As I turned onto my street I checked under the dash and pulled out my throwdown piece. I saw the Buick up ahead and I pulled up so that my passenger door was two inches away from its driver side door, leaving no room for the driver to exit the silver sedan.
I powered down the window about a third of the way and recognized the surprised face in the Buick. Biggun! Now I’m wondering if the .38 I had in my hand would even faze that big guy.
I yelled over, “You lookin’ for me, Tiny?”
“Yeah, I got something for you.”
“Just hand it through the window.”
He tossed a familiar looking manila envelope onto my front seat. Damn! I snatched it up and rifled through it. Nine thousand, nine hundred bucks. All there!
Then Biggun told me, “I followed you out last night, just to make sure everything was okay…”
“Great job,” I interrupted.
“Hey, I never saw the dude pop you until you were falling down. I stopped to check on you and he got away. That envelope fell out of your pocket. I figured that the cops didn’t need to see it,” he continued.
“Well, thanks for returning it.”
“Don’t thank me, thank the boss.”
I had to ask, “Dale Jr?”
“The boss,” was all he would say.
After leaving the bouncer I went inside my place to throw some stuff in a bag for my flight to Michigan. I called Victoria Lane while packing to give her an update. She seemed more concerned about Jr than my head injury. Nice!
I then returned the call from the unknown female. It was the waitress from Whisky River. Found out her name is Jennifer. She also followed me out of the bar last night to make sure I was okay. Damn, for all those people to be looking out for me, my head sure hurts.
Finally, I called Cam Shaft and told him if he wanted his five Gs he better be at my place in the next three hours. He wasn’t too thrilled when I told him I also needed a ride to the airport.
Shaft got to my place in record time. As I opened the door he laughed, “You gettin’ on a plane with that on your head, Ahmed?”
“You, gettin’ on a plane, with that turban on your head. That’s what.”
“Oh. Maybe I’ll take it off then.”
Ten minutes later, after replacing the bandages with an Amp Racing cap, I was climbing into Shaft’s Escalade for the trip to the airport through Friday afternoon rush hour traffic. The five thousand dollars made him a little happier.
After a rough flight through some thunder storms up to Michigan all I wanted was to lay my busted gourd down on a nice, clean pillow. Well, at the Shamrock Motel---- yeah, it’s as classy as it sounds ---you get a not so nice, not so clean pillow. So, I decided I needed a drink, or seven, to soothe my head and hopefully, make me a little less picky about my room’s linens.
I sauntered into Frothy’s--- yeah, it's as classy as it sounds --- and decided to stick with beer tonight. I lucked into a barstool right beside the waitress station and ordered a Blue Moon. The bartender seemed like a friendly chap, said his name was CK and asked if I was in town for the races.
“Yeah, sort of,” I let him know.
“Any driver in particular you’re pulling for?” He asked.
“Not really. Dale Jr, kinda.”
He chuckled, “Save your breath, Mister. He won’t be visiting Vicky Lane anytime soon.”
“How’s that? I thought he had a decent shot here?”
He leaned over the bar and whispered, “It’s all rigged, man. Just like the WWE. NASCAR doesn’t want Jr to see Miss Lane until later in the season, to raise interest in the race for the chase.”
“Okay, Sparky, I think you’ve forgotten the number one rule of bartending….don’t over use the product.”
“Oh, I’m soberer than you, flatfoot. Want some proof?”
“What I really wanted was an orange slice in my Blue Moon Ale, not a lemon wedge, bro”
He continued on, “Sorry about that. Here’s your proof. NASCAR has set up an unbelievable finish for Sunday’s race. The top two cars run out of gas on the last lap. Two! And the old geezer Martin gets with Victoria Lane --- again. Still think that ain’t rigged?”
“Okay buddy, there is no way NASCAR would think that people would buy that ridiculous ending.”
CK leaned in again and said, “I have connections, just wait and see.”
I was at the track on Saturday doing a little snooping when I saw Victoria Lane. What a classic American beauty. I finally caught her alone for a minute and told her about the wild conspiracy theory of NASCAR keeping her and Dale Jr apart. The way she just smiled and nodded her head seemed strange to me.
The next time I saw Victoria Lane was late Sunday afternoon. Martin was with her after the top two guys ran out of gas on the last lap, just like CK said would happen. The NASCAR guys were all over her so I couldn't get a word in. She finally turned and gave me a helpless look.
Why do dames think they can play Hanner with a pretty smile and a kind word?