Sweet Carolina(4)

Dell sat up and drained the rest of the beer. “Shit.” He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the memory and the tears that threatened. Goddamned hardheaded bastard. He's the one who should have quit while he was ahead. Instead, he raced Darlington like an idiot, allowed Dickhead Warner to force him into taking evasive measures, and did exactly what he warned Dell of, he got himself killed. Run into a concrete barrier going a hundred and sixty miles an hour. Stupid fucker.

Dell still had the trophy. It was currently doubling as a fire hydrant in front of the biggest goddamned doghouse in Iredell County. And as soon as he got himself some dogs, he was going to let them piss all over it.

The door opened, and Dell glanced up to see his friend and crew chief, Ray Mallard step in. “You okay, Dell?”

“Yeah,” he sighed and stood. “Are we ready to go?”

“The hauler will be loaded in a few minutes. I thought we could get a headstart.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. Let's get out of here.”

Dell grabbed another beer and settled into the passenger seat. Neither man spoke until they navigated through the tunnel beneath the track and were on the freeway headed north.

“Want to talk about it?” Ray asked.

“Nothing to talk about. The bastard went after me on purpose, so I returned the favor.”

“Look, Dell. We've been friends for a long time, but I have to tell you, the crew isn't happy. They want to win.”

“We win our share.”

“Yeah, but you either win or you wreck. There's never an in-between. If you'd converted a few of those DNFs last year into decent finishes, we would have made the Chase at the end of the season. As it was, you spent the last few races driving around in circles for no reason.”

“The sponsor got exposure.”

“They'd rather see their car in Victory Lane.”

Dell shrugged. “We'll get them there enough to make them happy.”

“What did the officials say?”

“The usual,” he hedged. “It'll blow over. It always does.”

“How long do you think NASCAR is going to let you keep driving like your car is your own personal rocketship to hell?”

“As long as I keep showing up to drive, they're going to let me.”

“What about Anderson?”

Dell closed his eyes and considered the fallout from today in terms of the team owner. Virgil Anderson was a friend. When Dell was young and green, Virgil offered him a ride when no one else would. He was the only team owner who ignored the opinion of the mighty Caudell Senior who told everyone within hearing distance his son wasn't ready to drive in the Cup series. No, Virgil wouldn't toss Dell out now, not after he'd proved himself on the track these last four years.

“He'll come around. I've got my share of trophies in the case.”

“I hope you're right.”

* * * *

The phone call wasn't unexpected, but he wished to hell, it hadn't come at seven in the morning. The NASCAR officials must have burned the midnight oil in order to deliver their slap on the hand this early.

Dell parked in the slot with his name on it and pocketed his keys.

“Who won yesterday?” he asked as he passed the reception desk. Penny Anderson, Virgil's wife, was more reliable than ESPN.

“Randy,” she said. She pointed a finger at the pedestal beside the desk where the most recent trophy held sway until replaced by another.

Dell's stomach clenched. Randy Cox was a good driver, and bringing home the trophy for the Daytona 500 was big, even for a team the size of Anderson Racing. He pasted on his I'm-a-team-player face and responded. “Hey, that's great. What does that make for Cox? Five?”

“Six. You forgot Fontana last year.”

“Yeah, I keep forgetting that one.” He and his wrecked car were almost to New Mexico by the time the race was over.

“You okay, Dell?” The genuine concern in her voice grated. Why did everyone keep asking him that?

“Fine.” Just fucking fine.

He knocked on Virgil's door, entering without waiting for an invitation. The phone call had been invitation enough. “You wanted to see me?”

“Have a seat, Dell.”

Dell settled into one of the plush leather visitor chairs and crossed one ankle over his knee. “So, how much is the fine this time?”

“No fine.” Dell raised an eyebrow. No fine? That couldn't be good.

“What then?”

“NASCAR has suspended you for the next three races.”

Dell jerked to his feet. “What the…? Suspended?” He paced to the door and turned. “What about Warner? What did they do to him?”

“That's not my concern, or yours.”

“The hell it isn't. They're just going to let him get away with it? I don’t fucking believe this.”