Page 81 of Goose

“Are you mad?”

He looked up. “Mad?” No. I’m not mad. I’m frustrated about last night. Fucking cops nearly got us. Chased us for a mile on the twisting roads out of that neighborhood. Cash can’t drive to save his fucking ass, and we damned near hit a tree. Luckily, the cop hit the tree that we missed. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be calling the diner and having that George fella write me a note on the board to have you come bail me out of jail.”

“None of you guys are good drivers?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Ghost was. We’re good riders, not good drivers. We do small jobs on our bikes. Big ones, we take an SUV.”

“What kind of SUV?”

“BMW,” he said.

“X5M?” I asked.

“Sounds right. Fuck, I don’t know. Why?”

“Just wondering. If you want to go fast in an SUV, that’s a great choice. About as fast as it gets. Five hundred sixty-seven horsepower.”

He looked me over. “You know quite a bit about cars, huh?”

I shrugged. “Compared to most, I suppose.”

“What?” he laughed a dry laugh. “Was your dad a mechanic, too?”

“No. But we spent a lot of time at Lime Rock Park.”

“What the fuck’s Lime Rock Park?”

“One of the United States’ oldest race tracks. My dad was his own getaway driver until I got old enough to drive. I grew up at that racetrack while he practiced his driving skills.”

“Now you’re going to tell me you can drive as good as you can crack a safe,” he said with a laugh.

“I held the track record at Lime Rock in late 2005 and early 2006,” I said proudly. “Not many can outdrive me. Men or women. After my father died, I quit going. I can still drive, though.”

After a lengthy blank stare, he stood and limped to the edge of the roof, which was only fifteen feet or so from where I was sitting. He peered toward the ocean for a few minutes, and then tuned to face me.

“We were in seventh grade. It was spring, right before school let out for the summer. Ghost claimed his bike was faster than mine.” The corners of his mouth curled up a little as he told the tale. “Tito explained that they both had the same weight and rolling resistance, therefore, they were equal. Ghost and I argued about until we finally agreed to race.”

I had no idea where he was going with the story but decided to play along. “Who weighed more?” I asked. “Between the two of you?”

He laughed as if recalling the memory. “Ghost. He was eating cheeseburgers when he was a year old.”

“Okay.” I grinned. “Go ahead.”

“Ghost was sure it was going to be a lop-sided race. I thought otherwise. I convinced him we needed Tito to decide who won. So, Tito went to the bottom of the hill, and we were supposed to race right past him. Tito went to the end of the block and raised his arms. When they fell, we took off.”

“Ghost’s big ass was peddling like his life depended on it, and so was I. Every hundred feet or so, I’d gain a foot on him. By the time we were halfway down the block, I was ahead by ten feet. When I rushed past Tito, I was ahead by twenty.”

“So, you won?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. “Kind of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I tossed my bike down in the street and was waving my arms in the air like an Olympian that had just crossed the finish line in a footrace. While I was bouncing around like an idiot with my hands in the air, Ghost kept looking at me like he hated me. Glaring that Porter Reeves glare. I put my arms down and asked him what his problem was. He punched my in the mouth so hard he knocked out my two front teeth.” He tapped the tip of his finger against his teeth. “These two are fake.”

“Holy crap,” I gasped. “He was that mad about the race?”

“He wasn’t mad about the race at all. He said, ‘To truly be a victor, you’ve got to remain humble. Maybe that’ll humble you.’ or some shit like that. He was teaching me a lesson.”