Motor Mouth

SEVEN

I had a six-pack of diet soda in cans, a bag of cookies, and two ham-and-cheese subs. I was in front of the bench and there was no Hooker. I looked to the boat. No one on deck. Two possibilities. Hooker went looking for a bathroom or he decided to follow someone. Either way, I was surprised he hadn’t called to tell me. I took the walkway to the parking lot and looked for the SUV. The lot was pretty much filled for the day. No one going in or out. I could hear conversation behind a green panel van. It sounded like Hooker. I rounded the van and found Hooker on the ground with Horse and Baldy over him. Horse and Baldy were concentrating on kicking Hooker and weren’t looking in my direction. Baldy was to the side. Horse had his back to me.

“Hey!” I shouted, coming up on Horse.

Horse turned toward me, and I roundhoused him in the face with the six-pack of soda. There was a satisfying crunch and blood spurted out of Horse’s nose. He stood there, stunned for a moment, and I clocked him again in the side of the head. Then I jumped away before either of them could catch me. I ran to the front of the lot screaming, “Fire! Fire!”

I heard car doors open and slam shut and an engine catch. I ran back to Hooker and saw the goon car wheel around and speed out of the lot. Hooker was on his hands and knees. He dragged himself to his feet and gave his head a shake to clear the cobwebs.

“Well, that was friggin’ embarrassing,” Hooker said. “I just got my ass saved by a woman with a six-pack of soda.”

“What were you doing back here with them?”

“They said they wanted to talk to me.”

“And they couldn’t do it by the bench?”

“Looking at it in retrospect…”

I broke a can of soda off from the six-pack and handed it to Hooker. “Boy, you don’t know much. You wouldn’t last ten minutes as a woman. I guess Huevo really doesn’t want anyone sitting on that bench.”

“It’s the cars. He wants his cars. All the while they were kicking me they wanted to know where I’d stashed the cars.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Of course I told them. They were kicking me!”

“Did they do any damage? Are you okay?”

“Remember when I hit the wall at Talladega and flipped four times? I’m a shade past that.”

“Cracked ribs?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Internal bleeding?”

“Hard to tell, but I’m not coughing up blood, so that’s a good sign. They could have kicked a lot harder. They didn’t want to kill me. They just wanted to get my attention and tell me Huevo was serious.”

“We should leave. I wouldn’t want them to think things over and come back to take a shot at seeing what I know.” Been there, done that.

Hooker limped to the SUV and gingerly eased himself onto the passenger seat. I got behind the wheel, hit the door locks and took off.

“I think we should return to the hotel and regroup,” I told Hooker. “And I’ve been thinking about the chip. There might be people who could back their way through the circuits and find out exactly what it does.”

“I thought we knew what it did.”

“I’d like it to turn out to be some kind of illegal technology, possibly traction control, but I can’t say that I know what it does. I’m thrown by the fact that it was just sitting in the knob without a connection to an electronic system. And I don’t know why there were two chips.”

“Do you know anyone who could find out?”

“Yes, but no one in Miami.”

I’d just turned onto Fourth, heading for Collins. I was driving on autopilot, trying not to let Hooker see how rattled I was, trying not to burst into tears because he was hurt. I stopped at a cross street and looked right. A car moved through the intersection. Hooker and I vacantly stared ahead at the car. It was another black BMW. Absolutely unremarkable…except for the big dog nose pressed to a rear side window.

“Beans!” Hooker shouted.

I was already on it. I had my left-turn signal blinking and a white-knuckle grip on the wheel. I had to let two cars go through before I could move. I took the corner, and we were both sitting forward, our eyes glued to the BMW. I followed for three blocks, keeping the BMW in sight. The BMW sailed through a yellow light, the car in front of me stopped for the red, and the BMW disappeared from view.

I did my best to run the BMW down when the light changed, but had no luck. The BMW was gone, last seen heading north.

“At least we know Beans is okay,” Hooker said.

More than could be said for Hooker. His eye was getting puffy and a brilliant magenta bruise was flowering on his cheek. I gave up on the search for Beans and headed back to the hotel.

“You could use some ice,” I told him.

“Yeah, and it wouldn’t hurt to have some Jack Daniel’s swirling around it,” Hooker said, eyes closed, head back on the headrest.

I drove to the hotel with my heart aching and my mind working hard to sort through the jumble of bad luck and terrible events that had occurred in the last four days. I needed to make some sense of it all. And I needed to find a way to fix it.

I found my way to Loews, handed the SUV over to the valet, and helped Hooker get to the room. We didn’t have a suite like Suzanne, but the room was nice, with a king-size bed, a writing desk and chair, and two club chairs with a small table between them.

Hooker hunkered down in one of the two club chairs. I gave him a ham-and-cheese sub and fashioned an ice pack for his eye. I sat in the other chair and started working my way through an identical sub.

“Do you think Ray Huevo knows his brother was stashed in the hauler?” I asked Hooker.

“He gave no indication that he knew, but I wouldn’t be surprised. He didn’t look too broken up by the death.”

I was standing at the window, looking out at the pool, and my attention was caught by a flash of white and black and brown.

“Omigod,” I said. “Beans.”

Hooker slumped back in his chair. “I know. I feel terrible about Beans. I don’t know where to look.”

“How about the pool?”

“The pool?”

“Yeah, I think that’s Beans down by the pool.”

Hooker came to the window and looked out. “That’s my dog!” He ran to his newly acquired duffel bag and started rummaging around in it.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for my gun,” he said. “I’m getting my dog back.”

“You can’t go down there with a gun! We have to be sneaky about this. It looks to me as if they’re passing by the pool area to get to the little dog park. I’ll go down to the lobby and follow them back to their room. Then we just wait for the guy to leave, and we go in and rescue Beans.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You can’t go with me. Everybody knows you. You’ll spook the Beans-napper. Just sit tight and keep the ice on your eye.”

I ran down the hall, punched the elevator button, and seconds later I was in the lobby, hiding out behind a potted palm. I called Hooker on my cell phone.

“Do you see them?” I asked Hooker.

“No. They walked past the pool and disappeared. Wait a minute, here they are. They’re walking back the same way they left. They’re about to come into the hotel.”

I heard Beans panting before I saw him. He wasn’t a hot-weather dog. He was walking beside a guy wearing khaki cargo shorts and a collared knit shirt. In his late thirties. Soft in the middle. They stopped in front of the elevator and the guy pushed the button. When the doors opened, I hurried over and slipped into the elevator with them. Two more people followed.

Beans’s ears instantly went up, his eyes got bright, and he started jumping around doing his happy dance. The guy was trying to control Beans, but Beans was having none of it. He pushed against me, snuffling my leg, leaving a wake of dog slobber from my knee to my crotch.

“He’s usually so well behaved,” the guy said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“Dogs like me,” I said. “Must be something about the way I smell. Eau de pot roast.”

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and the guy got out, but Beans wouldn’t leave my side. Beans had his four feet planted and his toenails dug into the elevator floor. The guy pulled at the leash, and Beans sat down. Hard to move Beans when he’s got his mind made up not to move. The two remaining people were nervously crowded into a corner.

“Maybe I should adopt him,” I said. “Want me to take him off your hands?”

“Lady, I lose this dog and my life isn’t worth dirt.”

I stepped out of the elevator, and Beans got up and moved to my side. “This isn’t my floor, but I’ll walk you to your room,” I told the dognapper. “Your dog seems to have attached himself to me.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like he knows you.”

“Yeah, it’s weird. I have this happen all the time.”

We walked down the hall to the dognapper’s room, he inserted his key card, then he opened the door.

I pointed to the sign dangling from the doorknob. “I see you have a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.”

“Yeah, I keep it there so the maid doesn’t come in. I can’t take a chance on someone accidentally letting the dog out.” He stepped inside and tugged on the leash. “Come on, big guy. Be a good dog.”

Beans pressed himself against me, and I fondled his head. “I don’t think he wants to go into the room.”

“He’s got to. I got things to do, and I can’t take him with me.”

“I could take him for a walk for you.”

“Thanks for the offer, but he was just out for a walk, and he did everything, if you know what I mean.” He searched through his pockets and came up with a dog biscuit. “I save these for emergencies,” he said. “I don’t give him too many because I don’t want him to get fat.” He threw the dog biscuit into the room, Beans bounded in after it, and the door was slammed shut.

I stood outside, waiting and listening, and a moment later I heard Beans give a woof. There was the sound of a body getting knocked to the floor, and there was some swearing.

I got back into the elevator, returned to the lobby, and called Hooker. “I have a plan. Meet me in the lobby. And try not to be conspicuous.”

A half hour later, Hooker and I were on a couch, our noses buried in a paper, our eyes trained on the elevator. We watched a lot of people go up and come down, but none of them was the Beans-napper. And then, there he was, stepping out of the elevator. He punched a number into his cell phone, talking as he walked to the door. He exited the hotel and got into a car that had just come up from valet parking.

“Do you know him?” I asked Hooker.

“Roger Estero. He works for Huevo. His official position is public relations, but he’s really a babysitter for Spanky. He tries to keep Spanky from punching out photographers, and he makes late-night pizza and Pepto-Bismol runs. I think he’s related to Huevo. A nephew or something. Not real bright. If you were even a little smart, you wouldn’t take a job babysitting Spanky.”

We waited until Estero drove away, and then we hustled up to the seventh floor. I found Beans’s room and removed the DO NOT DISTURB sign.

“Okay,” I said to Hooker. “You call room ser vice and tell them you want the room made up. Then as soon as the maid appears and puts the key in the door, you distract her and I’ll sneak in.”

Hooker made the call, and we positioned ourselves at opposite ends of the hall. The door leading to the ser vice elevator opened, and I hid around the corner. Hooker was down the hall fumbling with his key card. I heard the maid’s cart roll out. I heard her at Estero’s door. I heard Hooker approach her.

“Hey there, darlin’,” he said. And much as I hate to admit it, if I’d been the maid, I would have given him my full attention.

Hooker handed the maid a line about not being able to get his door open. He switched to speaking Spanish and I was lost. I peeked around the corner and saw that the door was ajar and the maid was down the hall with her back to me, giggling at something Hooker had said.

I pushed open Estero’s door and slipped inside. Beans was on the bed, ready to pounce, giving me his devil dog look. It was the look he always got just before he knocked me to the ground. I jumped into the bathroom and closed the door.

Moments later, the maid returned. I heard her open the door, heard Beans leap off the bed and gallop across the room. There was an audible gasp and the door to the room slammed shut.

Hooker knocked three times and then two. Our signal. I opened the bathroom doors and looked out at Beans. He was standing, nose pressed to the bottom of the entrance door, sniffing for Hooker. He was drooling and whining. I left the bathroom, opened the door to Hooker, Hooker stepped into the room and Beans knocked him to the ground and sat on him. Happy dog. Happy Hooker.

“Guess the maid decided Estero’s room didn’t need cleaning,” I said to Hooker.

“I’d tell you what she said, going down the hall, but it was in Spanish, and I’m not sure of the translation. I think it had to do with private parts and ravenous rodents.”

We called down to have the car brought around, clipped the leash onto Beans’s collar and walked him straight out the door of Loews Hotel and into the waiting SUV.

“I’ll find a place to hide,” Hooker said. “You get everything from the room and check us out, and I’ll meet you here in thirty minutes.”

The SUV pulled away and a black stretch limo pulled in. The bellman snapped to attention and Suzanne Huevo swung her ass out of the hotel. She was wearing a black suit and black stiletto heels. Her skirt hem came to just above her knees and the front slit went a lot higher. She had a leopard Itsy Poo bag on her shoulder and a no-shit diamond pin on her lapel.

“Omigod,” she said when she saw me. “You’re what’s-her-name!”

“Barney.”

“Yeah, Barney. Last time I was with you, I was facedown in my macaroni and cheese. How did you get me to my room?”

“Wheelchair.”

“Clever. Was I a spectacle?”

“My friend rescued us. The wheelchair was his idea. And I took an entire table down with me when I stood up. No one noticed you in the wheelchair.”

“Very nice. If you’re here around six o’clock, we can get shit-faced again. As you can see, I’m the grieving widow today. Got a lawyer meeting, a fucking memorial ser vice, and then I’m heading for a bar.”

“Sorry, I’m on my way to check out. How much longer are you going to be here in Miami?”

“As long as it takes. At least through the weekend. They still have Oscar on ice.”

I raced up to the room, gathered our belongings and put them into our two travel bags, and settled our bill. I left the lobby and took a position in the porte cochere, just to the side of the hotel entrance. I had our bags in hand. I was mentally cracking my knuckles, praying that Hooker didn’t drive up simultaneously with Roger Estero. I blew out a sigh of relief when I saw the SUV cruise down the street and turn onto hotel grounds. Hooker stopped in front of me, and Beans stared out at me. He gave a loud woof and the car rocked.

I opened the side door and tossed the bags onto the backseat. I closed the door and was about to get in next to Hooker when I was brought up short by my purse strap. It was Estero, and he wasn’t happy.

“I should have known there was something fishy about the way the dog was acting with you,” Estero said.

I tugged at the strap. “Let go of my bag.”

“I want the dog.”

“It’s Hooker’s dog. If you don’t let go, I’m going to start screaming.”

“Hooker’s a dead man as soon as I get the word. And I don’t care how loud you scream, I’m gonna get that dog back.” He dug his fingers into my arm and dragged me to the rear of the SUV. “Open the door.”

I started shrieking, and Estero clamped a hand over my mouth. I bit him, and he jerked his hand away, taking my bag with him.

I heard someone calling for security. Beans was barking. Hooker was yelling for me to get in the SUV. Estero was screaming threats, trying to get a handhold on my shirt. A bellman wedged himself between Estero and me, I rammed myself into the SUV, and Hooker took off while my door was still open.

I pulled the door shut and turned in my seat to look back at the hotel. “He’s got my purse.”

“Do you want me to go back and get it?”

“No! I want you to go far away from here.”

“How do you feel about North Carolina?”

“North Carolina would be good.”

“Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”

I had a mental head-slap moment. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. I’d completely forgotten.

“No,” I said. “I usually go home to my parents’ for Thanksgiving, but they’re going on a cruise this year. My dad won it in a raffle at his lodge. How about you?”

“My parents are divorced and holidays are always a tug of war. I avoid them when I can. I was planning on defrosting a Thanksgiving pizza and watching a ball game with Beans. You’re welcome to join me.”

“I can’t believe I forgot Thanksgiving.”

“When I went back to get our stuff from Felicia, her kitchen was filled with women making pies. She invited us to stay, but Gobbles needs to get home. He gets to see his kids on Thanksgiving. It’s a big deal for him.”

“It must be hard to be separated from your kids.”

“Like losing Beans,” Hooker said.

Traveling by private jet is painless. No waiting in line. No security hassles. No kids kicking the back of your chair. Hooker’s Citation is white with a narrow black-and-gold stripe running the length of the plane, and HOOKER written on the tail. Very sleek. The interior is cream leather and beige carpeting, with a small refreshment center in the front, by the door, and a small but comfortable lavatory in the rear. There are three captain’s chairs on one side of the aisle and two captain’s chairs plus a custom-made dog bed on the other. I was sitting across the aisle from Hooker. He had a movie up on the screen but my mind was elsewhere. It was early evening, and we were flying into Concord, North Carolina. We dropped below the cloud cover, and familiar neighborhoods popped into view. Houses were sprinkled across the countryside and clustered around lakes. We flew over Kannapolis. That was Earnhardt country. Lots of open space and a rickety little town. A big strip mall toward one end. Lake Norman sprawled to the west. Mooresville attached to the northeast end of the lake and Huntersville attached to the southeast end. A lot of the drivers and crew chiefs lived in Huntersville and Mooresville. There were condo complexes, high-end houses and golf-course communities, redneck bars, pretty shopping centers, and some fried-food restaurants.

The Citation touched down and skimmed over the asphalt runway. Five thousand five hundred feet long. It was a small airport used only by private planes. Hangars lined up on one side, with a terminal building in the middle. The NASCAR hangar sat at the far end. The sign on the terminal stated that this was NASCAR country. And it was accurate. NASCAR fans are all over the place, in every state, but you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting one in greater Charlotte. NASCAR was on bumper stickers, personalized license plates, shirts, hats, flags, dog collars, jackets, lamps, clocks, boxer shorts, bobble-head dolls, and pajamas.

Hooker’s black Blazer was parked by the Stiller Racing hangar. We loaded Beans into the back and watched Gobbles walk to a rusted-out Jeep.

“What happened to your ’vette?” Hooker asked him.

“Wife got it in the settlement. She painted it pink.”

“Ow,” Hooker said.

“I appreciate all you did for me,” Gobbles said. “I’m sorry I got you into this shit. I didn’t think it would turn into such a cluster fuck.” He searched through the duffel hanging on his shoulder and came up with the remote. “I still have this. Maybe it’d be better if you keep it…in case something happens to me.”

Hooker pocketed the remote; we got into the Blazer and followed Gobbles out of the lot.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” I asked Hooker.

“No. I have one of those Felicia feelings about Gobbles. I don’t think his problems are over.”

Corporate headquarters for many of the race teams are adjacent to the airfield. Hendrick, Penske, Roush, Huevo, and Stiller had campuses that housed engine shops and fabrication buildings, R amp; D centers, transporter bays, museums, corporate offices, and the main assembly buildings where the race cars are put together.

Stiller runs three full-time Cup cars and two Busch cars. At any one time, there are sixty race cars in the shop with two hundred new engines ready to race. The lighting is brighter than daylight, the floors are spotless, the inventory mind-boggling.

The season was over until mid-February, and the race-shop complex was a ghost town.

“Do you need anything at the shop?” Hooker asked.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” I said. “I’m looking forward to getting home.”

Hooker took 85 north and got off at the Huntersville exit. If Disneyland had been built by the Gap, it would look like my Huntersville neighborhood. It’s a contrived town with stores and restaurants at the ground level and apartments above. Surrounding the town are condo complexes. It’s actually a wonderful place to live, especially when you’re new to the area. The joke around the shops is that this is the place race-team members live when their wives throw them out of the house.

Hooker pulled into the lot behind my building, and his phone rang. The conversation was short, and he didn’t look happy when he hung up.

“That was Ray Huevo,” Hooker said. “Your purse got turned over to him, he found the gearshift knob in it, and as he puts it…something was missing.”

“That answers a few questions.”

“Yeah. Ray knew the chip was in the knob. And he wants the chip back. He said we could give it to him the easy way or the hard way.”

“Did he elaborate on the hard way?”

“No. But I think it might involve a lot of bleeding.”

“Maybe we should give him the chip.”

“That’s not going to prevent the bleeding. This has gone too far, and we know too much,” Hooker said. “Not only do we know about the chip, we know about Oscar.”

“I don’t like the direction of this conversation.”

“I think we’re in a lot of trouble. I think we need to find out exactly what functions the chip performs and then go to NASCAR and the police with it. Better a live shoe salesman than a dead race-car driver.”

“We’ve withheld information on a homicide,” I told him.

“We’ll deal.”

“I know a guy at the university in Charlotte who might be able to help us. This guy is a total computer nut. He’d love the chance to check out a new toy. I haven’t seen him in a while, but he’s probably still at the same address. He was living with his parents, and I can’t imagine him ever leaving. He’s a great guy, but he’d starve to death if he didn’t have a keeper. I have his phone number upstairs.”

“I’ll walk Beans and you make the phone call.”

I live on the second floor of a three-story building. A florist is directly below me and Dan Cox is above. Cox is a motor-sports journalist who covers NASCAR. He’s a really nice guy. He’s my age. And he looks like Gumby. Sometimes late at night I hear odd tapping sounds overhead, and I imagine it’s Gumby’s horse Pokey running around.

My apartment has two bedrooms and one and a half baths. My kitchen appliances are new, and the master bathroom has a marble countertop. The rooms are all freshly painted cream, and the carpet is stain free. My bedroom windows look down on a small patio and beyond that a parking lot. My living room windows look out at Main Street, USA.

Topper’s is across the street. Decent food and ice-cold beer on tap. Its décor is a mix of hunt club and speed park. Big leather booths, a bunch of tall bar tables, and a nice long mahogany bar.

When I sit at my desk, I look out the window at Topper’s. Most nights it’s packed, but this was the day before Thanksgiving and there wasn’t much going on. Teams were taking minivacations in the Florida Keys and visiting family.

Steven Sikulski had been easy to lure to the computer lab. I knew his only two weaknesses. A new computer problem to solve and cheesecake. Sikulski was a big, loose-jointed guy who looked like he should be setting out fruit in a supermarket. His face was unlined at fifty and perpetually looked like Sikulski didn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he didn’t.

I’d brought him the required offering of New York cheesecake, and now Hooker and I were pacing behind him, cracking our knuckles, waiting for Sikulski to solve the riddle of the chip.

“The small chip is obviously damaged,” Sikulski said. “It’s a microprocessor with wireless ability, and I’m guessing that the damaged portion contained leads to control some sort of mechanical process. The circuitry isn’t complicated, but the miniaturization is impressive. That’s all I can tell you on a quick look. The second chip is much more interesting. It can send and receive wirelessly. The fact that it was encased in a shell is fascinating. It would indicate that it doesn’t attach to a wiring system. That it can perform its function entirely wirelessly. Perhaps this is a relay of some sort. The primary brain in a complicated routing system. The circuitry is much more sophisticated than the circuitry in the damaged chip. Again, it’s microminiaturized. And here’s the good part…it carries its own power source. It’s riding on a veneer that seems to function as a battery. It’s not my area of expertise, but I suspect the battery is the most exciting part of this little sweetheart. If I had more time, I could work my way through the circuitry and tell you more.”

“Unfortunately, we haven’t got more time. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Because I know the location of the chips, and because I know their suspected use, I can give you a hypothetical situation. A driver could adjust the mechanical function of a car, such as engine speed, with a remote. For that matter, anyone at the track could signal the circuit board. It’s like one of those remote-control cars for kids, only this chip controls a real car. The puzzle is that there are two chips. It would seem to me the small chip could do the job.”

“Anyone at the track could control this gizmo?” Hooker asked. “It wouldn’t have to be the driver?”

“I’m speaking hypothetically,” Sikulski said. “The remote would be a simple on/off switch. There’s no reason why someone in the stands couldn’t operate it.”

“Would there be an advantage to a team member operating it? A spotter, for instance.”

“I imagine a spotter would have a better sense of when to turn it on and when to turn it off.” Sikulski closed the file on his computer. “You understand, this wireless technology could have other uses. It’s total James Bond, Mission Impossible shit.”

Hooker and I were in his Mooresville house, in front of his big-screen plasma, watching a ball game, eating Thanksgiving pizza. Beans was on the couch with us, waiting for scraps of crust, looking happy to be home.

I was happy to be home, too, but I couldn’t get rid of the anxiety that periodically fluttered through my chest. Helping Gobbles had seemed like the decent thing to do. And if I had to do it all over again, I’d still try to help him. I just wish it had turned out better. If only we hadn’t left Beans in the hauler…

“I was just so tired,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking right.”

Hooker looked over at me. “I missed the first half of that.”

“I’m worried.”

Hooker slid an arm around my shoulders. “It’ll work out okay. I’ve got a feeling.”

“Another feeling? You’ve got a lot of feelings these days.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I’m a hotbed of feelings. If you’d just stop being mad at me, I’d explain some of them to you.”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m disappointed. You broke my heart.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Do you want the last piece of pizza? Would that make us even?”

“You slept with a salesclerk! You can’t equate that with the last piece of pizza.”

“You don’t know much about men,” Hooker said. “And this isn’t any old pizza. This is extra cheese and pepperoni.”