Motor Mouth (Alex Barnaby 2)

“That wasn’t no accident what happened to Clay. I saw him run down,” Gobbles said. “I was there. I seen Clay step off and then this guy come out of nowhere and aimed right for him.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“I couldn’t do that. I’m in a tight spot. I couldn’t get myself involved. And it’s not like I know a name or something. I’m just telling you now because…hell, I don’t know why I’m telling you. I’m telling you everything. Cripes, I told you about the man in the boat. How embarrassing is that?”

In the distance, Ray Huevo was standing, hands on hips, leaning forward to better hear over the track noise. He suddenly straightened, turned, and looked directly at us. He pointed with his finger, and Gobbles shrieked and jumped back.

“He’s far away,” I said to Gobbles. “He could be pointing at anyone.”

Gobbles’s voice was up an octave. “He was pointing at me! I know he was pointing at me. I saw him.”

Ray Huevo pivoted on his heel and stalked off. The two men in suits followed a few feet behind him. They all disappeared behind another hauler, and I was pulled back to the track by Hooker’s voice in my ear.

“There must be something wrong with my radio,” he said. “I’m not hearing anything.”

“That’s because I’m not saying anything,” I told him.

“How much are we paying you?”

“Not nearly enough. Anyway, I only have one piece of advice. I think you should pass the sixty-nine.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

If the 69 car stayed in front, we’d come in second for the season. And in my book, second didn’t count. Dickie Bonnano, also known as Dickwad, Banana Dick, Dickhead, and sometimes just plain Asshole, was driving the 69. Bonnano was an arrogant jerk. He was a mediocre driver. And he had a girlfriend who was equally disliked. She towered over Bonnano, had a preference for leather, lined her eyes to look like Catwoman, and she’d bought herself a pair of double-D boobs that didn’t jiggle, droop, or have peripheral vision. The guys in the garage called her Delores Dominatrix. So when Bonnano wasn’t being called Dickwad, Banana Dick, Dickhead, or Asshole, he was called Spanky.

Hooker had Bonnano by a few points, but Bonnano would win the series if he won this race. And unless God stepped in and blew Bonnano’s engine, Bonnano was going to win.

There were thirty-two cars left in the race. They were lined up in running order behind the pace car, and they were circling the track at forty miles per hour, waiting for the signal that the track was clean and ready for racing. They approached turn number four, the pace car exited onto pit road, and the flag went green.

“The pace car’s off,” I said to Hooker. “Green, green.”

The cars roared past me, all of them hard on the gas. Bonnano took the lead and kept it, gaining inches

each time he came out of a turn. Hooker was silent on his radio.

“Steady,” I told Hooker. “Drive smart. You have no one close behind you and only one guy in front of you.”

“This is a nightmare,” Hooker said. “A friggin’ nightmare.”

“Second isn’t so bad. There are good points to second.”

“I can hardly wait to hear.”

“If you don’t win the Cup, you don’t have to sit on the stage and look like a moron at the awards banquet. Spanky and Delores will have to do the stage thing.”

“You should be happy for that, too,” Hooker said. “You would have been on the stage with me.”

“No way.”

“You would have been my date.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You should check your contract. There’s a clause in there about dating the driver under emergency conditions.”

“What about the salesclerk?”

“Can’t hear you,” he yelled. “Too much static.”