The Big Cat Nap

The thick odor of high-test gasoline, rich exhaust, and burning rubber assailed Harry’s nostrils. The screaming of the engines, on the other hand, thrilled her, just as Beethoven thrilled a music lover.

Waves of heat wiggled up on the tarmac from the exhaust pipes. Friday night, 7:00 P.M., the sun was still about two hours from setting at this exact spot in Waynesboro. The temperature was still in the high seventies, the day’s warmth hanging on.

Racing continued throughout the weekend, but Friday nights drew the fellows fresh from work, eager to roll and without big-enough wallets to compete with the Saturday men. The semipros used Central Virginia Hot Rod Track on Saturdays and Sundays. Those big dogs knew how to use the bleach box—also called a burnout pit—to heat their tires before reaching the staging area. Warm tires held the track better. But even the fellows with lighter wallets knew how to get their front tires just right. The staging lights were lit, next the big ambers, then green, and vroom. Sometimes a driver would miscue and the front end of his car would stand up: sure way to lose a race. The top fuel dragsters could do a quarter mile in 4.9 seconds at close to 200 mph. But even at the lower level, the driver’s body was subjected to close to 4.9 g-force pressure. It was a wild high.

True to her word, BoomBoom accompanied Harry. Alicia was in Richmond for a fund-raiser for the Virginia Historical Society and was only too happy to miss the noise and smell. Fair accompanied Alicia, as he, too, adored history and would read anything about Virginia history. So it worked out perfectly for both couples, each member having an escort, each member doing what he or she truly wanted to do.

The two women perched high on the bleachers.

Conventionally gorgeous, BoomBoom drew many an appreciative stare. But the men then looked at Harry, a far more natural-looking woman. Two good-looking women new to the viewing stands lifted spirits. The two high school classmates wore short-sleeved thin blouses, Bermuda shorts with espadrilles. BoomBoom fanned herself with an old-fashioned palm-frond fan, the kind that used to be given out in church during the summers.

“What do you think a paint job like that costs?” Harry indicated a flaming orange—a kind of burnt orange—on a Camaro with the black numeral 15 on each side.

“Metallic painting costs more, and that’s an unusual color.” BoomBoom squinted. “I guess five thousand for starters. I mean, to get that depth of color would take countless applications, and the paint would need to be really thin.”

“Bet you’re right. God, when you think of the money spent on these cars, it’s pretty overwhelming.”

“Yes, it is, but the people I worry about are the ones who don’t have a passion. The ones who always worry about the money and how everything has to make sense.”

“Are you criticizing me?”

“No. You worry about money too much, but you don’t lack passion. You love your horses, the farm. I’d have to say you even love your crepe myrtles.” BoomBoom laughed.

Before Harry could reply, the air shattered as a lower-level drag racer thundered down the strip. Bounding up the bleachers came a perspiring Victor Gatzembizi with Latigo Bly.

“Harry, my model. This little track has never seen such pulchritude.” Victor threw out his arms, then told BoomBoom and Latigo about Harry modeling his wife’s fortieth-birthday present.

Latigo, less effusive, simply asked after Victor’s tale of the fabulous necklace, “What brings you ladies over the mountain?”

“We live so close, we finally decided to see the action.” Harry smiled as Victor plopped down next to her, Latigo next to BoomBoom.

“Some good mechanics here. More importantly, some good drivers.” Victor swatted at a mosquito. “My whole crew is down there, and they’re good drivers, if I do say so myself.”

Latigo nodded. “Some of his boys might have made a career in racing, but it’s so tough. A person has to have the personality for it; it’s not just skill.”

“What do you mean exactly?” Harry’s curiosity, never far from the surface, was piqued.

Latigo, who had indulged in a bit of discreet plastic surgery, crossed his arms over his pecs. “A man—well, a woman, too—has to really want to win. But more than that, they must hate to lose. In 1966, Shirley Shahan was the first woman to win a national title, and she wanted to win every bit as much as the guys.”

“Really?” BoomBoom turned to fully face him. The effect was immediate: He straightened up and smiled broadly.

Victor chimed in. “He’s right. Those pros, traveling from race to race, would rather win than eat. There’s a high with it. Has to be. I don’t have it. Raced some, truly enjoyed it, but I didn’t care if I was the center of attention.”

“Performer personality,” Latigo said with conviction. “Now, there are a few drivers on the NASCAR circuit who are introverted, but most are hams. Love the cameras, love the interviews. Same with the dragsters.”

“What about the women?” Harry shrewdly observed. “Groupies.”

“The groupies are there, not quite to the level of rock stars. The funny thing is, a fair number of the big guys come from backgrounds where women are placed on a pedestal. They might go to bed with groupies, but sooner or later they want a real partner. The secret always is to look at a man’s mother.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” BoomBoom thought of her late husband, who, she felt, probably suffered whippings from his mama into his early forties. Kelly Craycroft, some years older than BoomBoom, never had quite enough backbone for her. After his death, a string of paramours filled her life. She finally woke up realizing that all that activity kept her from facing his death and her own inner pitfalls, as well.

Harry, on the other hand, observed closely but rarely had a clue as to the emotional underpinnings of human behavior.

“Speaking of rock stars, where’s your entourage?” Victor teased Harry.

“Home. The fumes and noise would upset them. It’s even pretty overwhelming for us.”

Latigo, in a pleasant manner, said, “Bobby Foltz, Victor.”

“Ah.” Victor shifted his attention to the track, where Bobby drove up to the starting line. “One of my boys, Bobby Foltz.”

Both Harry and BoomBoom kept quiet as they watched Bobby’s four-year-old Dodge Charger line up next to a really souped-up new Charger. They could see the helmets on the drivers, which obscured their features.

The green light flashed; the speed of the acceleration was stunning.

“Oh, my God,” Harry blurted out. “They need parachutes to stop.”

Bobby won the heat.

“Parachutes are used for cars exceeding a hundred fifty miles per hour. This class is close but no cigar.” Beaming, Victor stood up. “Excuse me, ladies.”

Latigo remained behind. “Vic gives his men full support. He’s a wise boss. Then again, he loves drag racing.”

“Was Nick Ashby any good?”

Latigo replied, a bit sadly, “Yes, and he was a good kid, too. This has hit Vic very hard. Hit all of them hard. They all race and work together. A close-knit group.”

“Even Walt Richardson?”

Latigo half-laughed. “Harry, you’re impossible.”

She sheepishly grinned. “I can’t help myself. I get to wondering, you know.”

“I could put some masking tape over her mouth.” BoomBoom pretended to look in her Pierre Deux cloth bag for tape.

Latigo enjoyed BoomBoom’s teasing. “Harry, Walt marched to a different drum. Now and then he’d come out to the track. He worked on the other guys’ cars, but he didn’t race. Actually, Walt was more interested in classic cars.”

Harry wanted to say, “I know.” Wisely, she kept her mouth shut.

“They haven’t made any progress yet, I don’t think—on the murders, I mean,” BoomBoom said.

“I thought it would hurt Vic’s business, but it hasn’t. Of course, his shop is the one we always recommend to our clients who’ve had accidents. No one does such good work so reasonably.”

“ReNu does seem to do the work for less.” BoomBoom just made conversation as she focused on the next race. She was really getting into this.

Harry was, too, but Harry could get sidetracked. “So the murders didn’t hurt Victor’s business?”

“No. Vic encouraged the fellows to keep racing in Nick’s memory. He made a contribution to the Classic Car Club of Virginia in Walt’s name. He’s keeping up morale.”

Fanning faster as a result of both the heat and the fumes, BoomBoom asked, “Latigo, why didn’t you found a life-insurance company? Why auto?”

Flattered to be questioned about his life choices, Latigo replied in his light but pleasing voice, “Death, really. When I started Safe and Sound, the company was painfully small—myself and three others, one of whom was my first wife. I didn’t want to call on people when someone passed away, and neither did Nola.” He named his first wife, who left the marriage far richer than she entered it.

Latigo always gave Nola credit for helping build the business, and he didn’t shy away from the fact that he indulged in one affair too many. Nola had wearied of it, wisely refraining from retaliatory affairs of her own. She waited until after the divorce. Nola was nobody’s fool.

Harry piped up. “Don’t you have to call on people if the car was turned into an accordion and the driver squashed to death, too?”

“We do, but usually it’s after the worst is over. By that I mean the life-insurance company has paid a call, started the paperwork, the funeral is over. Then we go. I can’t take the anguish. Now that the company’s big, I don’t need to make those calls. Sometimes I think it would be better if we’d vaporize and vanish. Less pain and drama.”

BoomBoom, having lost her husband years ago, steadily replied, “Latigo, just because you don’t see the body doesn’t mean you don’t feel the pain. It’s like getting hit in the gut with a medicine ball, but the pain doesn’t go away. Not for years, really.”

Realizing he’d forgotten about Kelly, Latigo apologized. “You’re right. I forget that you lost your husband.”

“I wasn’t offended.” She smiled at him. “Simply making a point. If I’m truthful, I think we would have eventually divorced. He was so driven by the business, morning, noon, and night. There wasn’t time for me, and I guess I’m selfish. I want to be first.”

“Oh, BoomBoom, you’re always first.” Harry shrugged. “But it’s almost always about sex.”

Latigo’s eyes bugged out. He couldn’t believe Harry said that. Sure, the women had known each other for most of their lives, but still.

BoomBoom laughed—such a clear, lovely laugh. “Leave it to you to tell the truth.”

Sheepishly, Harry said, “Boom, something happens to men when they look at you. Their brains go right out the window.”

Latigo smiled. “She’s right, BoomBoom.”

“All I ever wanted to be was loved for myself. That’s not as easy as it sounds.”

Latigo nodded. “Maybe not for anybody.”

The two women had lost count of his ex-wives. He hadn’t, since he had to pay alimony and child support.

“Let’s not talk about me.” BoomBoom stared down at the track. “I see tires smoking. Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Not really. What’s dangerous is not changing the tires when they need it. These specialized tires can run up to five hundred dollars apiece, and you go through them fast.”

“What about those expensive tires that Franny Howard sells? The Pirelli PZeroes and stuff like that?” Harry inquired.

“How do you know about PZeroes?”

“Motorhead.” BoomBoom pointed to Harry.

“Motorhead.” Harry pointed back at BoomBoom.

“Ah. Victor did tell me you two were car nuts. Not too many women are. Rare.”

“Well, those girls are missing a lot,” Harry said forcefully, since she had long ago tired of being the odd girl out among the talon-fingernailed girl set. “But I’m friends with Franny. She was so glad the next shipment of Yokohamas came in after the theft. But why not those big-name tires?”

“In drag racing, you need highly specialized tires. Simply put, you need a lot of rubber on the road. You need grip, but not the kind of tread you’d need in mud, snow, hard rain. It’s a whole different ball game. Also, these cars usually weigh less than true road vehicles. Weight is saved whenever it can be. For instance, some body repairs might be made with plastic. Not smart, but sure helps the weight problem. So, again, a driver needs a different kind of tire. People usually don’t think about vehicle weight when they buy a tire.” He waved his hand. “I’ve seen just about every kind of collision aftermath that you can imagine. Fortunately, most of them are easily repaired—well, maybe not easily, but they can be repaired. Others are scrap metal, and that’s why you need really good people in the field. But I can tell you—and this is just a rough guess, no industry statistics—that I think about twenty-five percent of accidents could have been avoided if the vehicle’s owner had checked the treads and replaced those tires. Everyone wants to get that extra thousand out of the rubber. It’s really stupid.”

“Money,” BoomBoom simply stated.

“Everything seems to come down to that, but, hey, seems to me that one’s life and the lives of your family are worth the price of four new tires.”

“You should work for Franny.” Harry liked Franny so much.

“Smart lady. Could she sell racing performance tires? I mean real racing performance tires, not just a great set of tires on a Ferrari to be driven for show. She could, but the market is so small. That woman, all by herself, has built a great business.”

“Well, you have, too,” Harry complimented him.

“The insurance industry has changed so much. It’s a lot harder now—regulations, being demonized by the media.” He shrugged. “Well, we aren’t the only business unfairly singled out for censure.” He laughed. “Could be a bank.”

Victor, perspiring, rejoined them.

“How’s Bobby?” Latigo reached into the small backpack cooler and handed Victor a much-needed beer.

He offered drinks to the ladies, who passed.

“Pumped up.”

“Good heat,” Latigo commented.

“He’s improving. My only worry about Bobby is he wants to tear the engine apart and bore out the cylinder a tiny bit more. He’s going to wind up with cylinders thin as paper.”

“He’ll get a bigger blast,” Harry laconically said.

Victor, who knew by reputation of Harry’s fascination with vehicles, thought a moment, then encouraged her. “I expect Nick’s WRX STI at his mother’s isn’t a welcome sight. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want it. If you like, since I’m in constant contact with her, I can gently suggest she might want to sell it. She’s probably already thought of it.”

“Really?” Harry felt her heart beat a tiny bit faster. “I’m sure it’s too expensive.”

BoomBoom giggled. “Harry thinks a loaf of bread is too expensive.”

“Hateful.” Harry closed her eyes for a moment, but she was smiling.

“The book value for that year and model”—Latigo knew so many of these figures by heart—“is about $30,500.”

“More, buddy. Nick put so much into that car.” Victor looked at his friend.

“He did, but his mother will get that back only if another racer buys it, and the group that races here just doesn’t have that kind of money to go buy another car or a second car. They’ve got all the car they can handle. If Mrs. Ashby needs the money or just wants to not look at it—too vivid a reminder—she’ll go with regular retail.”

“The loan should be about in the $24,500 figure.” Latigo folded his arms across his chest.

Harry’s face fell. “We’ve got a 2750 John Deere to repair.”

“Don’t give up just yet.” BoomBoom touched Harry’s hand. “Put it in your back pocket, unless,” she turned to Victor, “you think the car will sell quickly.”

“No. Mrs. Ashby’s dealing with so much right now. The poor woman is grief-stricken. Leave it to me. Okay?”

“Now, Victor, I’m not making a commitment.” Harry felt a tug of panic.

“I know.”