sidewayz glory (5 page)

“You're calling me a loser?” Ian spit. “Look who you're sitting with.”

“Crashing isn't losing,” Mariel shot back. “Besides, I seem to recall that he handled you pretty easily, both in a car and with his fists.”

Ian's face began to flush. “You ever notice how few races this guy actually finishes?” he said contemptuously.

“That's funny,” Mariel replied. “Every time he races against
you
he not only finishes, but wins.”

By now Tito, Megs, and the others had arrived. A couple of guys heard what Mariel said and chuckled.

Ian's face was bright red. “That's bull. The first time he didn't even drift. And the second time he frickin' tried to run me into a solid rock wall.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Mariel said with a dramatic sigh and a wave of her hand, as if she'd heard it all before. “Let me ask you something, Ian. Have you ever actually won a drift battle? Because I can't remember one.”

“You know, Chris isn't going to be real happy when I tell him you bought gook-a-look here a three-course lunch,” Ian shot back.

Kennin placed his hands flat on the table and tried to launch himself up, but the long stiff cast on his left leg hit the edge. He almost lost his balance and had to grab the table to steady himself.

Ian laughed. “What are you tryin' to do, Chinaboy? Kung fu with a cast? Hey, maybe they call it cast fu!”

If Ian thought he was going to get some laughs, he was wrong. The crowd around him was silent.

“Take that back,” Kennin warned him.

“Or what?” Ian said.

Instead of answering, Kennin reached for his crutches, sliding one under each arm. By now the cafeteria had gone dead silent.

“Kennin, don't,” Mariel said.

“You gotta be kidding,” Ian sputtered nervously, glancing at the guys around him. “You think I'm gonna fight a guy with a cast and crutches? I'd look like an idiot.”

“I have news for you,” Kennin said, planting the crutches on the floor and inching toward him. “You already look like an idiot. I'm tired of telling you to cut that racist crap. You take it back right now, or else.”

Ian twisted his head from side to side. “You hear that?” he asked the guys around them. “He's calling me out. I'm not starting this, he is.”

No one answered.

“Kennin, stop,” Mariel said.

But Kennin didn't stop.

“You don't stand a frickin' chance,” Ian said.

“He's right, Kennin,” Tito said.

But Kennin still didn't stop.

“Come on, guys,” Ian practically pleaded. “Someone call this nutcase off before he gets hurt.”

No one called Kennin off.

“Okay, Chinaboy, you asked for it.” As Ian started to lift his fists, Kennin flipped one of the crutches around and shoved the wide end into Ian's stomach like a battering ram.

“Oof!” Ian let out a grunt and doubled over.

Kennin was raising the crutch over his head with every intention of bringing it down hard on Ian's back when Megs grabbed it.

“Don't, Kennin,” he said. “You'll get expelled.”

At that moment Kennin didn't care, but Megs held the crutch tight and wouldn't let go. Ian was still doubled over, gasping for breath. He looked like he'd had the wind knocked out of him.

“What's going on here?” It was Mr. Winchester, Kennin's geometry teacher.

“Nothing,” Tito quickly said.

Mr. Winchester, who had the world's worst comb-over and some of the bushiest gray eyebrows ever, raised one of those eyebrows dubiously. “Tito, it's obvious something is going on. Ian's doubled over, and it appears that Kennin wants to use that crutch in a non-medically-approved way.”

“Guess you could say something was going on, Mr. Winchester, but it's over now,” said Mariel.

Holding his stomach, Ian slowly straightened up. His face was still red, and he was still breathing hard.

“You okay?” Mr. Winchester asked.

He nodded.

“Where do you usually sit?” Mr. Winchester asked.

Ian pointed at the gearhead table over by the windows.

“Why don't you and your friends go back over there?” Mr. Winchester said, “I see you on this side of the cafeteria again and there'll be a problem.”

Ian shot Kennin an angry look and muttered something Kennin couldn't quite understand.

“That's enough,” Mr. Winchester said sternly. “Get back to your table.”

Ian and the others left, but Mr. Winchester stayed. He crossed his arms and studied Kennin. “Don't see much of you in class these days.”

“I have to take a bus to school in the morning,” Kennin said. “Sometimes it's late.”

“You work after school?” Mr. Winchester asked.

Kennin nodded.

“How late?”

“Midnight, usually.”

“And then you have to take a bus home from there?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Winchester made a face. “There's no point in coming
to school on five hours' sleep, Kennin. Studies have proven that the brain can't retain information on that little amount of rest.”

Kennin raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

“You really have to work?” Mr. Winchester asked. “It's not like you're doing it just for a hot set of rims?”

“I had to buy him lunch today,” Mariel said.

“Well, try your best to get to class, Kennin,” Mr. Winchester said. “I can cut you some slack, but you're going to have to make up what you missed and show up a little more often.”

He walked away. Kennin sat down again with Mariel. Her eyes were wide and gleaming. “Tell me something,” she said. “Is there anything you're actually afraid of?”

“Plenty,” Kennin replied.

not, Kennin had to get back to work. After school he caught a bus downtown to the Babylon Casino and hobbled into the valet parking garage on his crutches. Tito, in his khaki car-washing uniform, looked up from a silver BMW 760Li he was washing.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Not the friendliest greeting,
Kennin thought. “What do you think?”

“You gonna wash cars with a broken leg?”

“Unless someone pays me not to.”

Tony, the head of valet parking, came out of the office to greet him.

“Hey, look who's here!” Tony gave Kennin a hug. “How's the leg?”

“Still there,” Kennin said. “How's the kid?”

“Great,” Tony said. “Getting bigger. Eats a lot. Sleeps
through the night. My wife keeps telling me we got lucky. All I know is with the price of diapers, I sure don't feel lucky.” He looked at the cast. “You sure you can work?”

“No choice,” said Kennin. “Thanks for not giving my job away.”

“You kiddin'?” Tony patted him on the back. “No way. Go ahead and change.”

Kennin went into the locker room and changed into his khaki uniform. The left leg of the pants barely fit over the cast. Back out in the garage he joined Tito beside the BMW.

“You see what they're doing out back?” Tito asked.

Kennin shook his head. He dipped a brush into a bucket of soapy water and started to scrub the BMW's wheels.

“You know that empty lot they use when there's an overflow crowd?” Tito asked. “They're turning it into a drift track.”

Kennin nodded silently.

“So what do you think?” Tito asked.

“Feels a little soon to be thinking about that,” Kennin said.

“I'm not so sure you can wait,” Tito said. “Ever since the crash, the talk's been about moving the scene off the street. Not just because of the cops, but the whole danger thing. Seeing what happened to you kind of shook everyone up.”

“I bet,” Kennin said.

“So the timing's kind of fortunate,” Tito went on. “No one wants to run tsuisos on the street anymore, and now Mercado wants to make it legitimate. That can only be good for us.”

“Oh yeah?” Kennin said.

“Sure,” Tito said. “Think of the opportunity. Legitimate racing. Sponsorships. Teams. Real money. Better cars. Safer conditions. Everyone comes out a winner.”

They'd finished soaping the BMW. Tito picked up a hose and started to rinse the car down. At the same time he moved closer to Kennin and lowered his voice. “I'm telling you, Kennin, this is our shot. Just between you and me, I've had it with this car-washing crap. The only reason I haven't quit this job is because it keeps me close to the action and close to Mercado. This is gonna be the best thing that ever happened to drifting around here.”

Maybe,
Kennin thought. But he also remembered something his father once said:
If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.

Their shift usually ran from four p.m. until midnight. The offer of a free car wash with valet parking ended at eleven thirty p.m. Just after midnight Tito and Kennin were in the locker room changing back into their street clothes when they heard the high-pitched whine of Mike Mercado's Ferrari Scaglietti out in the garage. Next came
the heavy, soft thud as one car door shut, then another.

“Mercado's just getting to work,” Tito said, shaking his head as if it was hard to believe. “The casino never sleeps.”

A moment later the locker room door opened and Mike Mercado, the owner of the casino, and Derek Jamison, his right-hand man, stepped in. Mercado was a short man with a gleaming bald head. He was dressed in a dark suit, shirt, and tie. Derek was heavyset with a mop of unkempt black hair, dressed as usual in a wrinkled jacket. Both men stopped and looked around at the dented green lockers, and the pictures of cars and babes torn from magazines and pasted to the walls.

“This could be the one room in my casino I've never been in,” Mercado said.

“This and the ladies' powder room,” Derek corrected him.

Mercado turned his attention to Kennin's leg. “How is it?”

“Getting better,” Kennin said.

“Guess it shows you the danger of racing in the street,” Derek said.

Kennin wasn't sure it showed him that at all, but he wasn't going to argue.

“I assume you've heard that Derek is developing a drift team,” Mercado said. “As soon as you feel up to it, we'd like you to join.”

Kennin looked down at his leg and back at the casino owner. “I appreciate that, sir.”

Mercado turned to leave, with Derek right behind him.

“Uh, Mr. Mercado,” Tito suddenly blurted.

The casino owner stopped. “Yes?”

“Sir, I'd just like to point out that the foundation of any competitive automotive venture of this magnitude has got to be the tech crew,” Tito said, using more big words in that sentence than he'd probably used in the entire past year. “I'd like to offer my services in that regard.”

Mercado's forehead furrowed slightly. “And you are … ?”

“Tito Rivera.” Tito offered his hand and Mercado shook it. “We met in your office about a month ago, remember?”

From the expression on Mercado's face, it was obvious that he didn't remember. But Tito didn't seem to notice that.

“You should speak to Derek about tech matters,” Mercado said. “I'm sure he'll be interested.”

Tito eagerly turned to Derek, who raised his hand, palm forward. “I'll keep it in mind, kid. Don't you worry. But right now I gotta run.” He and Mercado left.

“You see?” Tito said as soon as the men left the locker room. “If I wasn't still doing this stupid job, that wouldn't have happened. Those guys aren't thinking about tech right now. They're too busy with the track and the drivers. But one of these days they're gonna figure out that without tech
support, the whole thing's gonna fall apart. And that's when they're gonna remember me.”

Kennin looked at the clock on the wall. It was after midnight and he still had a forty-five-minute bus trip home, and then school the next morning. He slid his crutches under his arms, and he and Tito left the locker room. Out in the garage the valet office was empty.

“Where's Tony?” Kennin asked.

“He's been leaving early lately,” Tito said. “He gave me a key so I can lock up.”

Kennin gazed out toward Las Vegas Boulevard just as a familiar-looking yellow Corvette cruised by. Jack the jackass was driving and Shinchou was in the passenger seat. While Kennin couldn't hear what was being said, he could definitely see that Jack was shaking his head and gesturing angrily. Suddenly he reached over and slapped Kennin's sister. Kennin felt his stomach knot with anger. His first reaction was to run to the car. But on the crutches he wouldn't get close before the light changed.

He quickly hobbled to the valet parking office door and tried it. The knob didn't turn. He looked at Tito. “You said Tony gave you a key?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Give it to me,” Kennin said.

“You crazy?” Tito stammered.

Kennin had no time to waste. “Give it to me or I'll take it,” he said in a way that left no doubt about his intentions.