortified, “I sure as hell did.”

“And that happened right here,” Andy concluded, measuring his words by tapping the table with his finger. “That was right here at the Richmond racetrack.”

“I know, I know. I guess it’s my nature to dwell on poor performances,” Brett said with a grin. “And guess what? I’m just not going to do that tonight, and if you want to use my bird, you go right ahead as long as someone knows how to fly the damn thing.”

“You bet I do,” Andy said. “And when you’re out there tonight, remember what I said. Make your Big Move. You’ll know when.”

“What in the world was that all about?” Hammer asked Andy as they flew toward downtown Richmond in Brett’s glorious 430, which was painted black and emblazoned with his car number and endorsements in brilliant yellow, purple, and red. “I thought you didn’t go to races.”

“I don’t, but I watch them on TV occasionally and study strategies, whether it’s of race-car drivers or tennis players or Navy SEAL snipers,” Andy replied through his mike as he pushed ahead at a hundred and fifty knots and overflew I-95, which was a solid line of barely creeping cars for as far as he could see. “Glad we’re up here and not down there,” he added.

B
ARBIE
Fogg had so far avoided the backed-up traffic caused by the masses headed to the racetrack. It wasn’t that Barbie was wise in the ways of shortcuts and alleyways, but after she had picked up Hooter at the tollbooth, the unexpected had occurred. Barbie’s cell phone had rung, and she had been surprised and relieved to hear Reverend Justice’s voice on the line.

“Where on earth have you been?” Barbie said as Hooter flashed her nails in the passenger’s seat, admiring her little acrylic flags.

“Been busy with the prison ministry,” the reverend replied.
“And my car’s broke down, so I need you to come over and pick me up quick as you can. I’m gonna have a few brethren with me, so you need to have room for, let me see, six of us, including me.”

“Oh my, that’s a tight squeeze,” Barbie said while Hooter ripped open the velcro straps on her astronaut boots and readjusted them, admiring her stylish outfit and imagining herself in the governor’s special box at the racetrack.

Hooter wondered if that big, bad Trooper Macovich would show up and figured he would. He sure did brag a lot about how dangerous and important his job was. Everything was the
guv
this and the
guv
that when Hooter and Macovich had been drinking beer the other night, and Hooter felt a twinge of regret. It was true that Macovich was fresh and had one thing on his mind, even when he was going on and on about the governor and what it was like to work in that big mansion in Capitol Square while beating everybody in pool, but Hooter was lonely.

“I tell you, girlfriend, maybe I been too rough on him,” Hooter said with a sigh as Barbie pulled into a boarded-up gas station and turned around. “I kinda hope he’ll be there tonight. You think he’ll admirate my style?”

“I think you look fabulous,” Barbie assured her as she worried about getting to the race on time, if at all.

The reverend’s phone call was out of the blue and very peculiar, Barbie thought as she headed toward a rundown part of the city, just northwest of downtown, where the reverend had instructed her to wait across the street from the city jail, in the back parking lot of the juvenile courts building. He and his brethren would be hiding in a small wooded area and would jump in the minivan the minute she showed up, and then she was to speed away and not ask any questions.

“Maybe you should ring up that trooper and tell him we might be a little late,” Barbie suggested with growing anxiety, “and ask him to make sure they don’t give away our seats in the governor’s box.”

“What’chu mean,
late
?” Hooter exclaimed, because she had not paid much attention to whatever Barbie had been saying on the cell phone a few minutes ago. “Girlfriend, we can’t be late! Uh-uh, we’re late, you gonna totally miss seeing all
them race drivers come outta their trailers and get into their cars! You won’t get your picture took with none of ’em! This is the opportunity of a life, and we can’t be late!”

As Barbie drove faster, Hooter noticed a big, colorful helicopter hovering in the area of the Medical College.

“Why, look at that helichopper!” Hooter leaned forward to get a better look. “Now, that would hang the moon, wouldn’t it, girlfriend? To ride on a helichopper? Must be some poor person they’s rushing to the emergency room, but I ain’t never seen a med-chopper that look like that.”

“Oh my Lord,” Barbie exclaimed and almost ran off the road. “That’s Donny Brett’s colors! And look, his number eleven’s painted on the door. Oh dear Lord, he must’ve been in a wreck already!”

“But the race ain’t even started yet,” Hooter pointed out. “Maybe he had a heart attack or something. You know he must be feeling a lot of stress after comin’ in eighteenth last spring when he was here.”

 Andy and Hammer were feeling far more stress than Donny Brett was.

Despite Andy’s apparent confidence when he promised Hammer he knew exactly how to handle Smoke and the road dogs, the truth was, he had no idea what to expect, and the headset kept rearranging his ponytail wig, and pretty soon it would be too dark to wear the Ray-Bans. He held the helicopter in a rock-hard hover and turned the nose into the wind as he spotted Smoke, a fragile-looking woman with short platinum hair, and two road dogs climbing out of a black SUV parked in the lot on the other side of the fenced-in helipad. The thugs were dressed in NASCAR colors, and the smallest one was holding a small bundle wrapped in what looked like a folded black flag.

“That must be Possum,” Andy said to Hammer over the mike. “And it looks like he might have Popeye.”

Hammer did her best not to react. She knew it would be unwise to show that she had any interest in whatever was in the folded flag, because she was supposed to be Donny Brett’s brother’s girlfriend and had no reason to know who Popeye was or care.

“Stay tight,” Andy said as he set down the helicopter on the concrete surface and cut both engines’ throttles to flight idle.
“I’ll go talk to them. If something happens, just cut the throttles all the way off and start shooting through your window. It slides open.”

The road dogs and the woman were gathered at the fence, staring in awe at the glorious helicopter and looking a bit perplexed as they watched the redneck with a ponytail headed their way.

“Who the fuck are you?” Smoke asked as the little bundle moved in Possum’s arms.

“My brother sent me to pick you up,” Andy said, rewriting his script yet again.

“Your brother’s Donny Brett?” Cuda asked with wide eyes. “Whoa, man, he’s phat! I sure hope he pulls it off tonight, ’cause I know he sucked last spring, coming in eighteenth.”

“Shut up!” Smoke ordered. “We’re supposed to be picked up by the state police,” he said to Andy. “Why the shit would your brother send his chopper after us?”

Andy detected Smoke’s twitching fingers over a pocket on his bright red Winston Cup jacket, where he probably had concealed a high-caliber gun. Andy eyed what he assumed was Smoke’s trailer-park-looking girlfriend and something about her eyes gave him a creepy feeling. She seemed familiar.

“All I can tell ya,” Andy said, “is me and my girlfriend-copilot was just with Donny in his trailer, giving him a pep talk, when this big black trooper shows up in a panic. He starts telling this story about the governor’s helicopter getting a chip light and the thing’s grounded, and he’s got a pit crew he’s supposed to pick up downtown, and he don’t know what to do, but maybe Donny could help out because his helicopter’s just sitting there. I assumed you’re the Jolly Goodwrench pit crew,” Andy added, feigning sudden doubt and suspicion to buffalo them a bit.

“Yeah,” Possum shouted above the thud-thudding of the helicopter blades, and he managed to unfold the flag enough for Andy to make out part of a skull smoking a cigarette, and the word
Jolly
and part of
Goodwrench.
“Come on, let’s go!” Possum exclaimed.

“Wait a minute,” Smoke said, staring menacingly at Andy. “How the fuck do you know about Jolly Goodwrench?”

“Yeah!” Cuda agreed.

“Because it’s on your flag,” Andy replied, pointing at it and grateful Possum had been sharp enough to unfold it just in time.

“And I put something about Jolly Goodwrench on the NASCAR web,” Possum added an untruth to firm up the story.

“Right,” Andy said, sending a secret signal to Possum. “I saw it.”

Possum caught on and hid his shock. The blond guy with the ponytail wasn’t Donny Brett’s brother but Trooper Truth undercover! Trooper Truth had changed the plan! Possum had been suffering from a bad feeling that something was going to screw up at the last minute, and he was right. Otherwise, Trooper Truth wouldn’t have shown up in Donny Brett’s helicopter!

“Listen, we can’t stand here all day talking,” Andy said loudly. “We’ve got to get off this helipad before Medflight shows up to drop off a heart for transplant surgery. So either get in, or I gotta get out of here and back to the racetrack.”

“Come on,” Smoke said. He, his girlfriend, and the road dogs climbed over the fence and held on to their MAC Tools, M&M, and Excedrin baseball caps as they ran through gusting rotor wash toward the 430.

B
ARBIE
and Hooter saw the bright helicopter pop up over the tops of buildings and speed away as Barbie turned into the empty parking lot of the courts buildings. She drove to the back, and instantly six desperate-looking men, including the reverend, rushed out of a wooded area and ran like hell toward the minivan, jerking open the doors and piling inside. It did not escape Hooter’s attention that the men smelled unwashed, were unshaven, and had neither belts nor shoelaces. She knew inmates when she saw them, and froze in fear. Oh, oh, oh, what had she gotten herself into now? And wasn’t that Mexican boy the same one she’d met at the tollbooth the other night?

“Drive!” Reverend Justice shouted.

“Yeah, get the fuck outta here!” Slim Jim screamed.

“Duck down!” Trader yelled.

“Man, you’re crushing me!” Cat complained.

The men ducked down on the floor as Barbie shot out of the parking lot and noticed cop cars with flashing lights rushing toward the gloomy brick jail across the street.

“Just drive normal,” Hooter said, because somebody had to have a clear head and take control. “You be whizzing around like this and the police will stop us for sure. Then we gonna get arrested for helping convicts escape from jail.”

“What?” Barbie panicked, clutching the steering wheel in both hands. “Convicts?”

“We was unfairly arrested, Barbie,” the reverend said from the floor in back. “It’s the Lord’s will we got out and you’re helping us. And I had no choice about it ’cause these other inmates forced me to act like I was rupturing something in my belly and when the guard burst inside the cell to help, I smacked him over the head with a food tray, just like Pinn had done to him when he used to work as a prison guard.

“So I got the idea from being on
Head to Head with Pinn.
Ain’t it wondrous the way the Lord works?” Reverend Justice preached on. “If I hadn’t been on that show, all ’cause of Moses Custer and the Neighborhood Watch I started down there near the Farmers’ Market, well, I never would’ave thought to smack someone with a food tray. ’Course, if I hadn’t been so over-stended and stressed out from all the publicity I suddenly was getting, I might not have tried to pick up that old woman for purposes of releasing myself, and then I never would’ave had to smack nobody with a food tray.”

M
AYBE
it was just a superstition, but Moses Custer had always heard that if his ear itched, it meant someone was talking about him. As he rode in the governor’s motorcade, Moses’s right ear was itching something fierce beneath bandages, and he wondered if it might indicate that a lot of people out there knew he was a VIP guest in a long black limousine, and destined to sit in the governor’s box at the race. He stared out tinted glass at backed-up traffic as the governor snored and his peculiar daughter with her jet-black helmet haircut
kept staring down at her quivering cleavage while that tiny red horse stood in the woodchips and now and then stepped on Moses’s foot.

Macovich, meanwhile, was trying to weave through traffic as he talked over the radio to Andy, who had turned the helicopter’s intercom to
crew only
so the road dogs couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“To make everything worse,” Macovich said into the mike, “six inmates just broke out of jail and cop cars are everywhere, so I’m telling you, it’s a mess out here. I don’t know when we’ll get to the racetrack, but we gonna be late.”

“Look, I’ve got to go to Plan B,” Andy transmitted as the mobbed racetrack appeared a thousand feet below, in the distance.

“Wooo, seems like we should be on Plan G or H now, at least.”

“I’ll do a high recon over the racetrack and just keep circling until you can get a bunch of uniformed cops to swarm onto the helipad so Smoke will change his mind and order me to take them to Tangier Island,” Andy came back.

“But we ain’t got no undercover backups down there, man!” Macovich worried.

Andy looked down at thousands of fans waving wildly up at the helicopter and fighting to get close to the helipad.

“I wasn’t expecting this and should have,” he said, “but Brett’s fans are recognizing his bird and are going to storm us on the ground. Someone may get hurt or Smoke’s going to get away. No way I’m setting down at the racetrack.”

“Ten-four,” Macovich came back. “I mean, roger.”

T
HE
stands were filling up as Andy switched on pulsing landing lights and began to slow down. He turned the intercom back to
all
so everyone in back could hear him through the headsets.

“We’ll be landing in a few minutes,” Andy announced. “Now it’s very important you follow instructions, for reasons of safety. When we set down, just keep your seats and the ground crew will get you out.”

Smoke was staring out his window. When the helipad came
in sight, he noticed dozens of cops crowding onto it. Smoke also detected that there was something odd about the pilot’s ponytail. It seemed to him that a minute ago, the ponytail had been centered, and now it was cockeyed.

“What are all those cops doing?” Smoke said into his mike.

“Don’t know, but they’ll clear out of the way as I get closer,” Andy replied, and Hammer tensed up and wanted desperately to turn around and check on Popeye.

“Oh yeah?” Smoke countered as meanness crept into his voice. “Well, maybe something stinks about this.”

“Man! Look at all them people down there,” Cuda marveled. “And look how all of ’em are pointing up at us and pumping their fists! They must think we’re Donny Brett!”

“Bullshit,” Smoke’s voice filled Andy’s headset, and suddenly the ponytail wig was yanked off from behind and the Ray-Bans were knocked askew.

Andy remembered what Macovich had drilled into him when Andy was learning to fly:
Just fly the helicopter.
No matter what happened or how desperate the situation, Andy must simply fly the helicopter, and he held it in a steady descent as he felt the hard, cold barrel of a gun at the back of his neck and Smoke yelled obscenities at him and threatened to kill the dog.

“Calm down.” It was Hammer who spoke. “Do you want us to crash, you idiots? Now shut up back there so we can handle this huge machine because none of you knows how to fly, and that means you’re going to have to depend on us!”

“. . . Fucking cops!” Smoke was ranting and raving. “I know who you are, you motherfuckers! And I’ve got your fucking dog back here, you bitch, and if you don’t do what I say, I’m gonna pump her full of rat poison!”

Hammer assumed and sincerely hoped Smoke was bluffing, but Possum saw the syringe Smoke had just pulled out of a pocket. Possum held Popeye and could feel her shaking through the flag as Unique sat very still, as if in a trance, her eyes filled with an eerie light.

“Don’t do nothing like that right now,” Possum told Smoke. “You stick the dog and she’s gonna start having cavulshuns and jumping everywhere, and if she dead, you ain’t got nothing to threaten them with no more.”

Smoke fell silent for a moment, and decided Possum was probably right, as Hammer’s heart was seized by fear, because she realized Smoke might really have a syringe full of rat poison back there. The bastard. If they ever got back on the ground alive, she might just kill Smoke even if it was a bad shooting and she ended up professionally ruined or charged with manslaughter.

Unique slid a box cutter out of a pocket, her surreal stare fixed on the back of the blond cop’s neck. The Nazi had directed that she would find her Purpose, and she had. She rearranged her molecules and then arranged them back to normal as she realized that the cop she had been stalking, who had turned out to be Andy Brazil, had already seen her when he picked them up in the helicopter. So there was no point in being invisible, and he wasn’t going to recognize her, anyway. Her groin throbbed as she anticipated cutting his throat from ear to ear. Then the copilot would take over, and after they landed, Unique would cut her throat, too, and spend some alone time with the body.