Need for Speed Page 10

  He would sit in his corner and put himself into a kind of trance and relive every car race he’d ever been in. From go-carts to shifter cars to his first street races. Every box race he’d driven in; every pull race he’d run out on I-684. Even that last fateful one with Dino and Little Pete—he was able to conjure them up vividly and replay them again, over and over in his head.

  He was able to recall every move he’d made, commit to memory every positive maneuver, and dwell especially on the ones that turned out to be wrong. He reviewed in his mind every part, gear, paddle, and switch of every vehicle he’d ever raced, from the shifter cars on, concentrating, of course, on his beloved Gran Torino.

  He was able to immerse himself in his memories, which were all he really had left. But he was able to learn from them—and that was the most important thing.

  On special nights, and he did this sparingly, he would put himself into his trance and think about those few glorious moments he’d experienced that morning driving the Shelby Mustang at Shepperton. He always began this particular mind exercise by remembering everything exactly how it was that day. The weather, how the track looked. How Little Pete was so excited. How he brought the Shelby into that first turn wide so he could slingshot himself onto the straightaway. How he had reached and then surpassed that magic 230 mph number.

  After many of those special sessions he would fall asleep sitting upright in his corner and dream about that special morning all over again.

  Those hours, days, and months in the Hole strengthened him physically, but more important, they bulked him up mentally.

  He knew that would be needed most of all for what lay ahead.

  * * *

  He spent a total of thirteen months in the Hole, extended by his mouthing off to his guards at one point, and when he was caught, by design, stealing his plastic utensils.

  When he was finally let out into the general population, he fell in with a bunch of fellow motorheads. Car thieves, mostly, they formed a substantial group and were pretty much left alone by the other gangs.

  Just one day out of the Hole, he got a prison tattoo. It was simple. Written on his left forearm, it read: “Pete 392.” His intention was to always have something there to remind him of his little brother, his friend.

  It was only later that he realized that, by extension, anytime he looked at it, it also reminded him of Pete’s beautiful sister, Anita.

  * * *

  Then came that day, exactly one month before his release, when he got the letter from Benny, talking about that year’s De Leon—and how Monarch was looking for racers.

  At that moment, Tobey knew it had all been worth it. Because suddenly, he was sure about what he’d been working for.

  No one ever came to visit him while he was in prison. That’s the way he’d wanted it. He didn’t write any letters during the majority of his incarceration, either. Phone calls to Benny and Joe Peck had gotten him by.

  But the one letter he did write had been to Mark Ingram, the wealthy owner of the Super Shelby Mustang.

  Tobey had started that letter out with the words, “You will think this is a strange request, but . . .”

  After that, the letters went back and forth furiously with Joe and Benny. The phone calls became more frequent, too. Something was building. His plan was moving full speed ahead.

  When his last day finally came, Tobey didn’t even read the prison release papers. He simply signed on the dotted line and pushed them back under the metal mesh window to the prison employee.

  He looked different. Older, rougher—tougher. But he felt different, too. No more wasting time. No more whining about the bum deal he’d gotten.

  He had important things to do.

  He picked up the bag holding his meager belongings and waited for the last barred door to open.

  Then he walked out into the sunlight and tasted freedom for the first time in two years.

  * * *

  Just outside the release gate, an old Ford pickup truck was waiting. Benny was behind the wheel.

  He leapt out of the cab as soon as Tobey walked out. He gave Tobey a quick pound-hug, then they both jumped into the truck.

  “Where’s Joe?” Tobey asked Benny simply.

  “Already on the road with the Beast,” Benny reported. “If your plan is going to work, he’s going to need that head start.”

  “What about Finn?” Tobey asked.

  Benny shook his head. “We still haven’t convinced him,” he replied. “He went down another path. But we’re still trying.”

  Benny turned the ignition key and started the old truck.

  “But has the car come through?” Benny asked his friend. “That’s the most important thing.”

  Tobey checked his watch. “We’ll know in an hour.”

  “Okay,” Benny said. “But we’re cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”

  Tobey just shrugged and looked out the window, his thoughts already a million miles away.

  “Hey, Tobey,” Benny said, bringing him back to reality.

  Tobey turned to his friend.

  “Good to see you out, man,” Benny told him.

  Tobey just nodded, and almost smiled.

  It was good to be out.

  Eleven

  TOBEY AND BENNY reached their destination about an hour later.

  It was an abandoned building located at 6565 Main Street, Mount Kisco.

  Many of its windows had been broken and its doors busted in. Junk cars sat deteriorating in the parking lot; litter and trash were everywhere. The sign that once proudly read, “Marshall Motors Est. 1974” was hanging half off and had turned to rust.

  The old garage. The place where he’d grown up. The place that had so many memories. It was gut-wrenching for Tobey to see it like this.

  And it got worse. Wrapped around the garage’s front door was a stream of yellow tape festooned with orange stickers from the sheriff’s department announcing the property had been put in foreclosure. For Tobey, this was just adding insult to injury.

  He and Benny climbed out of the Ford pickup. They examined the thick chain that was keeping the garage’s front door shut. The door’s glass itself was dirty and smeared, the numerals “6565” barely readable anymore.

  It was a sad moment for both of them.

  “I heard they’re turning it into a Jack in the Box,” Benny told him. “Just what Mount Kisco needs. More junk food.”

  Tobey tried to stay emotionless, but it was hard to do.

  “I’m just glad my old man isn’t alive to see this,” he said. “It would have broken his heart.”

  Tobey took a long look around, checking for cops. Certain the coast was clear, he kicked a small hole in the glass door. Wrapping his fist in his jacket, he kept punching the hole until it was big enough for them to squeeze through.

  He was the first to step inside. He had to take it in slowly. This place—once jumping with business, the sound of tools working, paint being sprayed, always with either loud rap music playing over the bedlam or Monarch’s voice booming—now it was quiet and dark and a mess. This place that had been so special to him—first, working with his father, learning the trade, and then their utter triumph in building the Mustang—now . . . it was a place of vandalism. Thieves had broken in and stolen all the tools. The paint room was riddled with graffiti. Even the car lifts were gone. The inside looked even worse than the outside.

  The photos that had been hanging on the wall had all fallen, their glass frames cracked or shattered completely. Some of the pictures had turned yellow and wrinkled. Others were gone altogether.

  This was a snapshot of failure. Tobey had promised his father that he would keep the garage open, no matter what. Now it was like something found in a ghost town—a thing of the past.

  So what about the future? Tobey thought, giving the place another long, sad l
ook. Would it be better? Could it be better?

  He’d psyched himself up so much in prison, dreaming yet another dream, that he had been sky high. But looking at the dilapidated garage and how it had turned out, he suddenly wondered if he’d just been fooling himself all along. Would his grand plan be possible to pull off?

  His answer came a second later.

  There was a sudden, loud noise outside. The roar of a huge engine, the screeching of big tires—sounds that had not been heard anywhere near the Marshall Motors building in a long time.

  A car had pulled into the parking lot. Silver ghost finish. Big wheels. Extremely sleek and sexy. A wave of smoke from its exhaust reached Tobey’s nostrils, and he recognized it right away.

  Only a little more than two years had gone by—but it might as well have been a lifetime.

  It was the Mustang. The Shelby-designed supercar that they’d built here and sold to Ingram what seemed like a century ago.

  It was like seeing an old friend; one you never thought you’d see ever again.

  Then the Mustang’s door opened, and an extremely attractive female stepped out. She was dressed in a way that would have made a supermodel jealous. Short, tight dress. High heels. Dramatic hair. Of all that had already happened to Tobey that day, this stunned him the most. He knew her, but he hadn’t really thought about her, not until this moment. In fact, he’d almost forgotten just how beautiful she was.

  It was not Anita, though.

  It was Julia.

  Suddenly it wasn’t so dark and dreary around the Marshall Motors building.

  But while he’d been expecting the car, he definitely hadn’t been expecting her.

  They met just outside the broken door. She smelled as good as she looked—but Tobey had to stay cool.

  “Thanks for the delivery,” he told her. “And thank Ingram for me. We won’t let him down.”

  Then Tobey called over his shoulder to Benny, “What do you think? First American car to win the De Leon?”

  Benny laughed. “Well, that’s your big plan, isn’t it? That’s why Ingram loaned you his car.”

  Tobey held out his hand, expecting Julia to pass him the keys. But she didn’t.

  “You don’t even have an invite to the De Leon,” she said to him sternly, her British accent at full throttle. “It is by very special invitation only, you know.”

  “I’ll get an invite,” Tobey told her confidently. “Believe me, Monarch is going to want this car in the race.”

  “But no one knows where the race is going to be,” Julia said. “At least until you get the invite. So exactly where would you be racing off to?”

  Tobey looked back over at Benny, who smirked.

  “Should I tell her?” Benny asked him.

  “Be my guest,” Tobey replied.

  “On the down low,” Benny said to Julia in a sort of conspiratorial whisper, “we’ve been doing some spying over the past couple months, and we know the De Leon will be in California this year. We just don’t know where. But we know one of the drivers, and—”

  “Benny!” Tobey half-yelled at him. “Loose lips . . .”

  Benny got the hint. He shut up in mid-sentence.

  Julia just shook her head at the two of them. She was trying not to laugh.

  “I admire your sense of adventure,” she said. “I have a little brother who is afflicted with the same thing.”

  “And your point is?” Tobey asked her.

  “California’s a big state,” she replied. “And you might remember my affinity for numbers? I’m a math gal.”

  “And what’s your math saying?” Tobey asked her.

  She smiled again. “The drivers’ meeting is always the night before the race,” she said. “So you have less than forty-five hours to get from New York to somewhere in California . . .”

  “That’s right,” Tobey said. “So?”

  Again, all she could do was shake her head at him.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” she said. “Not only will you be violating your parole by leaving the state of New York, you’re planning on driving for two days straight?”

  Tobey nodded simply. “And your problem with that is?”

  “Just that we better get going,” she replied, surprising him. “It’s actually forty-five hours and counting.”

  Tobey held his hands up.

  “Whoa,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere. That’s not part of the plan.”

  She didn’t back down for an instant.

  “You need a right-seater,” she told him. “And, more important, Ingram is not leaving this car in the hands of an ex-con.”

  But Tobey was having none of it.

  “No way,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s out of the question. First of all, I don’t need you, and second, it’s on me to fix this car if I damage it.”

  “And it’s on me to keep you honest,” she shot right back at him. “Now, there’s forty-four hours and fifty-nine minutes left. So, let’s go.”

  With that, Julia got back into the car and slammed the door shut. Tobey was flustered. He looked at Benny pleadingly. But Benny didn’t know what to do.

  “Maybe we can shake her at a fuel stop?” Tobey half whispered to his friend.

  “Okay, no worries, boss,” Benny replied under his breath. “I’ll help you dump her. But she’s right—we’re already behind. So let’s deal with it on the fly. I mean, at least she seems smart.”

  Tobey was still shaking his head, though. “I know she’s smart,” he said. “And also fucking gorgeous. But I just don’t think I can’t take it. All the . . . the . . .” Tobey used his hand to imitate a puppet chattering on endlessly.

  Benny imitated the hand-puppet idea, saying, “You want me to dump her, boss? Yes, please. Then follow me, I will take you on the ride from hell. She will be begging to get out of that car. Word to the moms. Word to the moms.”

  Benny smacked Tobey on the back and walked away. Tobey thought over the insult for a moment.

  Then he climbed into the driver’s side of the Mustang. He felt a ripple of electricity shoot through him. This car; this beautiful car. He never really thought he’d ever see it again, never mind be back behind the wheel. But here he was. Sometimes prayers are answered.

  He looked at Julia—she was smiling broadly back at him. He couldn’t help it—he smiled, too, briefly.

  Then he started the Mustang’s massive engine, revving it twice, and off they went.

  Part Five

  Twelve

  THE SUPER MUSTANG crossed the George Washington Bridge less than twenty minutes later.

  What was usually a forty-five-minute drive down from Mount Kisco to Manhattan had been done in half that time by the awesome Shelby GT.

  Tobey was settled in behind the wheel, still buzzing with the twin excitements of driving this car again and being out of the clink. The Mustang had not lost any of its power or its balls. He was casually blowing by any slower traffic he encountered, which was actually all of it. Or, if anything posed any kind of impediment to him, he simply cut around it.

  This was literally life in the fast lane. He’d averaged 120 mph since leaving Mount Kisco, and hit 130 as soon as they crossed the border into New Jersey.

  He’d had little conversation with Julia so far, mostly because she’d been too busy holding on for dear life. But once they’d reached the New Jersey Turnpike, Tobey finally turned to her and said, “Okay, so you’ve never been a right-seater before.”

  She gave him a quick, icy glare.

  “Don’t worry,” she replied over the roar of the Mustang’s mighty engine. “I’ll learn. And if you see something I’m doing wrong, please just point it out.”

  Tobey laughed. “Well, for one thing, you’re wearing high heels,” he said.

  She just shook her head.

&n
bsp; “We call them ‘heels’ these days,” she said. “And I have a change of shoes in my overnight bag.”

  “Then I suggest you do something about that,” Tobey said.

  Julia reached into her overnight bag, retrieved some more sensible shoes, and changed them with the heels.

  “There,” she said. “Anything else ‘right-seaters’ are meant to do?”

  Tobey replied tartly, “How about ‘be quiet’?”

  Julia continued glaring at him. “Like a mouse, you mean?”

  “Yeah, like a dead mouse,” Tobey said.

  She began to say something, but stopped. He stared straight ahead, knowing that one might have cut a little too deep.

  A chilly silence enveloped the car, and it stayed that way for a long time.

  * * *

  High above the New Jersey Turnpike, a Cessna Skyhawk was cruising at 130 mph, closely following the same direction of the highway as it headed south.

  Benny was at the plane’s controls.

  He clicked his microphone on.

  “Beauty,” he said. “This is Maverick. I’ve just found you. And you’ve got a situation a mile ahead.”

  “Roger that,” Tobey replied via the Mustang’s two-way radio. “Copy a situation one mile ahead.”

  He pushed up to another gear and exploded down the highway. He was soon traveling at 140 mph.

  “We’ve got bad traffic up ahead,” he said to Julia, finally breaking the silence. “We’ve got to reroute.”

  She was mystified. “But I don’t see any traffic,” she said, sitting up in her seat and trying to see the road up ahead.

  “We don’t,” Tobey said, pointing skyward. “But Benny does. He can see everything—he’s our spy in the sky. And I’ve got to listen to him. Hold on . . .”

  The two-way radio crackled again. “Stop and go traffic ahead,” Benny reported. “I’m looking for an exit for you.”