Once Around the Track

CHAPTER XXII

Ed! We won the race at Darlington! That means we made the All-Stars!

Oh, good, Sark. I always liked baseball better, anyway.

Smart ass. The All-Star is next weekend’s nonpoints race at Lowe’s Motor Speedway. Home turf. The only people eligible to compete in this race are (I just had to look this up to write my press release) drivers who won races either in the current year or last year, or new drivers for car owners who won. Also eligible are drivers who are past Cup champions and/or are past winners of the All-Star race. Or whoever wins the All-Star Open. Actually, it’s a little more complicated than that.

Surely you don’t think I’m going to Google the NASCAR All-Star rules? You’ve already told me more than I wanted to know. But I get the gist of it, Racer Girl. Your team just became eligible for a winners-only competition, and you are unaccountably excited at the prospect. I suppose this is good for the greater glory of Badger, though.

You know, Ed, I’ve been thinking about that. When I first got into NASCAR, I thought that racing was all about one guy-the driver. But it isn’t. To use your baseball analogy, on our team Badger is like the pitcher. He may be the highest paid person on the team and the one who gets the most attention, but he wouldn’t get anywhere in competition by himself. Unless everybody does a good job at their own positions, he’s going to lose.

Of course, he’s going to lose! Oh, wait, he did win last week, didn’t he? I actually found myself boasting of my tenuous connection to Team Badger to a sports writer from the Charlotte Observer. Get me a hat or something, will you?

Sure, if you buy me dinner. You don’t want it signed by Badger, do you? Everybody has been complaining lately that he never does the autographing of items people send to the team. We’re thinking of getting a cattle prod. Plus some of the Vagenya Pharmaceuticals people showed up at the race last week, and Badger was supposed to go do a meet and greet with them, but he never showed up. I got some of the blame for that one, because I was supposed to get him there, but I couldn’t find him. They ought to hire him a nanny!

I thought he had one. That Albigre woman. By the way, I have some information about her that I’ll bet you will find interesting.

You did? Is she an ax murderess?

No, but I believe she is dangerous nonetheless, and for dinner and a Vagenya hat signed by the elusive Badger, I shall reveal all.

The All-Star Race is held in May at Lowe’s Motor Speedway, just off I-85, about twelve miles north of Charlotte, within easy commuting distance of nearly every racing operation in the sport. This race pitted the best against the best, competing for money, rather than for points toward the Cup championship. The mile-and-a-half tri-oval track had recently been resurfaced, but it had been a fast track even before that. With only five degrees of banking in the straightaways, drivers found it easy to maintain high speeds, and easy to pass other cars. Lowe’s was a popular track: a fun place to race and an easy commute from home base.

Team Vagenya had no real hopes of winning a second race in a row, especially not at a fast, flattish track that was usually dominated by the big team superstars, but at least the win at Darlington had put them into the race, and that alone was something to be proud of.

Up in the spotters’ position on the top of the speedway, Tony Lafon watched the progress of the All-Star race with growing apprehension. Drivers who couldn’t spell “invincible” were driving as if they were. His current concern was with one of the more reckless contenders, a fairly new driver who had managed to win one race the previous season, despite the fact that he was considered both reckless and inexperienced. Generally, competitors are referred to in spotters’ conversations by car number, but this particular driver was universally known as the “Weapon.” You didn’t want him anywhere near your car, because he would take you out, sometimes on purpose, and sometimes simply because he seemed to lack the skill to bump and run without leaving catastrophe in his wake. “Driving over his head,” the veterans called it.

As the race went on, the Weapon seemed to become progressively more obnoxious, spinning out a former champion and narrowly missing a collision with a couple of other drivers. Surely one of the old-timers would swat this puppy into the wall before the end of the race, Tony thought, but lap after lap went by, and the Weapon plowed on without retribution.

For Tony, the events on lap 76 seemed to unfold in slow motion below him. He realized that the lapped and damaged car directly in the path of Badger and the Weapon was moving much more slowly than they were, and that as they approached that point on the track, the Weapon was trying to overtake the 86.

Badger and the Weapon were running side by side going into Turn Two, approaching the lapped car on the inside. Badger held his line on the high side, but-true to form-the other driver, positioned in the middle, didn’t back down, and he ran out of room.

Tony was shouting, “Watch the lap car…Weapon on the inside…still there…still there…Holy shit…Bad-geerrrr!”

With nowhere to go, the Weapon clipped the lapped car and got shot up the track into Badger and then the wall. Badger’s car climbed the wall before slamming again into the other driver’s car. Twisted together, two crumpled cars slid onto the apron.

Both cars were clearly out of the race. The concern now was whether the drivers were all right.

Badger dropped the window net, and as he climbed out, he looked over at the window of the other car, waiting for its window net to drop-but it didn’t.

Badger didn’t wait for the Weapon to show his face. He climbed out of the window and headed for the other car, which was sitting on the pavement a few yards away from the 86. Badger’s clenched fists and his body language suggested that if the Weapon wasn’t hurt, he soon would be.

Badger was one step away from his opponent’s car, peering through the window net, which was still in place, when he seemed to realize that the driver inside was slumped forward in his seat, not moving. His fists unclenched, and he looked around, making sure that the safety crew knew he needed help. The helmet turned slowly toward the infield where the safety crews were just starting to roll. He waved one gloved hand and nodded.

An instant later, when he turned his attention back to the wreck, flames were engulfing the car inside and out.

In the pit stall, Taran started to scream.

Badger, still wearing all his gear, reached into the flames and lowered the window net, thrusting his body waist-deep into the burning car, searching in the darkness for the fire system plunger. He hit the trigger.

While the fire was held at bay by the spraying fire bottle, Badger backed out of the car, throwing off his helmet once he was clear.

“Why is he taking his helmet off?” asked Taran, who had covered her face with her hands and now was watching the scene through splayed fingers.

Kathy mouthed the words at her and pointed. “He’s going back in.”

Then Taran understood. Those cumbersome helmets hardly fit through the window by themselves, and they were hard to see and maneuver in. It could also be filled with smoke from the first time he went in. Besides, the Weapon was still wearing his own helmet, and two helmets trying to come out that car window at the same time would not work at all.

The smoke was thicker now, making it hard to see what was actually happening at the Weapon’s car, but Tuggle didn’t have to see to know.

Badger was getting him out. The safety crews were heading toward the wreck, but Badger wouldn’t wait for them to get there. Firesuits protect against fire only for a matter of seconds. Taking a breath in the open air, Badger reached back into the burning car and removed the steering wheel. If he undid the driver’s belts, the radio harness and the air hose could be ripped away, and the Hans device would come out with the injured driver.

Badger would tuck his chin over the Weapon’s shoulder from behind and fall backward with his arms under the Weapon’s arm pits and around his chest, pulling him partway out of the window. With the belts undone, the Weapon fell forward into Badger, who leveraged against the car and snaked the unconscious driver out the window and away from the flames.

From her place in the 86 pit stall, Reve Galloway was peering across the track through curtains of smoke to watch the rescue, when an odd thing happened. She should have seen a scrawny country boy in a tacky purple firesuit yanking a reckless jerk out of a bashed-in car…but somehow…

For just those few foggy seconds that it took for Badger to rescue the unconscious driver, everybody on Team Vagenya saw what Taran saw all the time. Him. The Dark Angel.

Someone taller than Badger Jenkins, and infinitely more graceful, had swung effortlessly out of his own car, which had crashed at nearly 200 miles per hour. Then without a moment’s hesitation he had walked over to the other wreck and, it seemed to her, straight into a wall of flames. Now, instead of worrying about his own safety, he was risking his life to rescue someone he didn’t even like. His movements were as deliberate and assured as those of a dancer. It was as if the danger did not exist. As if the wreck were simply a staged exercise in precision and movement. How beautiful he was, Reve thought. Why did we never see this before? Without any sense of irony, she found herself framing the scene in Hamlet’s words: In form and moving, how express and admirable. In action, how like an angel. In apprehension, how like a god.

He was, indeed, a paragon of animals, but only for the span of perhaps a minute. Just as he pulled the unconscious Weapon out of the burning car, the rescue workers arrived and sprayed both drivers with fire extinguishers. Badger tottered for a moment in the smoke and mist, letting the Weapon slide gently to the ground. He staggered away for a few feet, as if he were heading back for the 86, but before he reached it, he came to a swaying stop, and then his knees buckled and he fell forward onto the track.

For Reve, the scene seemed to unfold in slow motion with the sound on mute, but as soon as Badger’s body hit the pavement, the world went back to fast forward and the soundtrack in her head was scream after scream after scream. It was only the sore throat she had later that told her whose screams they had been.

Taran didn’t know if the race was over or not. She was shaking with cold, although no one else had seemed affected. Badger fell…She couldn’t remember what had happened next… Had she fainted?…Someone had led her to the hauler and wrapped her in a blanket. She had sat there-she didn’t know how long-holding a Styrofoam cup of thermos coffee in both hands. Tuggle, recognizing the signs of shock, had wanted to send her to the infield care center, but she had refused to go, afraid that they would keep her, and then she would not know what had happened to Badger. They had taken him away in an ambulance. Concussion, Kathy Erwin had said. She had seen enough of them to know.

“Is he going to be all right?” someone had asked.

Kathy shrugged. “Probably,” she said. “Head injuries are tricky, though. Sometimes they mess up your sense of balance or something. If it’s bad enough, he’ll never race again.”

More time passed, and the voices faded in and out. The coffee grew cold.

She thought that Sigur had come in for a little while, or perhaps Cindy. And she thought she must have slept for a bit. But then Tony Lafon had appeared, looking worried. He cupped her chin in his hand and peered at her intently. “Are you okay? Reve said you fainted.”

Taran shivered. “Where is everybody?”

“All over the place. Seeing to the car-what’s left of it. Packing up to get out of here. Checking on Badger. He’s going to be okay. Head injury. Smoke inhalation. They took him to the hospital. I think everybody forgot about you in all the chaos, so I figured I’d better come and find you.”

Taran tried to smile. “Thanks. I’m okay. It’s just that I’ve never seen him wreck before. Well, I mean, I have-back when he was just my driver, but now-” Her eyes welled up with tears, and she covered her mouth to hold back the sobs.

Tony looked away. “You’re really torn up over him, aren’t you?” he said at last.

Taran nodded. “That is exactly the right phrase to use,” she said. If she had to put it into words-how she felt about him-the simile that came to her mind would be, appropriately enough, an image of torture from medieval times. She had found a description of it in Henry V. Fluellen had said of the robber Bardolph: His nose is executed and his fire’s out.

The phrase was a reference to the one final indignity inflicted upon the prisoner before a medieval execution: the nose was slit with a sharp knife, opened, severing the cartilage between the nostrils and removing the anchorage that affixed the nose to the victim’s face. The incision was not fatal, but it was cruel-both painful and disfiguring, resulting in fountains of blood gushing uselessly from the wound.

Over the years the term for that punishment “his nose is open” began to be used metaphorically to describe hopeless infatuation, when feelings spill out, causing a scene that is agony to the sufferer, distasteful to witness, and completely without purpose. And so it was with her feelings for him. She felt an overpowering wave of emotion, so strong as to cancel out everything else, and yet, painful, useless, and unpleasant to watch. It hardly felt like love, because it was so one-sided, so hopeless, and hardly voluntary.

“Do you want me to take you to the hospital to see him?”

The words were out of her mouth almost before she thought them. “Oh, no!” she said. “I don’t really know him.”

Several hours later Tuggle pushed open the door to the hospital room, knowing that Badger wouldn’t care-and might not even know-that she had come empty-handed, but a strict sense of propriety inherited from an iron-willed grandmother made her feel guilty about it anyhow. But she’d be damned if she’d bring him flowers. Some sports reporters were sure to be loitering around in the hall somewhere, and a story about the “lady crew chief” bringing flowers to the handsome race car driver would be too good for them to pass up. No way in hell. Knowing Badger Jenkins, she thought he might have been grateful for a six-pack of Corona and a pack of Marlboro Lights, but she was pretty sure that his doctors wouldn’t thank her for showing up with them, and she knew better than to give him a novel, so she ended up bringing him nothing-except some bad news she was in no hurry to give him.

Badger was looking even smaller and paler than usual, tucked under the white sheets of the hospital bed and surrounded by vases of flowers covering almost every flat surface, sent in by fans and by well-wishers who lacked Tuggle’s horror of sentimental gestures. God knows where they had obtained them at that hour on such short notice. Wal-Mart, maybe.

He looked gaunt and weak, but at least he wasn’t bandaged up. The one good thing you could say about smoke inhalation and a head injury was that they weren’t messy conditions.

An article on one of the motorsports Web sites had likened the brain in a high-speed car crash to “putting a tomato in a cocktail shaker.” The brain bounced around hitting the inside of the skull, and it got badly bruised and swollen, but with luck and care, it would revert to normal in a few days or a week. Now all they could do was wait to see how badly he was hurt-and how permanently.

Laraine was sitting in a straight chair at his bedside. Tuggle remembered her from the Atlanta race, but now she was looking exhausted and disheveled, as if she had been there for days without leaving, instead of only a few hours. Her clothes were rumpled, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she had managed to smile when Tuggle came in. Then she touched Badger gently on the shoulder and nodded toward the door.

Badger’s eyes lit up when he saw his crew chief standing there. That was good, Tuggle thought. At least he knew who she was.

“Hey, Tuggle!” he called out. “What the hell happened?”

Tuggle sighed. “Well, you were running second behind the 38 car-”

He brightened. “I was running second?”

“Yeah, it was looking good, but then you came up on a lapped car right after Turn Two, and the Weapon was running with you on the inside, and he got into you…”

Badger scowled. “The Weapon, huh?”

Tuggle nodded. “And you both went into the wall. Hard. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” said Badger. “Just a headache. I’ll be fine. Ready to race next week.”

Tuggle said nothing. She had noticed the stricken look on the face of Laraine, who was shaking her head very slightly, perhaps to forestall wherever the conversation was going next. Tuggle wondered what there was that she didn’t know, and if it could possibly be worse than what Badger didn’t know.

Which was that he had been fired.

They weren’t going to announce it just yet. In fact, Tuggle suspected that the team owners had been relieved when Badger ended up in the hospital, because then they could get rid of him without seeming heartless. “Let go for health reasons.” It wasn’t true, though. They had been planning to fire him before he ever got in the car for the All-Star race.

Christine Berenson and a group of her fellow dilettantes had summoned Tuggle to a meeting in the skybox at nearly midnight. The race, which had begun at 7:40, was over, but the traffic jam of departing spectators would take almost as long as the race, so perhaps having nothing better to do, they decided to hold an impromptu business meeting.

Tuggle went in, feeling scruffy but morally superior, in her grimy purple coveralls and dusty Vagenya-86 cap. In skyboxes, the aristocratic fans sipped champagne and ate nouvelle cuisine from laden buffet tables, while beyond the plateglass window forty-three men played hit and run with Death. The Roman games must have been like this, she thought, and it made her shudder. Of course, the drivers these days were rich people, too, so maybe it wasn’t quite as unequal as it looked, but it still felt wrong to her to sip champagne while you watched people risking their lives.

Badger could be dying for all they knew. Maybe they didn’t care, but she sure as hell did. She thought of her first husband-the one who had taught her to put a restrictor plate on her heart. Maybe if they’d had a son together he would have been like Badger, who was a weasel, but so brave and beautiful that you couldn’t help but love him. She was his crew chief. That made him her weasel, and she would fight for him. Because these people were up to no good.

“You wanted to see me?” she said to the assembly of elegant women.

“Grace Tuggle, so good of you to come!” murmured Christine, using her name for the benefit of the assembled partners. “We wanted to know if you’d heard how Badger is doing?”

“They’ve transferred him from the infield care center to University Hospital,” said Tuggle, using the locals’ name for the Carolinas Medical Center-University. “I’ll go down there in the morning. It’s too late to see him tonight, but I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

Christine Berenson motioned her to a chair. “Sit down, Grace. That isn’t actually the reason we called you here, although, of course, we are all terribly concerned about Badger.”

Tuggle sat down in the chair, taking care not to get too comfortable, and eyed her employers warily.

“We have a situation,” said Christine, dropping her voice to a steely purr.

“We may need a relief driver next week,” Tuggle conceded. “Badger may well insist on driving with a concussion, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him.”

The women exchanged glances. Christine said, “You’ll be glad to know that we already have a relief driver. A talented young woman who has been doing well on some local speedways in Virginia. Rookie of the Year at one of them.”

Tuggle frowned. “Judith Burks? “She made it her business to know who was up and coming in motor sports.

“Oh, good. You’ve heard of her. And she’s a lovely little blonde, too. Very photogenic.”

“Nobody’s prettier than Badger,” said Tuggle.

“If you like the over-thirty-five redneck type,” sniffed Diane Hodges. “He’s no Rusty Wallace.”

“Fans love Badger. He’s kind to people,” said Tuggle. “Besides, he may not need a relief driver.” The race has just ended and they already have a replacement lined up?

The owners exchanged glances. “We’ve decided to let Badger go,” said Christine.

Tuggle’s jaw dropped. “But he just won Darlington!”

“Oh, nobody remembers who actually wins these races. There are so many of them. We think a woman driver would be a better image for the sponsor.”

“True, Faye, but that’s really beside the point,” said Christine. “The fact is NASCAR is like a small town. If you misbehave, people know about it.”

If she could have thought of anything to say, Tuggle would have said it, but fortunately no one was interested in being interrupted by incredulous protests, anyhow.

“One of the other owners clued us in, Grace. Badger has been working on a deal to change teams and take the sponsor with him.”

“He’s not that smart!” The words were out of Tuggle’s mouth before she could think better of them.

Suzie Terrell, the team’s attorney, said, “It’s true, though. His manager Melodie Albigre has been talking to at least one of the multicar teams about his switching over to them for more money, and taking Vagenya with him as the primary sponsor.”

At the sound of the Dominatrix’s name, Tuggle’s scowl became a snarl. “Have you talked to Badger?” she asked. “No. Of course, you haven’t. I’ll bet she is doing this behind his back. You need to hear his side of it.”

“No,” said Suzie Terrell. “They don’t. His degree of involvement is really of no consequence. I’m sorry, Tuggle. I like Badger. We all do. But this is business, and the decision is made. Effective today. Judith Burks is the 86 team’s new driver.”

“How did you hear about her?” asked Tuggle.

“Jeff Burton saw her race at the South Boston Speedway, and he mentioned it to some of the owners, who in turn recommended her to us.”

Tuggle nodded. She was thinking, Judith Burks from Virginia. Not bad. Wonder if Brian Burton would spot for her. But the fact that she approved of the replacement driver still didn’t make it right about Badger.

“She’s a college graduate from Amherst, Virginia,” said Christine. “Quite well-spoken. And she has done some modeling. She’s much more in keeping with the new face of motor sports. Let’s face it, Badger is a throwback to the old redneck days of racing. He’ll never change.”

“Thank God for that,” said Tuggle.

“Of course, we’ll wait until he has recovered to announce this officially.”

“Engine Noise probably has it already,” said Tuggle. “But tell me, who’s going to be your crew chief for the rest of the season?”

“Why, you are,” said Christine. The others nodded emphatically.

“I’ll finish out the year,” Tuggle told them. “Because I gave you my word, and at least on my end, that means something. But after that, I’m gone.”

Laraine’s gesture had meant for Tuggle to follow her out into the hall. “We’ll be back in a minute,” Laraine promised Badger. She touched his shoulder, letting her hand linger there for a moment, and he smiled up at her and closed his eyes. “We’re going to see about getting you some juice, hon.” She closed the door behind them.

“Have you had anything to eat today?” asked Tuggle. “How long have you been here?”

Laraine summoned a wan smile and tried to smooth down her tangled hair. “I came up for the race. I don’t think he knew I was coming, though. I sent a letter to his P.O. box and an e-mail, but he doesn’t seem to be getting his messages lately.”

“I think I know why,” said Tuggle, who knew that Melodie had taken over Badger’s correspondence on the pretext of “helping” him. Nothing got through to Badger anymore unless she approved of it. Unfortunately, she didn’t check for messages as often as she should have, and as a result, Badger had missed vital appointments and opportunities. It had cost him dearly.

“I got to the hospital about the same time he did,” Laraine was saying. “They let me stay with him. I told them I was family.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

Laraine shrugged. “Sure-along with everybody else in Marengo, to one degree or another. I think the law is the only one that sets a store by blood ties these days. The rest of us know that family is whoever you decide it is. I think Badger considers you family, Tuggle.”

“Not for long,” said Tuggle. She told Laraine what had happened in the owners meeting.

Laraine had listened without comment, but she had the same dark, sad eyes as Badger, and they said it all.

“So, as of now, whether he gets better or not, he’s gone.”

Laraine said softly, “You fought for him, of course.”

“I did,” said Tuggle. “What they did to him wasn’t fair.” But I didn’t fight very hard, she was thinking. Maybe it wasn’t Badger’s fault that the Dominatrix had tried to pull a fast one on the 86 team, but that didn’t mean that Badger was otherwise perfect. For starters, he should have been smarter in his choice of management, and he should have supervised her more closely. Besides, he never was much of a team player. He just wanted to race, but NASCAR had stopped being all about racing years ago. Now sponsors and fan base, image and publicity made the wheels go around. Lose your accent; get plastic surgery if you’re not handsome enough; learn to project a bland and genial media-friendly persona. But Badger just kept on being himself, no more capable of brown-nosing and expedient insincerity than a racing greyhound. Which made him just as vulnerable as they were.

Laraine sighed. “Everybody gives up on Badger sooner or later.”

“I didn’t want to,” said Tuggle. “I hope he never finds out how much I cared about him. He’s all pride and courage-and not a lick of corporate savvy. Just skin and bones, but when he puts on that firesuit he thinks he’s a lion. It made my heart turn over to watch him pulling that kid out of the wreck tonight. But I have to be realistic. I have a multimillion-dollar team to run. And you can’t count on him anywhere but on the track.”

“I know. He will break your heart and never know it. He never means to hurt anybody, though.”

“Well, he’s flushing a career down the toilet. He’d better clean up his act.”

“That won’t happen. He’s been handsome all his life. People let him slide on account of that. Sure, people leave him, but somebody else always comes along to take up the slack.”

“Not forever,” said Tuggle.

“Oh, you can’t explain to Badger about forever.”

“But you’re still here. How come you never left him?”

Laraine blinked back tears. “Because I understand about forever,” she said.

“Is that idiot awake yet? I need him to sign some papers.”

Tuggle and Laraine turned at the sound of the corncrake voice echoing down the hall. Melodie Albigre, who looked as if she had dressed for vampire prom night, came tapping down the hospital corridor in her stiletto heels, wearing an expression that suggested that Badger had wrecked solely in order to inconvenience her.

“I don’t suppose he’s too badly hurt if it’s only a head injury,” she said to Tuggle, tapping her forehead with one finger. “Not much up there to get damaged.”

Laraine’s eyes narrowed and she took a deep breath, but Tuggle flashed her a warning look, and she said nothing.

Heedless of the effect of her personal charm on her audience, Melodie went on, “I might have known he’d screw everything up. After he won Darlington, I thought I might actually have some good business deals lined up for us. And now this nonsense!”

“Badger was a hero tonight,” said Laraine. “He pulled that kid out of a burning car.”

Melodie Albigre sniffed. “Grandstanding,” she said.

“Don’t you care how he is?” asked Tuggle in a dangerously quiet voice.

“Oh, I expect it’s too soon to know. But I have made some contingency plans, anyhow.” She dug into her oversized purse and fished out a thick sheaf of papers.

“Good thing he has me around to look out for him.”

“Good thing,” said Laraine evenly.

Something in her tone attracted Melodie’s attention. “I don’t believe I know you,” she said, favoring Laraine with a patronizing smile. “I am Badger Jenkins’s manager. Are you a fan?”

“Yes,” said Laraine. “I am a fan of Badger. Always will be, always was.”

“Laraine is family,” said Tuggle. “Nobody gets in to see Badger without her okay.”

Melodie frowned. “Well, I don’t suppose anyone has told you, Grace, but I have it on good authority that Badger will be let go from the 86 team.”

“Thanks to you.”

Melodie took a deep breath and looked as if she wanted to dispute the point, but then she shrugged. “Oh, it’s no great loss,” she said. “There are other ways to make money. And lots of other rides out there.”

Tuggle narrowed her eyes. “Well, no, there aren’t. This is a non-union sport, with maybe a dozen or so team owners, barring the little independents. If you play fast and loose with one of them, the others will know about it before the end of the week. Just how much experience do you have managing drivers, anyhow?”

“Don’t let her in there!” A woman’s shrill voice echoed down the corridor of the hospital, and they turned to see Melanie Sark running toward them. She had clapped her hand over her mouth in a belated attempt to be more quiet. She had changed out of the power suit she’d worn as team publicist at the All-Star race. Now she wore Nikes, jeans, and a Team Vagenya sweatshirt, but she was still carrying her laptop case, and her labored breathing suggested that she had run all the way from the parking lot and up three flights of stairs with it.

Seeing the astonishment on their faces, she said, “Badger. How is he?”

“We don’t know yet,” said Tuggle.

“He’s no longer your concern,” said Melodie. “Badger has been released from the 86 team.”

“I know,” said Sark. “They want me to change the Web site tomorrow: put up a picture of Judith Burks and say she’ll be the relief driver next week. But I still care what happens to him.” She glanced pleadingly at Laraine. “I need to tell him something.”

Melodie said, “You can tell me privately. I’m in charge of his business affairs.”

“That,” said Sark, “is the problem.”

“I think you’d better tell us,” said Tuggle. “Laraine is family, and Badger is in no shape to make decisions right now.”

Sark hesitated. “But here in the hall? I have papers to show you.”

“Lounge,” said Tuggle. “I think Laraine could use some coffee, anyhow.”

Laraine shook her head. “I shouldn’t leave Badger.”

“Ten minutes,” said Sark.

They walked down the corridor to the waiting room. Sark sat down in a chair next to the coffee table and pushed aside ancient copies of Parents Magazine and National Geographic so that she could spread out the paper trail.

“First,” she said, “I have a confession to make. I’m a journalist.”

“Publicists generally are,” sniffed Melodie.

“Yes, but I didn’t switch to being a publicist. I considered myself working undercover. I was planning to do an exposé of the 86 team for some national publication like Vanity Fair.”

Tuggle glared at her. “An exposé about what?”

“Whatever I could find,” said Sark. “Badger’s sex life. The team’s incompetence. Drugs. Financial irregularities. Whatever was going.”

“How very unethical,” said Melodie. She had thought better of sitting on the sofa beside Tuggle and Laraine; instead, she was pacing in front of the snack machines, trying not altogether successfully to look bored.

Sark stared at her for a moment, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes, well, I decided not to write that article.”

Tuggle’s scowl had not lessened. “Why not?”

“I became a convert. Badger is pretty amazing. I was an expecting an arrogant jerk, and he’s not one. And the team-everybody was trying so hard. Julie and Roz and the pit crew. It would have been like drowning kittens to make fun of them in a national article. I couldn’t do it.”

Tuggle grunted. “You’re still fired.”

“I can’t afford to keep the job, anyhow,” said Sark. “Doesn’t pay enough, and it’s rather a waste of a good journalist. Ed just got a book deal-Memphis jazz musicians-and he’s asked me to go along as his research assistant. But there is another bit of research I wanted you to have before I go.” She opened her laptop case and took out a stack of papers. “One thing about being a journalist is that you have friends who are good at finding things out. My friend Ed is one of the best.”

“You had him investigate us?” said Tuggle.

“No. Not you. Her.” Sark nodded toward Melodie Alibgre, who was still pacing in front of the Coke machine.

“Why?”

Sark shrugged. “Mostly because she annoyed me so much. The way she orders people around. How rude she is to Badger. So Ed and I went on a fishing expedition.”

Melodie stopped pacing. “You had no right!” She rushed to the table as if she meant to grab the papers, but one look from Tuggle made her think better of it.

With a grim smile, Tuggle said, “What’d you catch?”

“Barracuda,” said Sark. “For starters, she isn’t a sports manager. Oh, she works for Miller O’Neill, all right, but not as a manager. She’s a clerk! They had stored all their old paper files in boxes from the past twenty years in a storage facility in Charlotte, and they hired her to go there and sort through the boxes to see which folders they needed to keep and which could be discarded. That’s what Eugene Miller thought she has been doing all this time. Imagine his surprise to learn that she landed herself a client.”

They turned to look at Melodie whose mulish expression did not indicate repentance. “I would have been a great manager,” she said. “All I needed was a chance! It’s not like you have to have a degree or anything to do it.”

Laraine sighed. “Poor Badger. He always takes everybody’s word for everything. Never checks.”

“I did a good job,” said Melodie.

“No,” said Tuggle, “you didn’t. This business runs on goodwill, and you cost him a ton of it. Badger may need somebody to ride herd on him, but the one thing in his favor is that he is kind and sweet-tempered, and people love him. But when they had to deal with a bitch like you, it cost him that advantage. Was she stealing his money?”

“Maybe,” said Sark. “We had to put all this together in a hurry, so we can’t really prove that. Besides, there’s worse,” said Sark. “She really was trying to drum up business deals for Badger.” She handed a printout to Laraine. “I think this would interest you.”

Melodie blanched. “Where did you get that?”

“Ed hacked into your computer,” said Sark, grinning. “We’re hoping you’ll sue him. It would make a great story.”

“What is it?” asked Tuggle, seeing the stricken expression on Laraine’s face as she read.

Sark saved her the trouble of answering. “Melodie has been negotiating the sale of Badger’s land at the Georgia lake to a development company specializing in golf resorts.”

Tuggle stared. “Badger agreed to that?”

“Of course, he didn’t,” said Laraine. “He’d die first. It says here that she has his power of attorney, and she’s using it to broker the deal.”

Sark nodded. “That’s why I have to get in to talk to Badger. So that he can stop it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Laraine. “I can stop it.”

“You? How?”

Laraine sighed. “I’ve had Badger’s power of attorney for years. I got my uncle the judge to draw it up for me, and Badger signed the form one time when he was down at the diner autographing posters.”

“Did he know what it was?”

“Sure. He was all for it. He said if he ever got hurt real bad, he wanted somebody he could trust looking after him. And I mean to.” She nodded toward Melanie. “What I’m wondering is how she got his power of attorney.”

Melodie smirked. “Badger never reads what you give him to sign. Have you ever noticed that?”

Laraine nodded. “You can generally trust people where we come from. Not like here.”

“So can you stop the sale of the land?” asked Sark.

“Oh, I already have,” said Laraine. “I was afraid that some day some crook would try to screw Badger out of the land. I sorta thought it might be Dessy, but even she wasn’t that cruel. So I talked it over with my uncle…”

“The judge?”

“Yeah. He suggested that we put a conservation easement on the land so that nobody could ever develop it. We figured that’s what Badger would want.”

Sark said, “But suppose he needs the money some day?”

“He’d starve first,” said Laraine. “But he won’t. I’ll see to that.” She turned a level gaze at Badger’s erstwhile manager. “I don’t think Badger needs a manager any more, ma’am. And if he finds out what you’ve been trying to do, he just might shoot you. And if he didn’t, I would. So do yourself a favor and get gone.”

Had she been dealing with men, Melodie might have burst into tears, but theatrics cuts no ice with furious women. As she left, she favored them with a final withering glare, and said, “Why would I want to stick around? It’s not like Badger has a future.”

Sark shuddered. “How could he let that horrible creature get control of his life?”

“Well,” said Laraine, “when he was a kid, he used to keep snakes as pets.”

They sat in the waiting room for a few more minutes, drinking bad hospital coffee and talking to dispel the chill of Melodie Albigre’s visit.

“It’s late,” said Tuggle, glancing at her watch. “Or rather, early. But I’d like to go look in on Badger again before I leave.”

“Don’t tell him yet that he’s out of a job,” said Laraine.

“No,” said Tuggle, “that can wait. How is he?”

Laraine glanced at the clock on the wall above the nurses’ station. “We’ve been out here half an hour,” she said. “Go back in and see.”

So Tuggle pushed the door open and looked in on Badger. He was still lying there pale amidst the white bed linens, and his eyes were closed, but an instant later, he opened them and beamed a welcoming smile when he caught sight of her. “Hey, Tuggle!” he said. “What the hell happened?”

Tuggle stared at him for a moment. Then she said, “Um…In the race? Well, like I told you earlier, you were second behind the 38 car.”

He brightened. “I was running second?”

“Yeah. It was looking good, but then you came up on that lapped car, and the Weapon was running with you on the inside right after Turn Two, and he got into you…”

“The Weapon, huh?”

Tuggle closed her eyes and willed her voice to become steady. “Yeah, Badger. You took a hard hit. But you’ll be okay. Excuse me just a minute.” She closed the door again.

Sark was still waiting outside in the hall. When Tuggle came back out she pointed to the door, but Tuggle shook her head. “He’s not up to it yet, Sark,” she said. “And he won’t remember that you came.”

Then she said to Laraine, “This is temporary. Happens to all of them at one time or another. It scares the hell out of you, but he’ll get over this.”

Laraine nodded. “I know. The doctors already told me that. I’m staying until he’s well enough to go home.”

“Figured you would,” said Tuggle. “Let one of us know if you need anything. We’re Badger’s family, too, no matter what the team owners say. Get somebody to spell you before you get too worn-out. You’ve got my cell phone number.”

When Laraine had gone back into Badger’s room, Sark said, “I don’t know what to say in this press release.”

“Say whatever the doctor tells you,” said Tuggle. “Resting comfortably, maybe. Don’t say he has been replaced yet. Christine’s orders.”

“Is he going to be all right? Physically, I mean?”

“It’s too soon to know,” said Tuggle. “It will take a couple of days for the brain swelling to go down, and then if he’s left with balance problems, he’ll never race again. But I think he’ll be all right. At least he has someone to look after him.”

Sark nodded. “She loves him so much.”

“More than he deserves.”

“Do you think he’ll stay with her?”

“Depends,” said Tuggle, thinking about first husbands and restrictor plates on hearts. “He may never be able to drive again. And if he does fully recover, maybe no other team will want him. He’s not twenty-something anymore. So if he’s done with NASCAR, then, yeah, I think he’ll settle down with her. If he has any sense.”

Sark shivered. “But if he does go back to Cup racing?”

Tuggle hesitated. She was thinking of a starry-eyed girl named Grace and of a race car driver who had put her so far into the wall she thought she’d never get over it. It was an old story. One that had happened many thousands of times. Maybe somewhere, just once, it ought to turn out all right. She said, “I think they’re going to make it.”