Sweet Carolina (2 page)

Inside, he shed the fire suit, tossed it in a
heap in the corner of his bedroom and pulled on his favorite jeans
and T-shirt. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and stretched
out on the built-in couch. The race was nothing more than the
buzzing of a giant mosquito in the well-insulated motor coach. Dell
shut it out as he'd learned to do before he could walk. Hell, he
took his first steps on the track at Talladega, twenty-six odd
years ago. This was home, even more so than his big new house on
Lake Norman.

He brought the bottle to his lips and savored
the slide of cool liquid down his throat. It quenched his thirst,
but did nothing to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. For
perhaps the millionth time, he asked himself what he was doing.
Three years after that son-of-a-bitch Warner drove Caudell Senior
into the wall, and here he was, still trying to prove his father
wrong.

He closed his eyes and their last
conversation played over in his mind. Darlington. Summer. Heat so
hot, your lungs protested every breath. The noise of the garage.
Engines revving. Air wrenches. Voices raised to be heard over the
din. Caudell summoned his son, and even though Dell was certain
what he was going to say, he went anyway. They stepped outside in
the blazing sun.

“You'll never get anywhere in this business,
C.J. You drive like an old lady out for a Sunday picnic. Hell, son
– you should get out before you get killed.” It was an old
argument, one as far as Dell was concerned, was pure bullshit.

“I finished ahead of you in Phoenix,” Dell
argued. “Half the pack finished ahead of you.”

“You got lucky, that's all. It won't happen
again. Take some lessons from Richard Warner. That kid can
drive.”

Dell flinched at the mention of Dickey
Warner. They were only a few months apart in age, Dickey being the
younger of the two, but there was no love lost between them. They'd
come up through the ranks, competing against each other since they
were teenagers. It figured Caudell would approve of Warner's
driving – if their cars didn't have different numbers and paint
schemes, you wouldn't be able to tell the drivers apart on the
track. They both drove like idiots.

Dell gritted his teeth and let his father
finish his tirade. “If you think these drivers are going to let a
wet-behind-the-ears pup like you run with them, you've got another
think coming. Stick with trucks, or better yet, go-carts. You
aren't cut out for this business.”

“That's what you think, old man. You're just
jealous because your racing days are almost over. You can't stand
to see anyone else replace the great Caudell Wayne – especially
your own son.” He stood toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with his father,
determined not to let him see how badly the words cut him. “Well,
hear this. I earned my ride, and I did it without your help.” He
ignored his dad's derisive snort. “I'll still be racing when you're
dead and buried, and you know what? You know who they're going to
be talking about then? Me. Dell Wayne. I'm twice the driver you
are. You still drive like granddad taught you, like the revenuers
are on your ass. It's a new sport, old man. It's passing you by.
You're not on the lead lap anymore. Got that? The cars are
different. The tracks are different. It's called technology.
Progress.” He jabbed a finger in the center of his father's chest
to emphasize his point. “You're on your way out. We'll see who the
best driver is. I'll wave to you from Victory Lane.”

Dell sat up and drained the rest of the beer.
“Shit.” He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the memory and the
tears that threatened. Goddamned hardheaded bastard. He's the one
who should have quit while he was ahead. Instead, he raced
Darlington like an idiot, allowed Dickhead Warner to force him into
taking evasive measures, and did exactly what he warned Dell of, he
got himself killed. Run into a concrete barrier going a hundred and
sixty miles an hour. Stupid fucker.

Dell still had the trophy. It was currently
doubling as a fire hydrant in front of the biggest goddamned
doghouse in Iredell County. And as soon as he got himself some
dogs, he was going to let them piss all over it.

The door opened, and Dell glanced up to see
his friend and crew chief, Ray Mallard step in. “You okay,
Dell?”

“Yeah,” he sighed and stood. “Are we ready to
go?”

“The hauler will be loaded in a few minutes.
I thought we could get a headstart.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. Let's get out of
here.”

Dell grabbed another beer and settled into
the passenger seat. Neither man spoke until they navigated through
the tunnel beneath the track and were on the freeway headed
north.

“Want to talk about it?” Ray asked.

“Nothing to talk about. The bastard went
after me on purpose, so I returned the favor.”

“Look, Dell. We've been friends for a long
time, but I have to tell you, the crew isn't happy. They want to
win.”

“We win our share.”

“Yeah, but you either win or you wreck.
There's never an in-between. If you'd converted a few of those DNFs
last year into decent finishes, we would have made the Chase at the
end of the season. As it was, you spent the last few races driving
around in circles for no reason.”

“The sponsor got exposure.”

“They'd rather see their car in Victory
Lane.”

Dell shrugged. “We'll get them there enough
to make them happy.”

“What did the officials say?”

“The usual,” he hedged. “It'll blow over. It
always does.”

“How long do you think NASCAR is going to let
you keep driving like your car is your own personal rocketship to
hell?”

“As long as I keep showing up to drive,
they're going to let me.”

“What about Anderson?”

Dell closed his eyes and considered the
fallout from today in terms of the team owner. Virgil Anderson was
a friend. When Dell was young and green, Virgil offered him a ride
when no one else would. He was the only team owner who ignored the
opinion of the mighty Caudell Senior who told everyone within
hearing distance his son wasn't ready to drive in the Cup series.
No, Virgil wouldn't toss Dell out now, not after he'd proved
himself on the track these last four years.

“He'll come around. I've got my share of
trophies in the case.”

“I hope you're right.”

* * * *

The phone call wasn't unexpected, but he
wished to hell, it hadn't come at seven in the morning. The NASCAR
officials must have burned the midnight oil in order to deliver
their slap on the hand this early.

Dell parked in the slot with his name on it
and pocketed his keys.

“Who won yesterday?” he asked as he passed
the reception desk. Penny Anderson, Virgil's wife, was more
reliable than ESPN.

“Randy,” she said. She pointed a finger at
the pedestal beside the desk where the most recent trophy held sway
until replaced by another.

Dell's stomach clenched. Randy Cox was a good
driver, and bringing home the trophy for the Daytona 500 was big,
even for a team the size of Anderson Racing. He pasted on his
I'm-a-team-player face and responded. “Hey, that's great. What does
that make for Cox? Five?”

“Six. You forgot Fontana last year.”

“Yeah, I keep forgetting that one.” He and
his wrecked car were almost to New Mexico by the time the race was
over.

“You okay, Dell?” The genuine concern in her
voice grated. Why did everyone keep asking him that?

“Fine.”
Just fucking fine
.

He knocked on Virgil's door, entering without
waiting for an invitation. The phone call had been invitation
enough. “You wanted to see me?”

“Have a seat, Dell.”

Dell settled into one of the plush leather
visitor chairs and crossed one ankle over his knee. “So, how much
is the fine this time?”

“No fine.” Dell raised an eyebrow. No fine?
That couldn't be good.

“What then?”

“NASCAR has suspended you for the next three
races.”

Dell jerked to his feet. “What the…?
Suspended?” He paced to the door and turned. “What about Warner?
What did they do to him?”

“That's not my concern, or yours.”

“The hell it isn't. They're just going to let
him get away with it? I don’t fucking believe this.”

“Sit down, Dell.”

Dell glared at Virgil, unable or unwilling to
believe what was happening.

“Sit down, son.”

Dell returned to his chair and sat with his
elbows braced on his thighs. “There's more?”

“Look, Dell… you know I think of you as a
son. Your daddy was a hard man, but he was a friend. I hate to see
you doing this to yourself. Ever since he hit the wall, you've
changed. You aren't the driver you were when I took you on. Caudell
was an idiot when it came to you. He loved you too goddamned much,
I guess. He didn't want you to race.”

Dell forced his neck muscles to cooperate and
raised his head so he could look Virgil in the face. “What are you
talking about?”

“I'm trying to tell you something – something
important. Caudell and I were friends up until I gave you a ride.
He never spoke to me again after I took you on, except to tell me
he'd kill me if anything happened to you. I believed him. The man
worshipped the ground you walked on.”

Dell's laugh was without humor. “Let's
suppose for a minute any of this preposterous story is true. Why
did you give me a ride?”

“Because you're the best damned driver I've
ever seen. Or you were. Look…Dell. I hate to do this, but I owe
Caudell this much. I made him a promise, and I aim to honor it. I'm
taking your ride. You're done, son.”

Dell sat up. “I don't believe this. You tell
me I'm the best, and in the next breath, you take my ride? What the
hell?”

“I'm doing it for your own good, Dell. I
promised your daddy I'd make sure you were safe. It was easy enough
when you were driving like the pro you are, but ever since Caudell
died, you've been driving like a madman. That's what the other
drivers call you, behind your back. Madman. It's not a name I would
have ever associated with Dell Wayne, but it fits the new you.
You're a danger to yourself, and to the other drivers.”

“You're shittin' me.”

“No, Dell, I'm not. Your sponsor threatened
to pull their support if NASCAR suspended you. They'll continue to
sponsor the car, but they want another driver.” He pushed a piece
of paper across his desk to Dell. “It's all there in black and
white. NASCAR will ban you from the track if you ever do anything
like that again.”

Dell studied the decree handed down from
NASCAR.

“Take some time off, Dell. Get a grip on
whatever it is that compels you to be a madman on the track. If you
get it together, come see me. I'd like to see you back in the 21
car.”

Chapter Two

Carolina eyed her senior crew chief over the
desk. What to tell him? Somehow, telling him if they didn't start
winning races, he and everyone else would be out of a job, sooner
rather than later, didn't seem like a good idea. She needed to
instill confidence, not fear. She needed to set a positive
example.

“What happened on Sunday?” she asked.

Russell shrugged his shoulders and cast his
eyes anywhere but at her. Damn. Russell was almost as old as her
father, and one of his best friends. Answering to Stewart Hawkins
twenty-three-year-old daughter wasn't something he accepted
easily.

“Look, Russell. Whether you like it or not,
I'm in charge now. Daddy's gone, and he isn't coming back. I own
Hawkins Racing now, and I'm going to run it, so get used to
it.”

Russell fidgeted in his chair and Caro fought
the urge to roll her eyes at him. This was all her father's fault.
If he'd let her be a part of the business for the last few years,
all this proving herself stuff would be behind her now. “Was it the
car or the driver? How did the engine perform?”

She'd already read all the stats on the
engine and knew it wasn't the problem, but she wanted to hear
Russell's take on the race. Would he come to the same conclusion or
would he place the blame somewhere else?

“The car was fine. It qualified well, and had
the power to win.”

She was relieved to hear him say what she
already knew. “So?” she prompted.

“I hate to place blame, but in this case, I'd
say the driver was at fault. Wilson doesn't have what it takes to
run with the big boys, not yet anyway.”

“He is young,” she agreed.

“There are drivers younger than him winnin'
Cup races.”

“True.” Caro tapped her pencil on the desk
blotter. “What do you suggest?”

“We need a driver who's got the ba…, I mean,
the guts to go up against the pack. Someone who won't back down
from a challenge. Wilson lets the seasoned drivers push him around.
Someone cuts him off, he just moves back a position and lets 'em
go.”

“He's not aggressive enough,” she
surmised.

“I guess you could say that. He does fine in
qualifying and practice runs. There's nobody on the track to
intimidate him – it's just him against the clock. He's green, but
if you don't stand up for yourself during the race, they're gonna
eat you alive.”

“Hmm…” Caro leaned back and thought over what
Russell was saying. He could be right. She'd seen it before.
Racecar drivers had a pack mentality. If you showed weakness of any
kind, the alpha males would single you out, do their best to
toughen you up, and if you didn't come up to snuff, they'd push you
out of the pack. “We need an alpha driver. A seasoned pro no one
will mess with.” She pinned Russell with a look. “Is that what
you're saying?”

Russell nodded his balding head. “Yes, ma'am.
That's exactly what I'm sayin'.”

“Well, that does present a problem, doesn't
it? Where are we going to get a driver in the middle of the
season?”