At last, something he could argue. “I've done alright.”
“If you call wreckin' alright. I've seen demolition derbies with less damage than you do on a racetrack.”
“They aren't all my fault.”
“Don't matter whose fault it is, the result's the same. Scrap metal ain't a trophy.”
Silence filled the truck cab again. Dell wasn't used to defending his driving. Ever since his last argument with his dad, he'd left the topic of his driving skill to the commentators, and done his best to ignore them at the same time. His avoidance skills weren't in question. They were trophy quality, all the way.
“How's the crew?” he asked.
“They know their stuff. Might not be the best in the business, but they're okay.” Dell had worked with less skilled crews. “Biggest problem is, she's got some of 'em pussy-whipped. That darn fool woman comes in the garage wearin' those coveralls, tellin' 'em what to do.” Dell turned his head so Russell wouldn't see him roll his eyes as the crew chief went off on another misogynist rant. “Woman don't know her place. I blame that on Stewart. He sent her away alright, but he sent her up north. Filled her head with all that liberal women's lib shit.”
Dell picked up on the only part of Russell's tirade that was pertinent. “What does Caro tell them to do?”
“Everything from engine adjustments to bitchin' about keepin' the tools in order. I'm tellin' you, the woman don't know her place,” he repeated.
Dell didn't know anything about women's lib, but he did know what century it was. “Does she know what she's talking about, with the engine adjustments?”
“Hell no! She's a woman.”
“Are the mechanics taking her advice?” Getting useful information out of Russell was harder than finding gold in a coalmine.
“Some.”
He'd done a bit of research on Hawkins Racing in the last week, and no one was arguing about the quality of their engines. “You're still building your own engines?”
“One of the few,” Russell said with pride. A good engine builder could make a fortune building and selling to other teams, but as far as he knew, Hawkins wasn't selling to anyone else. He wondered why, but he wasn't going to ask Russell. He'd bet his next trophy the answer would place the blame on Caro.
Dell mulled that over. He wondered how much input Caro actually had when it came to the engines. Unlike Russell, he didn't dismiss her knowledge because of her gender. The Caro he remembered had a good, basic knowledge of a racecar when she was ten, and if she'd spent the last decade increasing her knowledge, she might know what she was talking about. He'd find out soon enough.
When Dell didn't respond, Russell continued. “I don't know why she brought you on, and I don't give a damn why you came. I suspect it had somethin' to do with the skirt in the office, but as much as I hate the idea of a woman in this business, I like that girl. I've known Carolina all her life, and so help me, if you hurt her…well, I'll kill you myself.”
Dell turned to watch the landscape speed by and let a smile lift his lips. The old codger might have his backward ways when it came to women, but he was loyal to a fault.
“Point taken,” he said.
* * * *
Dell drove the car into the stall allotted to Hawkins Racing and killed the engine. The practice run was one of the worst he'd ever had. The car had a shimmy on the right side and was so loose, he almost spun out on the first turn before he figured out how to control it through the others. He pulled his helmet off and climbed out of the car. The crew had the hood up and their heads together under it before his feet hit the floor.
A familiar voice caught his attention. “Chet, adjust the track bar. Raymond and Pete, see where the shimmy is coming from.” Dell strolled around to the front of the car and looked under the hood. Today, her hair was in a high ponytail that brushed her right shoulder, partially obscuring her face. She was elbow-deep in the engine compartment.
“Hey, what's up?” he asked.
She answered without looking up. “Not much. Just checking something. We had a shimmy like you reported once before. Someone left a bolt out of the mounting block. It's a simple fix, if that's what's wrong.” She pulled her arm out and stood, brushing a stray lock from her face with her forearm. “All present and accounted for. We'll have to look elsewhere.”
“It felt like it was in the wheel,” he said.
“Like I said, just checking all the possibilities.”
“Got it,” Chet called from under the car. “We'll have to change out the shock on this side, but then she's good to go.”
Caro praised Chet and Pete for solving the problem so quickly and turned to go. Dell caught up with her before she reached the hauler. “Hey, wait up,” he called.