Urban Renewal (31 page)

“How about the engine?” the Mustang man said, as he hastily walked around to the front of the Shark Car.

“How about
not
” was Buddha’s reply.

“I should just take your word for—”

“My headlights work,” Buddha said, neglecting to mention that the DOT Xenon beams draped in an “eyebrow” pattern surrounded hubcap-sized paint peelers concealed behind blacked-out mesh. “There’s no wheelie bars out back. So just assume the worst. I’ll tell you this much—there’s no turbo under the hood.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No replacement for displacement.”

“And you got no bottle, either, right?”

“Got three of them,” Buddha said, calmly. “A one-fifty, a two hundred, and a three.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” one man said. Quietly. And with genuine reverence.

“You wanna do this or not?” Buddha said.

“You leave on all that nitrous, you’re gonna fry those tires,” one of the other men said.

“Appreciate the advice,” Buddha said. “But I didn’t come here for advice—save that for your video games.”

“For five grand, I get how many lengths?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Buddha told the Mustang man. “Just because I didn’t see the trailer that hauled your ride, you really think I’m blind enough to miss that you’re running a total lightweight? Yours is back-halfed for sure, maybe even a tube-chassis car. Think I didn’t glom the Plexiglas? Or the missing wipers? Plastic fenders, right? So you’ve got turbos hauling
maybe
a ton. I got a street car, three-plus times as much weight as yours. All real, all steel, and all wheel—drive, that is. Like the man over there said, I can’t
leave
on all those shots I’m packing, and I’m supposed to give
you
lengths?”

“We go on the flash,” the Mustang man said grimly.

“Sure. Only we go on, say … 
his
flash,” Buddha said, offhandedly pointing at a young man standing in the gathering crowd. A man in a neon-blue jacket that matched his Mohawk.

“
WHAT
’
S THAT
for, Buddha?”

“I’m dialing in the splitter.”

“Huh?”

“You remember when we stopped before? When I went out back, behind the car?”

“Sure!”

“I got a quick-change rear. Anything between 4.56 and 2.04. But that won’t help if the blastoff hits all four wheels equal, okay? So—what I’m doing is dialing it so eighty-five percent goes to the rear wheels.”

“Like … balance, right?”

“Yeah.
Just
like that.”

“Buddha, do you think any of them recognized Condor?”

“Because of that Mohawk? Nah. They’ll think I just picked someone who looked like they couldn’t possibly be one of
his
boys. You know, because I didn’t want the starter to be on his side.”

“But Condor, he’ll be on our—”

“Really?” Buddha cut off the man-child, even as he realized sarcasm would just bounce off Princess.
When am I gonna learn?
he admonished himself. For at least the hundredth time.

CONDOR STOOD
between the two lined-up cars, a large-lensed HID flashlight in his fist. He flashed it once to the right, watched as the Mustang’s driver held up a fist, indicating he was ready to go. As the Mustang’s turbos whined to an ear-damaging peak, Condor flashed the light again, took Buddha’s acknowledgment, and stepped back a few paces.

The Shark Car opened its muffler bypass. The ground-shaking rumble of its 14.5-liter Hemi flowed out, bouncing off the bodies of the spectators.

“Da-amn!”
one young black man exclaimed, as if shocked. Had those standing near him known he had already placed a bet on the disguised Shark Car, they might have been suspicious. But since they’d been stunned into silence themselves, the possibility never occurred to them.

“What’s that button for? The one on top of the—”

“Trans-brake,” Buddha said, his eyes focused on a point at the very top of the dashboard.

Before Princess could ask another question, a tiny orange dot flared. Buddha released the trans-brake a microsecond before Condor’s flash blazed.

While the Mustang still had its front wheels in the air, Buddha was a good three lengths ahead, and pulling.

The outcome wasn’t close. The young Chinese man holding the videocam at the finish line wasn’t asked for a replay—even the most fervent supporters of the Mustang didn’t waste their breath.

A lot of money changed hands.

“
YOU JUMPED!
”
the Mustang man yelled.

“No,
you
jumped,” Buddha said, without raising his voice. “Only you didn’t know it was off a cliff.”

The murmuring of the crowd made it clear that any claim that Buddha had left early wouldn’t get any support.

“My five grand—”

“You mean
my
five grand.”

“Man, I
know
you cheated. I’ve got a—”

“Nine-point-five car, right? Maybe a shade under? And you just had to grab some big air, too. You brought a butter knife to a mortar fight, pal. Get over it.”

Princess suddenly jumped out of the Shark Car, holding the snarling Akita on a chain that would have anchored a cabin cruiser.

“What’s wrong, Buddha?”

“Seems like this guy thinks we cheated.”

“We did not!”

“I know, Princess. Just calm down, okay? He knows better now.” Turning to the Mustang man’s backers, the always underestimated man said, “Right?”

One of the Mustang’s crowd pulled away his denim jacket, making certain Buddha could see the butt of his semi-auto. But before he could launch into a speech, Buddha’s pistol was out, its laser sight flaring red between the man’s eyes.

“Seriously?” the pudgy man said, his black-agate eyes scanning the crowd for any takers.

A man a few years older than most of the crowd tossed an envelope of bills at Buddha. The Shark Car’s driver snatched it out of the air without taking his eyes off the crowd. Or his laser sight off the gun-showing fool’s white T-shirt.

He backed toward the car, telling Princess to come along
with his dog. The car exited in a sound blast, leaving a crowd of dazed men, many of whom would later remember side bets with some teenagers—teenagers who had disappeared as quickly as the randomly chosen boy with the blue Mohawk.

“You shorted him, right?” the Mustang driver said to his backer.

“Yeah.
That
would have been a smart move. If I’d known you were gonna go against the Shark Car, I would’ve stayed home.”

“The what?”

“Ah,” the older man sighed, “never mind. I wouldn’t have known myself, unless I was a lot closer. That paint job …”

“What are you talking about?” the Mustang’s driver said. “No way that guy could have fixed the race.”

“Didn’t have to,” the old man said. “That car … I don’t know what they have in there, but those guys, they always play for keeps.”

“Who? What guys?”

“Look,” the old man said, “I’m only gonna say this once. That driver, that’s Buddha. And that monster with him, that’s Princess. The dog, that’s a new one on me. But here’s the bottom line: do
not
mess with any of them, ever.”

“Who the hell are—?”

“The Cross crew. Ask around, you’ll get the joke.” The man waited a couple of seconds. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

A few seconds later, the sound of police sirens ripped the night.

THE BACK
door of Red 71 shuddered on its hinges as Princess charged into the back room, just a step behind the black-masked Akita.

“We won!” he announced. “You should’ve seen it, Rhino. Buddha was so far ahead of that other car—”

“Damn waste of time,” Buddha told the others. “Race was for five large. After all the money I had to throw around, I
maybe
netted a couple a hundred.”

“You wanted to do it,” Cross reminded him, not looking up from the board where he and Ace were playing some form of chess, using no pawns.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did. But what I really wanted to do was test that wireless connector—you know, between the flashlight and the dashboard.”

“Must’ve worked.”

“Worked perfect,” Buddha said. “But I didn’t even need the bust. Like Princess said, it wasn’t that close.”

“So …?”

“So I had to rewrap the car, and now I got to do it
again
, gotta refill the bottles, and—”

“You wanted to do it,” Cross repeated, his eyes still on the board.

“And it was
fun
!” Princess added, taking no notice of the dour expression on Buddha’s face.

DAWN WAS
just starting to crack the Chicago darkness when Ace looked up from the board.

“Still a tie, brother.”

“Always is.”

“Where’s the fool?”

“They’re all out in the poolroom, except for—”

“Me,” Tracker cut in, the first time he had spoken in hours.

“You know, I was raised to hate those damn things,” Ace said. “Dogs, I mean. Those German shepherds they used on us down south …”

“You are not old enough—”

“To what, watch TV?” the slim man said to the Indian.