“You ready?” the guy standing between them yelled.
Warren gave him a thumbs-up.
Beauregard nodded.
“ONE, TWO … THREE!” the guy screamed.
The secret ain’t about the motor. That’s part of it, yeah, but that ain’t the main thing. The real thing, the thing most people don’t want to talk about, is how you drive. If you drive like you scared, you gonna lose. If you drive like you don’t want to have to rebuild the whole engine, you gonna lose. You gotta drive like don’t nothing else matter except getting to that line. Drive like you fucking stole it.
Beauregard heard his Daddy’s voice every time he drove the Duster. Sometimes he heard it when he was driving for crews. In those moments, it offered him bitter pearls of wisdom. Nonsensical chatter that reminded him not to end up like his Daddy. A ghost without a grave.
Beauregard slammed the gas pedal to the floor. Wheels spun, and white smoke plumed up from the rear of the Duster. G-forces pressed against his chest, crushing his sternum. Warren’s car jumped off the line and the front two wheels left the road. Beauregard jammed the car into second as the Duster’s front wheels grabbed the road like a pair of eagle’s talons.
The trees on both sides of the road were shimmering blurs as he tore down through the night. He glanced at the speedometer. 70 mph.
Beauregard hit the clutch and shifted into third. There were no numbers on the gearshift knob. It was an old 8-ball his Daddy had fixed to fit on top of the shifter. He didn’t need numbers. He knew what gear he was in by feel. By sound. The car shivered like a wolf shaking its pelt.
90 mph.
The leather-covered steering wheel crackled in his grip. He could see Sherm’s car up ahead idling on the side of the road. He shifted into fourth gear. The motor went from a roar to the war cry of a god. The duals were the trumpets that heralded his arrival. He had the pedal flat against the floorboard. The car seemed to contort itself and leap forward like a snake about to strike. The speedometer hit 105 mph.
The Duster had passed Warren like he was mired in glue. The old bisected oak tree was rapidly receding in his side mirror. He could see Kelvin pumping both his fists in the rearview mirror. Beauregard popped the clutch and downshifted until he was back in first. He slowed down even more, executed a three-point turn and headed back to the old convenience store.
Beauregard pulled back into the parking lot with Warren right on his heels. A few minutes behind him were Sherm, Kelvin and Jaymie. Beauregard got out, walked around to the front of the car and leaned back against the hood.
“That old Duster got some get-up-and-go!” said a heavyset brother with a wide nose and beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. He was leaning against a black and white Maverick, Ford’s answer to the Duster.
“Thanks,” Beauregard said.
Sherm, Jaymie and Kelvin got out of the Nova. Kelvin trotted over to the Duster and held out his left hand. Beauregard slapped the palm without looking.
“You whupped his ass like a runaway slave,” Kelvin said. A deep laugh erupted from his chest.
“That bad valve fucked him up. Look at that exhaust. He’s burning oil,” Beauregard said. A plume of black smoke was trailing from the exhaust of the Olds. Sherm came over and handed Beauregard two wads of money. His original thousand and Warren’s roll.
“What you got under the hood on that thing?” Sherm asked.
“Two rockets and a comet,” Kelvin said. Sherm chuckled.
Warren finally got out of the Oldsmobile. He stood by the car with his arms crossed. His face was twisted into a snarl. “You giving him my money after he jumped off the line?” he asked.
The boisterous crowd became deathly quiet. Beauregard didn’t move off the hood, didn’t look at Warren. His voice cut through the night like a razor.
“You saying I cheated?”
Warren uncrossed his arms, then crossed them again. He swiveled his large head on his thin neck.
“I’m just saying you was two lengths ahead before he got to three. That’s all I’m saying,” Warren said. He put his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. Then he took them out again. He didn’t seem to know where to put them. His initial bravado was evaporating.
“I ain’t gotta cheat to beat you. By the sound of that leaky valve, your motor gonna seize up tighter than virgin pussy any day now. Your driveshaft and rear end too heavy. That’s why you pop up when you take off,” Beauregard said. He pushed off the hood and turned to face Warren. Warren was peering at the night sky. He was studying his feet. He was doing everything except looking at Beauregard.
“Yo, man, you lost. Just take the L and admit the Olds ain’t as legendary as you thought,” Kelvin said. This elicited a few guffaws from the crowd. Warren shifted on the balls of his feet. Beauregard closed the distance between them in three strides.
“So why don’t you tell me how I cheated again,” he said.
Warren licked his lips. Beauregard wasn’t as tall as he was, but he was twice as wide. All broad shoulders and wiry muscle. Warren took a step back. “I’m just saying,” he said. His voice was as thin as crepe paper.
“You just saying. You just saying but you ain’t saying shit,” Beauregard said. Kelvin got between them.
“Come on, Bug, let’s go. We got our money,” he said.
“Not until he takes it back,” Beauregard said. A few other drivers had crowded around them. Kelvin thought they were two seconds away from chanting “Fight! Fight!” like they were back in school.
“Yo, man, take it back,” Kelvin said.
Warren twisted his head left and right. He wouldn’t look directly at Beauregard or the crowd gathering around them. “Look, maybe I was wrong. I’m just saying—” he started to say but Beauregard held up his hand. Warren’s mouth closed with an audible plop.
“Don’t say ‘you just saying’ again. And don’t say you was wrong. Take. It. Back,” Beauregard said.
“Don’t let him punk you, man!” someone yelled from the crowd.
Kelvin turned and faced Warren. He spoke in low tones. “Don’t let these boys get your face fucked up. My cousin takes this shit seriously. Take it back and you can go home with all your teeth.”
Beauregard had his hands down by his sides. He clenched and unclenched them at steady intervals. He watched Warren’s eyes. They kept peering around like he was looking for a way out that didn’t entail taking back what he said. Beauregard knew he wasn’t going to take it back. He couldn’t. Guys like Warren fed off their own arrogance. It was like oxygen for them. They couldn’t back down any more than they could stop breathing.
Headlights lit up the parking lot. Then blue lights flashed off the weathered exterior of the SpeeDee Mart.
“Ah shit, it’s the sex lights,” Kelvin said. Beauregard saw a red unmarked cop car parking diagonally across the SpeeDee Mart exit. A few guys were walking slowly toward their cars. Most of them were just standing still.
“Sex lights?” the sweaty brother said.
“Yeah, cuz when you see them, you’re fucked,” Kelvin said. Two deputies got out of the car and pulled out their flashlights. Beauregard held up his hand to shield his eyes.
“So, what we got here, fellas? A little night racing? But I don’t see no NASCAR signs. You see any NASCAR signs, Deputy Hall?” the deputy that wasn’t Hall said. He was a blondish white guy with a chin so square he probably had to study geometry to learn how to shave.