“The last thing we need right before a race is a bunch of people getting in the way and asking stupid questions.”
Mack cried, “Hey, wait a minute, Rick. We’re talking about the people footing the bill for you to try to win the rookie title.”
“Which won’t happen if I’ve got to worry with them,” Rick argued. “PR reps for other teams handle the VIPs themselves. They don’t bring them around the driver right before a race.”
“Well, I don’t intend to do that,” Liz defended. “I don’t want them to get in your way, either. So I’ll remedy the situation by keeping them a good distance away, and I will answer their questions.”
“You?” Rick scoffed.
“Sure.”
“You don’t know beans about racing, Liz.”
Mack groaned. “Here we go again. I thought you two called a truce.”
“We have,” Liz said sweetly. “We’re just talking, Mack. We aren’t arguing.”
“Well, you’ve got a week,” Rick said smugly. “Maybe you can learn enough to carry on an intelligent conversation, or fake it, at least.”
A waiter came and took their orders. Liz emphasized they should all have whatever they wanted, regardless of the cost.
After he left, she turned to Rick. “I won’t have to fake it. And I don’t have to take a crash course. I know enough about your car to explain it to them.”
“Yeah? Well, let’s hear it.” Rick leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do anything to humiliate her. He would let her do it herself.
Liz wriggled in her seat, as though eager to show off her knowledge. Then, propping her chin on coyly laced fingers, she began. “Well, I know that the toilet facilities in race cars are being studied by NASA, because they’re thinking about using the same system for the astronauts.”
Benny choked on a bite of roll.
Two of the other crew members, having just sipped their beers, sprayed the table.
Mack cried, “Liz, no—”
She ignored him. “I also know about that little button on the dash that sends a signal to a big computer somewhere to make it fair for everybody to start their cars at the same time.”
“Oh, man.” Benny reached for his water glass, still coughing and choking.
The others reached for their beer, struggling with the hilarity of it all.
Mack grabbed Liz’s wrist. “Hey, you’re just clowning around, right? You don’t really believe all that?”
Making her eyes wide with innocence, Liz replied, “Why, of course I do. I had a very good teacher.”
Mack looked accusingly at Rick, who had been listening stone-faced and silent. “Did you tell her all that crap? I heard about the tires. Jeez, Rick…”
Liz had wasted no time once she got to her motel room unpacking the books she had bought on racing. Scolding herself for not finding the time to do so earlier, she had located information on the construction of race cars and devoured every word.
She relished the astonished look that came over Rick’s face with each word she spoke. “The typical Winston Cup car weighs thirty-four hundred pounds and has a seven- to seven-hundred-fifty-horsepower engine that drives the rear wheels through a four-speed transmission. Top speed is 220 miles an hour. The roll cage inside the car is made of 150 feet of steel tubing to protect the driver. There are no doors, no passenger seat, and no speedometer. The tires have an extra layer of rubber to try to guard against a flat. They’re fortified by a belt network that was designed to keep their shape under extreme stress.”
She paused to sip her wine, reveling in the moment, then continued. “There are two eleven-gallon rubber gas tanks encased in steel for safety, but fuel economy would be a nightmare for the ordinary street car. Race cars only get five miles to the gallon, and, of course, they use a special kind of fuel that is much more expensive than regular gas.”
A hush had fallen over the table.
Rick was the first to break it, not about to let her get the best of him, merely because she’d managed to speed-read some technical stuff before dinner. “Well, now, Liz, that’s real impressive. Maybe with all that information to share, you can keep the bigwigs out of my way.”
“I intend to. But I’m sure they’d like to hear about the toilet facilities. I thought maybe you could explain that to them.”
Mack shook his head. “What in heck did you tell her, Rick?”
The waiter appeared with stuffed shrimp appetizers for everyone. Rick helped himself before flippantly responding. “She can’t take a joke. Or maybe she doesn’t know enough about what’s going on to realize it’s a joke. She asked about that hole in the seat. I made up a story about how it’s the way drivers use the bathroom during a race.”
“When actually,” Liz corrected, “it’s where the driver’s shoulder harness connects. You were just teasing, I know.” She flashed her sweetest smile at Rick, but her eyes were cold. “But enough funny stuff. From now on I would appreciate it if you would tell me the truth when I ask you a technical question, okay?”
Rick gave a curt nod of assent and bristled to think how she might have won the lap but would never finish the race.
Not if he could help it.
Mack breezed into the motel’s coffee shop and went to where Liz was waiting in a booth.
“Is Rick coming?” she asked. She had scheduled a breakfast meeting to go over a few things, and, since the night before, she had arranged for Rick to be a guest on a popular local talk show for that evening.
Mack signaled the waitress for coffee. “He’s taking a shower. He said he’d skip breakfast and head to the track. He wants to get started checking the car out before the races today.”
“Well, I need to tell him about a radio show I’ve got him scheduled to be on tonight.”
Mack’s eyes widened. “The one called Pit Stop?”
She nodded.
“Oh, man, that’s great. During Speed Weeks, it’s broadcast from one of the hottest nightclubs on the beach. He’ll get a lot of exposure.”
“I know. So will you please call him on a house phone and tell him I need to meet with him now?”
Mack frowned. “Liz, he said he’d rather me deal with you, so I’ll tell him about it when I get to the track. I’m sorry, but that’s just how he is.”
“Well, it’s not how I am, and he’s got plenty of time. It’s only seven o’clock. He can be at the track by eight. Now if you don’t want to call him, Mack, I will.”
She started to get up, but Mack waved her to stay seated. “I’ll do it. But I can’t understand why you and I can’t handle everything and leave him out of it.”
“That’s just the point. He is everything. He is the focus of my job. I’ve also arranged an interview for him with an Atlanta journalist. Big Boy’s has sixteen restaurants in the Atlanta area. They’ll be thrilled to see a story about Rick in the paper. I need to tell him what time to meet the writer and where.
“Your job, Mack,” she politely reminded, “is to take care of the car. I plan to ease a lot of your burdens over managing the team to give you more time to do that. Now please get Rick down here so we can discuss all this and get it over with so you can do your job, and I can do mine. Okay?”
Mack made the call and returned to say Rick was on his way. “He’s grumbling, but he’ll be okay.”