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CHAPTER 4

Saturday, May 28th - ten to noon.

The stretch of the State Route that connected the northern end of Goldsboro with the rest of the world was so jam-packed it seemed ninety percent of the local population was headed north toward Thunder Park Raceway. Metal boxes of all shapes, ages and sizes moved ahead at reduced speed to maintain enough of a safety gap between them, but several drivers were too impatient and frequently raced along using the opposite lane.

With the magnificent beauty of the eternal desert forming the constant backdrop, the wagon train moved past the old gas station that the Tobin family was remodeling into a large-scale bug-o-rama in the hope of attracting some tourists.

A large banner proudly proclaiming Opening Soon!  The Bug Bonanza!  Home Of King Spiders & Black Scorpions & Fire Ants! as well as three strings of Nylon cord carrying red, white and blue flags had been stretched out between two poles. The constant desert breeze meant the banner and the flags never stood still, so the poles had been weighed down by sacks of cement so they wouldn't tip over.

A few miles further north, the State Route ran past the Old Boys' Haven, the trailer park where the former wrestler Joe-Bob 'The Manbeast Of Yucky Flats' had lived before his sudden illness. Cruder and far less attractive than the trailer park eight miles south of Goldsboro where Wynne, Mandy and their friends lived, the Old Boys' Haven-moniker was to be taken literally as only single men of a certain age or standing could be taken into consideration for ownership of one of the mobile homes.

Wynne had her elbow on her Silverado's armrest as she, Ernie, Blackie and Goldie followed the cars and trucks ahead of them. The new day was even hotter than Friday so she had the air-conditioning going at full speed. Unlike the day before, she wore her beloved full-length, faded jeans that would protect her thighs and calves from the murderous rays of the sun as it beat down from the clear, blue sky. Up top, she wore a denim summer jacket that covered a white, long-sleeved tunic made of the softest flannel she had ever worn. The jacket was only for driving to the track, but the battered, bruised and greasy cowboy hat that sat atop her dark locks would stay there the entire day.

Ernie wore his usual garments: boots, dark jeans, a checkered flannel shirt and a hunting vest. His Built Ford Tough baseball cap had been pushed back from his brow to offer plenty of room for his voluminous mullet.

In the back, Blackie was in a grumpy frame of mind because the windows had to be closed due to the air-conditioning running - it meant she couldn't stick her head out and have her fur blasted by the headwind. Goldie was in a far better mood than her canine companion so she tried her best to spin the ride into a positive experience through a few happy yaps and little nudges.

The Down-Home Ol' Country Shack took care of the entertainment, but the ever-widening distance to the radio station's transmitting towers down south in Lansingburg meant there had been an abundance of static on the regular FM frequency. Ultimately, Wynne had docked her smartphone to the truck's infotainment system so they could continue to listen via the Internet.

At present, Pamela Coulton's All The Promises You Made from 1974 told a grim tale of alcohol and spousal abuse, but at least it ended on a somewhat positive note as the cheatin', beatin' husband was hauled off to serve eight to ten for robbing a drugstore. The next song was far more cheery to create a contrast, and all four in the Silverado recited, hummed or howled along to the classic spoken-word comedy track Mah Day In Court by James 'Jimbo' Edwards from the mid-1980s.

The humorous song about a man accused of drunken disorderly in public was followed by a weather report that didn't offer anything Wynne and the others didn't already know - it was hot and would only get hotter as the afternoon and evening wore on.

They soon drove past a road sign that read Thunder Park Raceway 2 miles - Leigh 49 miles - Maynard Bluff (Maynard Canyon) 81 miles - Parson Flats 104 miles - Barton City 117 miles.

Only the first piece of information was of any value to them, and Wynne broke out in a grin as she shuffled around on the seat. "Ain't long ta go now… aw-yuh, an' then we gonn' have a fuh-n day at them races, yessir. Haw, there gonn' be all kinds-a racin'… them mini-ol'timahs an' winged sprint cah-rs an' them dirt-stockahs o' course… an' they gonn' be havin' a beauteh pageant an' a classic cah-r parah-de an' evrehthin'!  Aw, we gonn' have a hella-fuh-n tih-me, I be tellin' ya!"

A moment later, her joy was replaced by a frown, a groan and an: "Aw… aw-shoot, whaddindahell goin' on up there?  Lookie there at all them brake li'tes… y'all gotta be shittin' me!  There be a two-mile lih-ne ta get inta Thundah Pahhhh-rk?!"

"Sure looks like it," Ernie said and shielded his eyes to see better. In the back, Blackie and Goldie looked between the seats before they turned to exchange a long, somber look and a few downcast woofs and yaps.

A sad, long Woooooooof… out of Blackie proved that her mood had just sunk even lower as she experienced an unfortunate doggy-flashback to the endless boredom of the previous day.

Up ahead, a red wash of brake lights lit up as everyone slowed down and came to a halt. Even further ahead, at the access road to the race track, a pair of white-and-gold Dodge Durangos from the MacLean County Sheriff's Office were parked at oblique angles across the two-lane State Route to force the traffic into three narrower lanes: one reserved for the traffic that had no business at the race track, one reserved for vehicles driven by team personnel who needed to get ahead fast, and the last one for all the regular cars, SUVs and trucks bringing the spectators to the big event.

A handful of support vehicles that had been caught in the endless line were already honking at everyone else to be let through on the double. Beatrice Reilly - who wore a fluorescent-yellow warning vest over her regular black-and-dark-gray uniform - was tasked with running down the line to inform the drivers that they were allowed to break out and use the opposite lane to get ahead.

Once those vehicles had been dealt with, several interstate eighteen-wheelers, a smattering of general delivery trucks and two overland buses were given permission to follow suit and use the opposite lane until they had cleared the access road to Thunder Park - a small group of regular pickup trucks en route to Leigh, Maynard Bluff, Parson Flats or Barton City were cleared to proceed as well.

Though the professional drivers were as efficient as ever in moving on after Beatrice Reilly had allowed them to, it seemed that all the regular Joes and Janes out for a Saturday ride weren't as fast in responding to the large gaps that developed in the line.

In short, everyone was stuck fast, and it all left Wynne tapping her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. The needle on her personal gauge labeled Patience was soon on the move from Cool, Calm & Collected toward Another Second Of This And I'll Explode!

Another second did in fact go by with no activity whatsoever up front; then things got worse as a white haze began to rise from the engine compartment of a restored, yacht-sized Ford LTD Country Squire station wagon - complete with fake woodgrain on the flanks - from the mid-1970s. The driver of the enormous vehicle got out and opened the hood which sent a massive cloud of steam billowing into the air.

"Foh-rd," Wynne said and pointed ahead. Nothing further needed be said, but Ernie's dark gaze made her chuckle despite the frustrating delay. "Naw, I jus' 'bout hadda-nuff o' this, thankyaverehmuch. Y'all bettah grab onta som'tin, son, 'cos we be comin' through!  Ya heah me back theah, girls?"

Goldie whimpered and dove down into the footwell in a pre-emptive measure - she still remembered being flung down there the day before. Blackie, unlike her golden companion, let out a series of excited Woofs! at the prospects of finally experiencing some action.

Spinning the steering wheel to the right, Wynne broke out of the line and roared ahead. The Silverado's left-hand-side wheels remained on the apron of the blacktop while the pair on the right kicked up plenty of desert dust though they were only going twenty miles per hour at first. Several of the cars and trucks they passed honked or waved at them - one even shook his fist - which only made Wynne press the gas harder. The ride was rough but nothing the sturdy truck couldn't handle, and it enabled them to zoom past numerous vans, SUVs, cars and pickups until a suitable gap in the line presented itself.

It seemed just big enough for them, so Wynne spun the steering wheel once more upon reaching it. Stopping offered no problem and they soon came to a halt between a Chevrolet Tahoe and a Ram 1500. Grinning, she whipped off her cowboy hat and waved at the drivers ahead and behind who both mirrored her actions.

"Nice drivin', Wynne," Ernie said and reached over to slap his friend a high-five.

"Whah, much obliged, buddeh!"

"Yeah, but now we got trouble coming," Ernie continued as he pointed out of the windshield.

Wynne followed the pointing finger and promptly let out a long groan at the sight of Beatrice Reilly stomping toward the Silverado. "Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die, ol' Quick Draw sure look P.O.'ed taday… I'mma-gonn' do the tawkin', Ernie."

"Be my guest!"

After turning off the A/C, Wynne rolled down the window and put her elbow across the windowsill. She offered the seething deputy a wide grin that faded when it failed to have the intended impact. "Whah, howdy there, De-per-teh Reilleh. 'S there anythin' I can do fer y'all on this he' oh-so-fih-ne Sattahrd'y?"

"License and registration, Ma'am," Beatrice said through clenched teeth.

Wynne's jaw began to grind; Blackie growled in the back. "C'mon, de-per-teh, y'all know dang well who I am."

"License and registration, Ma'am. I won't tell you again."

"Lawrdie," Wynne said as she reached for her wallet and the driver's license. Once she had the small plastic card, she opened one of the trays in the center console and took a photocopy of the vehicle registration form - the documents were soon handed to Beatrice. "Whut, y'all tryin' ta be the new Artie Rains or someboddah?  Lemme tell ya, Quick Draw, that mondoh-crappoh attah-toode didden work with the original Artie… an' it sure ain't gonn' work with no aspirin' de-per-teh, neithah."

"Ma'am, do you understand why I pulled you over?"

Wynne scrunched up her face even further. "I be perdeh dog-gone sure y'all gonn' tell me in 'bout five seconds anyhows, so les'pretend I ain't got nooooo clue, de-per-teh."

Beatrice looked as if she was on the brink of exploding; then she drew a deep breath to say: "I pulled you over for reckless driving."

"Whut?!  Reckl-"

"Reckless driving is a misdemeanor punishable by a fine ranging from three hundred to one thousand dollars depending on the severity-"

"One thou-?!"

"Repeat offenders may face a six-month jail sentence. Since your reckless vehicular behavior resulted in no deaths or other substantial bodily harm, I estimate your fine will be roughly four to five hundred dollars-"

"Whaddinda-flamin'-hell y'all be tawkin-a-bout, Quick Draw?!  Deaths?!  We wus nevah goin' fastah than thirty frickin'-"

"Had I classified your driving as a category B offense, it would have been a felony. That's up to six years in prison with a fine of up to five thousand dollars."

"Bea… dis is da worst kinda… dis he' ain't nuttin' but…" Wynne said in the deepest register her voice could reach - she cut herself off before she would speak her mind and get herself into even worse trouble. Her ruddy complexion, steely glare and the thumping vein on the side of her neck proved she was indeed hot under the collar.

Beatrice continued in a voice that was just as steely and determined as Wynne's glare: "Ma'am, it's unlawful for a person to drive a vehicle in willful or wanton disregard of the safety of persons or property on a State Route."

Wynne bit her tongue, clenched her jaw and tried to imagine that her lips had been sewn shut, but none of it worked. "Ah. Didden. Do. Nuttin'. Of. Da. Kind. De-per-teh. Nuttin'. This he' deal ain't nuttin' but stinkeh, ol' B.S.!  B.S., pure an' simple!"

Beatrice shot Wynne a dark, stormy glare that told The Last Original Cowpoke to shut up now or regret it for the rest of the weekend. The deputy stepped away from the black Silverado to inspect the documents - much to her visible annoyance, she could find nothing wrong with either the license or the registration form. "Do you understand what I have been telling you, Ma'am?"

"Whah, Ah sure do, De-per-teh!" Wynne said in an overly cheery voice that made Ernie let out a sound that was a combination of a snort and a chuckle.

"Very well. I'm going to let you off with a stern warning for the time being," Beatrice said as she handed the documents back to Wynne. "However, I will make an entry in my daily report. I'll be keeping a close eye on you for the next couple of days."

"Whah, Ah sure be mi'teh grateful fer yer lenience'h, de-per-teh!" Wynne growled. The line had begun to move ahead of them, and she slammed her license and the registration onto the center console so she could concentrate on the driving - Ernie wisely kept his quips to himself.

Wynne craned her neck to look for a glimpse of Mandy when they reached the other Durango, but she could only see a sickly-looking Barry Simms who was an utterly inadequate substitute for the real thing. A friendly, little wave had never hurt anyone, so she did in fact do just that - Barry not only waved back but offered her a thumbs-up that left her in a slightly better mood.

The mat-black Silverado made the right-hand turn onto the paved entry to Thunder Park Raceway without further drama. As soon as the one-lane access road fanned out into four lanes, the traffic flowed far better and everyone could breathe a little easier.

The ticket booths were reached before long which saw a return to the bumper-to-bumper waiting, but at least there was a purpose to it. The people in the glass cubicles had so much experience and were so accustomed to getting the job done that it took less than a minute for Wynne to buy grandstand tickets for two adults and two pets, as well as infield passes for two adults and two pets.

'Motor racing is dangerous!  All pets must be on a leash at all times,' was printed on the rear of the tickets; to adhere to the rules and regulations, Wynne had brought along a pair of special leashes for Blackie and Goldie - though the doggy duo disliked wearing regular collars and leashes, Wynne had found some that were so comfortable for them to wear they hardly even noticed them.

The parking lots surrounding Thunder Park Raceway had room for nearly 700 vehicles, and it seemed most of those spaces would be filled well before the afternoon's activities would start for real. The track's own security guards had been tasked with controlling the traffic around the paved areas, and they swarmed around trying to keep up with the action.

Wearing yellow warning vests just like the real deputy sheriffs out on the State Route, the members of the private security team used whistles and luminescent batons to direct the scores of vehicles around the busy lanes - it was clear by their frantic whistling and occasional shouting they were already overworked.

The bumper-to-bumper traffic made another unwelcome return as the metal caravan snaked its way through the lots and connecting accessways. It was inevitable that two trucks engaged in an intimate encounter without meaning to, and the drivers were soon swapping telephone numbers and insurance information.

Other SUVs and trucks seemed to drive around and around for ages before the choosy drivers and passengers would find a spot suitable for their needs. At regular intervals, SUVs came to a halt directly below the ubiquitous No Stopping! signs to offload half a football team's worth of kids and adolescents; the juniors would all run off toward the staircase to the main grandstand or over to the row of portable public restrooms that had been set up in the farthest corner of the parking lot.

Wynne and Ernie had barely arrived at the next group of security guards before the whistles of the uniformed men and women were put to use: the shrill signals meant the first and second parking lots had reached full capacity and would be cordoned off.

Instead of being able to park where she wanted, Wynne needed to trickle around twice more before she and the others found a spot that wasn't a mile from the access gate to the main grandstand. After reversing into the space between a Chrysler Voyager and a Ford Explorer, she turned off the engine and let out an excited "Awri'te, we he'!  Ain't dat som'tin?  I thunk we wus nevah gonn' make it. But we did and now we be he'."

Woof-woof! - Yap!

"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie, girls!  Y'all excited yet?  I sure am."

Woof!

"Knew y'all wus gonn' be, Blackie. Goldie, I promise all gonn' be jus' fih-ne," Wynne said while sporting a grin.

"Man, look at that heat shimmerin' off the roofs," Ernie said, pointing out of the windshield. "It's probably forty degrees hotter out there than in here. At least…"

"Prolleh, yuh." Wynne undocked her telephone from the Silverado's infotainment system; she took a gander at the time before she slipped it into her pocket. "Aw, we still got 'bout three-quahtahs off'an ho'uah befo' the first o' them vee-hickels gonn' hit tha track fer their qualah-fyin'. We can wait a li'l in he' in da chill. Aw, dat rhymes!"

Once their chuckles had died down, Ernie took off his Built Ford Tough baseball cap to scratch his head. "Do you think Bea will make good of her threat to write you up in her report?"

"I dunno, Ernie. Merceh Sakes, I be tellin' ya… som'tin jus' ain't ri'te with that there Quick Draw Bea. Lookin' back, I realih-ze she been tryin' ta bust mah chops fer a good, long while… at least them past several weeks… but I jus' didden pay much atten-shun ta her. Well, it gone way beyond bustin' mah chops now. It jus' ain't fuh-n no mo'. Not that it evah wus, but… ya know. It wus manageabbel, yuh?"

"Yeah."

Wynne fell quiet for a brief spell; she spent the time looking out of the windshield at a candy-apple-red Chevrolet Silverado similar to her own that drove past twice in search for somewhere to park. "Lawrdie, when I think back ta some o' them nasteh-ass de-per-ties we done had in Goldsborah ovah them yea'hs… Evan Chaff, Toneh Reed, Dan 'the Ferret' Murpheh… 'member 'em?"

"I remember the Ferret, all right. He was an a-hole all the way."

"Yer durn tootin', pal."

"Wasn't he busted for possession of weed later on?"

"I dunno… wus he?  Woudden put it pas'him, the sombitch. An' then there wus that there Thomas Kincaid sicko. Tom Thumb. Loved ta sexualleh harass an' intimidate wimmenfolk. Hell, he wus too much fer Artie Rains!  Yuh, a rotten sonovabitch is whut he wus. But even them folks wus predictabbel in their nastehness. Quick Draw is all ovah the dang-blasted map. Some days, she be all smih-les and howdy's, an' then othah days she be itchin' ta send me up da rivah!"

Furrowing his brow, Ernie turned in the seat to shoot his friend a puzzled look - the sudden silence lasted so long that Wynne matched the puzzled look with one of her own. He eventually let out a grunt and said: "I still think she might be pregnant, but I just thought of somethin' else… what if she's got the hots for you but don't know how to deal with it?  I mean… maybe I'm completely off my rocker, but…"

The back seat came alive with a guttural growl and an amused yap from Blackie and Goldie respectively, but that was nothing compared to the groan that came from Wynne. "Ernie, mah friend… I be twih-ce her age. I be ol' enuff ta be her mommah!"

"Yeah, but you're the natural center of attention no matter where you go. You got a truckload of charisma and you sure ain't no shrinkin' violet. Right?"

Wynne briefly glanced at herself in the rear-view mirror before she squirmed around on the seat. "Well, yuhhhh… perhaps. Mebbe… I dunno."

"And maybe Bea's discoverin' she's… she's… you know-" - he waved his hand at Wynne - "-and since ya got so much presence, she's just… well… crushin' on ya."

"Holeh shittt, Ernie…" Wynne said and rubbed her brow furiously. "Lawrdie, Ah sure am hopin' y'all ain't even close ta whut this realleh izza-bout, 'cos Ah plum don't need that kinda crap in mah lih-fe, nosirree. There be plentah o' crap alreddeh!  Naw. Naw, les'head out befo' this he' conversa-shun done gets aneh worse. Yuh?"

When Ernie didn't answer beyond an affirmative grunt, Wynne opened the door and hopped down onto the paved parking lot. The wall of heat that struck her upon leaving the conditioned air behind made her whip off the denim jacket in a hurry and throw it onto the seat. The fierce brightness of the sun necessitated the use of sunglasses, so she reached into one of the Silverado's many trays to find her brand-new pair of pitch-black wrap-around shades.

The leashes were next, and although Blackie and Goldie let out the obligatory moans and whimpers at first, they were secretly satisfied with their high-quality accessories and raised no alarm once they were hooked-in.

The dogs had shared the back seat with a duffel bag that held all the creature comforts anyone could ever need for such an event: cushions for a perfect sitting experience, earplugs, an old doggy-basket and a new drinking bowl for the dogs, a power bank for the telephones to have enough power for all the video and photos that were sure to be snapped, and finally a cheap pair of binoculars that could be used to check out the goings-on in the pits - 'cheap' because they might end up flying out of someone's hand in case the on-track action got too hot to handle.

Wynne soon lowered the tailgate and climbed up onto the bed. She had installed no less than four cooler boxes that were powered by the Silverado's external twelve-volt sockets. Two of the coolers were filled to the lids with six-packs of H.E. Fenwyck Double Zeros while the other two contained quality selections of other beers as well as fresh water and sticks of jerky for the dogs - and all were crammed full of crushed ice to keep everything cool for as long as possible.

She unhooked all four cooler boxes before she pulled the wide carrier straps for two of them over her shoulders. Maintaining her balance up on the bed took some work, but she managed and was soon back on the ground. "Okeh, Ernie, ol' buddeh… I got that there duffel bag an' them dawggies… or mebbe they got me, 's hard ta say from this he' angle… but y'all got them othah two coolahs, yuh?"

"Yup," Ernie said and climbed up onto the bed - all four boxes were soon carried around the shoulders and necks of the two friends. After Wynne shut the gate and attached the safety clamps, they began to shuffle over to the access point to get to the main grandstand.

---

Everyone they met stared at them and the huge cooler boxes they hauled around, but Wynne was used to being stared at and Ernie didn't care what anyone else thought as long as there was plenty of beer involved.

After crossing through the access point - where they had to stop to get their tickets punched - the concrete grandstand loomed large ahead of them.

Though Thunder Park Raceway was a large facility seen from a local perspective, it was a minnow compared to the Cup-spec tracks found near Las Vegas and Phoenix, Arizona. No five-star suites had been added atop the main grandstand for the business-suit-clad corporate guests, nor were there any thirty-storey luxury hotels complete with rooftop swimming pools anywhere in the vicinity.

Instead, the Raceway offered low-to-medium-budget, family-friendly entertainment on a grassroots level with weekly dirt-track races alternating between stock cars, Modifieds, winged sprint cars and even motorcycles. They would also host tractor pulling, monster trucks and stunt shows during the summer months while custom car parades, swap meets, marching band exhibitions and the famed MacLean County Autumn Fair filled up the calendar during the off-season.

Two or three times a year depending on how the schedules panned out, the track would be visited by one of the big touring series: May would see the Spring Swing presently known as the EverFresh Two-Fifty, and the Fourth of July weekend would host the classic All-American Freedom One-Fifty - a smaller-scale racing event to leave room for all the other traditional celebrations. In some years, a third racing weekend had taken place in late September or early October to round off the season, but that event would shift to a dirt track in Utah for the current year.

"Lawwwwwr-die, I always get da buzz whenevah I be lookin' at that there grandstand an' the track an' all. Ain't it coo', Ernie?" Wynne said as she shuffled along carrying her heavy load. In addition to the duffel bag and the two cooler boxes over her shoulders and around her neck, she had a leash in each hand to adhere to the track's rules and regulations.

"Sure is. Which row are we seated at, anyway?  You didn't tell me."

"I didden?  Shoot… aw, dang, them tickets be in mah pocket… mah reah pocket… I ain't got no mo' hands… we need-a wait ta see wheah we gonn' sit until we get there… yuh?"

"But how do we know where 'there' is if we don't know where we're going to sit, Wynne?" Ernie said and let out a long chuckle.

"Awwwww-shoot, y'all got a point there, buddeh. Okeh… okeh… Blackie… Goldie… I'mma-gonn' transfah both ya leashes ta one hand so I can reach inta mah reah pocket ta find them there tickets, okeh?  So pleeeeeease don't run off on me 'cos them secoo-riteh folks gonn' throw ou'ah bee-hinds outta he'. Yuh?"

Woof! - Yap!

"Haw, I sure be thankin' ya!" Wynne said and moved Goldie's leash over to her left hand so she could use the right to dig into her rear pocket. A long groan escaped her when she realized she had put the tickets into her left rear pocket after they had been punched by the gate official. Once the leashes had been transferred to her right hand, she dug into the other pocket and found the pieces of paper. "Okeh-dokeh… he we' got 'em. Row foah'teen… seats numbah one-one-seven an' one-one-eight."

"Man, that's clear down the other end!"

"Yuh… aw, ain't dat typical?" Wynne said and let out a sigh. After shoving the pieces of paper back into her rear pocket, she fumbled a little with the leashes while trying to avoid getting them entangled. It all worked out in the end, and they were soon shuffling along once more.

---

"One-one-seven… one-one-eight… we be he', Ernie," Wynne said and dumped the duffel bag and the cooler boxes into the two-foot-wide space in front of the concrete bench.

"Thank Gawd," Ernie mumbled as he put his own coolers on the bench itself. Grimacing, he massaged his shoulders that weren't used to carrying such a heavy load. "Ya know, we should have brought a cargo cart or somethin'. Would have saved us a lot of carryin'."

" 'Cept fer when we done reached them stairs up ta row foah'teen. Yuh?"

A chuckle escaped Ernie as he took off his baseball cap to fan his flushed, glistening brow. "Yeah, I concede the point."

Wynne quickly distributed the doggy-basket, the ceramic drinking bowl, the fresh water and the sticks of jerky so Blackie and Goldie would be comfortable on the hard concrete. She did all that while standing up, and it didn't take long before a little kid sitting on the row above theirs began to wail at having his view blocked.

A male voice soon said: 'Hey lady, wouldya mind sittin' down so the rest of the world can see what we done paid for?'

"Haw?  Whazzat, Mistah?" Wynne said and turned around. The family sitting on the next row consisted of a young boy in shorts and camouflage T-shirts, a fierce-looking woman in her mid-thirties who wore jeans and a loose shirt over a spaghetti-strap tank top, and finally an overweight fellow in his early forties who sported plenty of facial hair that was a good visual match with his N-R-A baseball cap and camouflage outfit.

"Are you ever gonna siddown, lady?  You're blockin' our view," the man said and pointed down at the track.

Wynne furrowed her brow; she glanced behind her to see what kind of on-track action she was allegedly blocking. The only vehicles that moved down on the red clay were two utility tractors that graded and watered the turns so the racing surface would be even for the first event. "Uh… yuh. Okeh. I be sittin' down in a mo', Mistah. Howdy, I be Wynne Donnah-hew. An' all y'all is?"

"Tommy Atkins. Mah friends call me Tommy-Gun. This is my wife and mah son Tommy Junior."

Wynne smiled and nodded and smiled a little more while she waited for the wife to say her name so the greeting would be proper, but she never did. A short, puzzled "Haw," escaped Wynne before she said: "Howdy, y'all!  Can I getcha' beah or som'tin, there, Tommeh'guh-n?" out loud.

"No. We got our own," 'Tommy-Gun' said - when his wife drilled an elbow into his ribs, he added a belated, "Thanks, anyhow."

"Aw, yer welcome an' all," Wynne said and sat down on the cushion she had laid out. Leaning down, she eased the lid off the first cooler box and liberated a pair of H.E. Fenwyck Dark Lagers from their narrow confines and the sea of crushed ice that surrounded them. "Okeh, Ernie… befo' we start chuggin' them beahs, I need-a tell ya I'mma-gonn' cherish this he' weekend fer a loah-ng, loah-ng tih-me. Lawrdie, we been buddehs fer how manneh ye'ahs now?  Mo' than ten, yuh?  An' this prolleh gonn' be the last durn tih-me we evah gonn' pahr-tah-ke in som'tin majah tagethah. Yuh?  So… shoot… I be tryin' ta tell y'all it been a dang-blasted privvah-litch, Sir. Put it dere."

A sad smile graced Wynne's features as she put out her hand for the traditional shaking - Ernie's face held very similar emotions as he shook his friend's hand. "Thanks, Wynne. We've had a blast, haven't we?"

"Haw, we sure have, Ernie. We done had so much fuh-n I plum fergot half off'it!  But anyhows… les'get them beahs opened. Yuh?  Whut bettah way ta celebrate them ye'ahs we done had tagethah than ta chug down some brew."

"I hear ya," Ernie said with a grin - soon, a pair of identical pssshhht! was heard before the friends fell silent.

---

Fifteen minutes later, the first race engines were brought to life down in the paddock - a loud cheer rose from the spectators in the main grandstand and the infield enclosures as giddy expectation began to ripple through the rows and aisles.

The first race cars scheduled to take to the track were the Mini-Oldtimers: built on a bespoke racing chassis, the cars carried scaled-down fiberglass bodywork shaped after the popular cars of the 1930s and 1940s to act as a fun reminder of where the sport came from. They were equipped with high-revving motorcycle engines that made it a cost-effective class for teams and drivers who were just starting out. The cars were all identical on a mechanical level which meant the success or failure in the races depended solely on the skills of the person behind the wheel, and not how fat the team owner's pocket book was.

Though Wynne was primarily a stock-car fan, she could see the merits of the lower divisions - however, it did not stop her bladder from sending out a distress signal just as the first Mini-Oldtimers were wheeled from the garages in the infield to line up on pit road. Their first qualifying heat would open the weekend's big event as soon as the invocation, the fly-by and the playing of the national anthem were concluded.

"Aw… aw, shoot… I gotta-" - she let out a comical whistle - "an' in a hurreh, too…"

"Already?  We've only had one beer!"

"Yuh, I know… but yuh, I need-a go. Okeh, see ya in a few. Mind them dawggies, will ya?" Wynne continued as she got up from the bench. She had barely risen to her feet before the little boy behind her broke out in a loud wail. "Aw, fer Pete's sake… I be goin'… I be goin'," she mumbled as she crabbed along the row to avoid stepping on anyone's toes.

---

It took twelve minutes for Wynne to get through the spectators, down the stairs, walk across a small square and stand in line at the public restrooms - fortunately, there were no snags, mishaps or awkward puddles involved.

On her way back, she passed by some of the ubiquitous souvenir vendors whose shelves and swivel-racks were fully stocked with team clothes, baseball caps, sunhats, key chains, posters, stickers, diecasts and plastic model kits as well as a hundred other items connected with the sport.

She hadn't planned on spending any extra cash on souvenirs this time, but the Retro-Repros vendor had a red T-shirt sporting the familiar likeness and logo of the #8 Budweiser Chevrolet from the 2000 NASCAR Cup season. It caught her eye to such a degree that she simply had to fork out $34,95 or else her world would cease to turn - and such a threat would put a crimp in anyone's day.

Moving back toward the grandstand, she happened to notice a smaller, less spectacular booth that sold lottery tickets. It was a non-profit setup sponsored by the local dealers of General Motors, Stellantis Group - a.k.a. Chrysler Corporation - and the Ford Motor Company, and the money made from the sales would go directly to several local and regional charities.

Unlike many such lotteries, there were no immediate hand-outs of lesser prizes; instead, only one ticket held the coveted first prize, and the track announcer would make the winning number public in the break between the finale for the winged sprint cars and the first heat of the headlining Dirt Stock Car class - the winner would get a pit pass offering unlimited access to the team of the person's choice in the main event.

There wasn't much of a line in front of the booth unlike the concession stands, souvenir trailers or even the public restrooms, so Wynne decided to shelve out another bill or two to support the noble cause. The lottery tickets were only $1 a piece, so she bought an entire sheet for the round figure of $25.

"Okeh… so… okeh, he' whut I'mma-gonn' do… yuh," she mumbled to herself as she made her way back up to row fourteen. Over at the track itself, music played from the public announcement speakers while the final preparations were carried out. The song playing was so loud and distorted that she had to increase her own volume to hear herself: "That be eleven fer me an' eleven fer ol' Ernie… one fer Blackie, one fer Goldie an' one fer mah sweet, li'l Mandeh tho' she ain't even he'. Gosh-darnit, I'mma-gonn' be gettin' Mandeh-withdrawal perdeh dog-gone soon… I ain't seen her all dang day!  Not since breakfast, an' that wus jus'- haw!"

Wynne stopped abruptly when she came face to face with Albert Rossmann, one of Goldsboro's senior citizens. He was on a date with the blue-haired Mildred Herzberg, Barry Simms' aunt, and the elderly couple both stared wide-eyed at the loudly-talking Wynne like she had two heads.

"Haw. Yuh. Howdy, Mistah Rossmann. Howdy, Mizz Mildred. Well, I bettah be goin'. Sure don't wanna miss nuttin', ha-ha… ha. Yuh. Have a nih-ce day, y'all," Wynne said before she hurried on toward the concrete staircase that would take her up to the seats - although she didn't look to get it confirmed, she could feel the eyes of Albert and Mildred staring at her with such intensity that scorch marks were burned into the back of her tunic.

-*-*-*-

The flights of stairs were soon over and done with even though Wynne had to swim upstream while a large group of people insisted on going the other way. She had barely made it out onto the concrete grandstand before she spotted a uniformed person speaking to Ernie Bradberry. The compact, athletic shape could only be a certain sheriff, and Wynne let out a celebratory whoop at the sight that made the people closest to her stare all over again.

The next two minutes were spent crabbing past the seated spectators while uttering an endless string of: " 'Scuse me… ooopseh… whah, Ah do beg yer pardon, Ma'am… comin' thru'… howdy, nih-ce seein' y'all he'… naw, pal, Ah sure as stink-on-shoot ain't gonn' sit on yer lap… comin' thru'… sorreh 'bout that nudge, nih-ce ladeh… watch out ahead, Wynne Donnah-hew comin' thru'… if ya pull yer foot back, Mistah, there be jus' enuff room fer li'l, ol' me… comin' thru'… comin' thru'… Lawrdie, son, with them sih-ze sixteen feet, y'all gotta be one o' them there basketball playahs, yuh?  Comin' thru'!"

Through hard work and sheer determination, she eventually made it back to where Ernie, Mandy and the dogs waited for her. No sooner had she put down the plastic bag with the Budweiser T-shirt before Ernie thrust the leashes into her hand, jumped up and took off down the row of spectators like he was trying to re-enact one of the high-speed pursuits in Smokey & The Bandit.

"Whaddahell?" Wynne said, but her friend was already too far away to reply.

Mandy let out an amused chuckle. "He had to go," she said with a smile.

"Aw!  Yuh, well… som'tin in, som'tin out."  Wynne shrugged and turned back to her partner. They smiled at each other for a brief moment before Wynne moved over to the cushion she had left behind.

Two point one seconds later, Tommy Atkins, Jr. - the young boy sitting on the row behind her - began to wail; Tommy Atkins, Sr. soon cleared his throat.

Wynne sent them both an exasperated stare and let out a: "Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die, Mistah!  Y'all want me ta wahk 'round on mah knees or som'tin?  I be sittin', I be sittin', dag-nabbit!  An' there still ain't nuttin' goin' on down dere y'all be missin'!"

Once she had planted her rear on the cushion, she patted the one next to her. Mandy soon sat down but didn't get herself too comfortable in case she was called out to an emergency. "Howdy, darlin'. How 'r things goin' for all y'all sheriff folks so far?  Aneh trubbel?"

"It's been okay until now. Nothing major yet. That'll change once the heat and the beer create an unholy alliance," Mandy said at her regular volume before she leaned closer to Wynne to keep the next part private: "Hon, Deputy Reilly recommends that you should be fined for reckless driving and endangering-"

"Ah don't bah-frickin'-lieve it!  She done tole me she wus gonn' lemme off with a stern warnin'!  Stern warnin', mah haireh bee-hind!" Wynne said and smacked her free hand onto her thigh. "Ah mean, whaddindahell?  Whut Ah done didden ha' nuttin' ta do with reckless drih-vin' or nuttin'!  Not a dang thing, Mandeh!  Whut Ah did wus ta drih-ve along the apron with mah right-hand wheels out in that there desurht sand. That ain't reckless or dange-russ drih-vin' or nuttin'. Hell, Ah wussen even drih-vin' fast. This ain't nuttin' but a load-a stinkeh B.S. on her part!"

Mandy let out a long, deep sigh. "Her report will be on my desk come Monday morning. I need to treat this professionally, hon. I can't be seen to give you preferential treatment. I'm sorry."

"Lawrdie, Ah sure do undahstand that, but it still a load-a stinkeh B.S. Noboddah but noboddah wus endangah'd. Noboddah."

A person needing to walk past Wynne and Mandy made them pipe down until the passer-by had moved onto the next people down the row. In the doggy-basket, Goldie took a nap in the mid-day heat while Blackie was an interested observer to the conversation between her owners.

"Hon, if you contest the fine… and you can, don't forget that… it'll most likely end up in court. Unless you're absolutely certain you'll be able to present your case in a fashion that'll convince Judge Etherington, you should seek legal counsel on the matter. I know how much you dislike lawyers and legal advisors so I can only suggest you pay the fine."

Wynne's jaw was given a strenuous workout as she mouthed a dictionary's worth of colorful, juicy obscenities that would have seen her mother ground her for three months in her younger years back home in Shallow Pond, Texas. "Yuh, Ah dislih-ke all them lawyahs an' stuff. An' Ah'm beginnin' ta dislih-ke them de-per-ties as well. Lawrdie…"

The portable radio on Mandy's utility belt crackled to life with a: 'Chief Cummins for Sheriff Jalinski. Chief Cummins for Sheriff Jalinski, over.'

Mandy offered Wynne a supportive smile before she unclipped the radio from her belt. "Sheriff Jalinski ready to receive. Go ahead, Chief. Over."

'No issues in section one through six. A small issue in section seven, but it's been taken care of. A lost kid was reunited with her parents within a few minutes. Nothing further to report at this time, over.'

"Very well, Chief. Sheriff Jalinski out," Mandy said and hooked the radio onto her belt. Acting on instinct and experience, she let her eyes sweep over the rows of spectators nearest to her to see if she recognized known troublemakers or if anyone reacted in a suspicious fashion - everything was calm for the moment.

Wynne snorted as the thought of perhaps needing to answer to County Judge Etherington continued to rattle around her mind. She had met him only once, several years earlier at a gala event organized by the Goldsboro Town Council celebrating something-or-other. She had earned a few dollars that day by handling the chairs and tables needed for the notabilities, and that had been far more important to her than hob-nobbing with the VIPs. A long sigh escaped her. "Aw-shoot. How much ya reckon that there fih-ne mi'te be at, anyhows?"

"The fine for reckless driving is typically three to five hundred dollars."

"Plus mah in-shoo-rance goes up anothah hundred. Or mo'. Ya know, darlin'… mebbe Ah realleh oughttah take it ta tha Juh-tch."

Mandy broke out in a somber nod. "That's your call… but I wish you wouldn't. It could backfire, and if it does, there's a risk it could undermine my authority in the office. It might even jeopardize my position within the MacLean County Sheriff's Department."

"Aw, fer cryin' out loud," Wynne said in a mumble. Sighing, she reached up to rub her eyes. "Darlin', Ah still don't undahstand whah-dahell Quick Draw is actin' this way. Whut's her dang-blasted beef with me?"

"Well," Mandy said before she fell quiet for a few moments while she pondered her reply. "I was like that as well as a junior deputy. Not against you, of course, but in general. It was important to me that Artie Rains and my superiors at headquarters noticed me and understood that I could get the job done even though I was a woman."

"Yuh, okeh… that wus then, but that sure ain't playin' no role taday. There be plentah o' wimmenfolk in da Sheriff's Department now. Hell, there even be several wimmenfolk sheriffs. Y'all tole me that yerself."

"Yes, but the sexism and other types of underlying prejudices are still in place, hon."

"Un-bah-frickin'-lievable," Wynne said and propped her head up on her arm. She took a long look at the race track below where they sat; the tractors that had graded the corners had moved back into the infield indicating it wouldn't be long before the event would get underway with all the typical pomp and circumstance. "Haw, ol' Ernie had anothah theoreh when we done tawked 'bouddit eahliah… he suggested that mebbe Quick Draw got a crush on me. I gotta admit, I find that a li'l ree-dee-cue-luss, but… whadda-y'all reckon, Sheriff Mandeh?"

Before Mandy could answer, two things happened: first up, 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins - the family man sitting one row behind Wynne - leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder. "Will you people can it?  You're scarin' mah boy… and mah wife fer that matter… with all that man-hatin' yakkin' of yers. We ain't accustomed to hearin' things like that in my household."

Down below, Goldie whimpered while Blackie growled. The black German Shepherd bared her teeth in a sneer just to show that she had plenty in case the stand-off would go any further.

The statement made by the senior Atkins left Wynne baffled to the point where she couldn't even string two single-syllable words together as a reply - she just lowered her wraparound sunglasses to stare at the man with the abundance of facial hair whose visage was so close to hers she could smell his beer breath.

While that little situation was still moving toward an unfortunate escalation, Ernie came hurrying back from the restroom - just like Wynne had earlier, he carried a plastic shopping bag from the Retro-Repros vendor. "They're about to start!  I just saw old Reverend Whatshisname from the Virgin Tower be helped out of a car. I guess he's conductin' the invocation," he said as he swapped places with Mandy who moved over to Wynne's other side.

'Tommy-Gun' Atkins and his camouflaged beer gut, N-R-A cap and overstimulated facial hair seemed content with the fact that a man had returned to offset all the wimmenfolk surrounding him. Nodding and grinning in victory, he leaned back and took another beer from his own cooler.

Wynne just leaned her head back and let out a long groan. "Aw, ain't that great?  Da Virgin Towah. Yuh, whah-dahell not?  I bet Tif'neh Worth be he' as well. Lawrdie, she prolleh gonn' murdah me if we happen ta bump inta each othah. Merceh Sakes, this he' racin' deal is turnin' inta crap-on-Wynne week all ovah ag'in!  Dang!"

Looking down, she realized she had forgotten all about the sheet of lottery tickets she had bought at the charity booth. "Aw!  Yuh, I plum fergot!  Lookie he', Mandeh… Ernie… I done bought a buncha lottery tickets… them dollahs went ta charities 'round he'. First prih-ze izza full-access pit pass ta aneh team the winnah done chooses!"

"I already have one," Mandy said with a rare grin - she pointed at the star on her uniform short.

Ernie settled for saying: "Neat."

"Yuh, sure is… an' he' be yer half o' it. Yuh, eleven o' them li'l things. That there track announssah fellah gonn', uh… announce who da winnah is aftah them there… uh… latah on, anyhows. Aftah someboddah done their thing. Gonn' be hella excitin' ta heah, ain't it?"

"Well, I've never been lucky in any kind of game… or lottery… but I'll certainly take my half. Thanks a bunch, Wynne!" Ernie said with a grin.

"Aw, yer welcome an' all."

Mandy leaned in to look at the sheet. "What's the story with the last three?"

"Ou'ah Blackie gets one, Goldie gets one, an' Sheriff Mandeh gets one!" Wynne said and broke out in a grin.

"Well, it's a lovely thought, hon, but I'm afraid I can't accept any gifts from the public… not even a lottery ticket."

"Aw… shoot," Wynne said and looked down at the sheet. She had to scratch her neck a couple of times before the solution came to her: "Okeh, then, uh… yuh, tell ya whut, I'mma-gonn' give it ta mahself 'cos I done forked out fer it!"

Down on the track, a couple of the Virgin Tower's lowest-level footsoldiers set up a microphone stand. An elderly, white-haired gentleman in a black suit was helped over to the microphone a few moments later by a couple of po-faced enforcers to show the event was about to get underway.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Thunder Park Raceway for this year's running of the traditional Spring Swing, the EverFresh Antiperspirants and Deodorants Two-Fifty. Try the new EverFresh Fighting Spirit and Winning Formula. EverFresh!  Join the winning team!' the track announcer said over the P.A. system - once his familiar voice began to roll around the raceway, the spectators in the grandstand and elsewhere shushed those among them who kept on yakking. 'Please rise for today's invocation given by Reverend Emeritus Carl M. Rodgers of the Virgin Tower.'

Wynne's jaw was given another workout until she remembered the earplugs she had in her duffel bag. The little, orange things were soon found and mashed into her auditory canals - though a few sounds continued to filter through, the world around her turned far more quiet. She was soon on her feet with her hat off and her head bowed like everyone else around her.

While the Reverend Emeritus Rodgers delivered the invocation, Wynne sneaked a peek at the po-faced Virgin Tower people standing closest to the elderly man. She was on the lookout for the frustratingly persistent missionary Tiffany Worth with whom she had already had several run-ins - first on the overland bus back from her aunt's funeral in Shallow Pond, Texas, and later at the Community General Hospital down south in Cavanaugh Creek when she had visited Ernie and Bernadine who had just given birth.

Wynne let out a grunt of relief as the invocation ended with no sight of the missionary. Shrugging, she released the earplugs to be able to hear the next part of the opening ceremony a little better - not that the old P.A. system had much going for it. Tinny at the best of times and inaudible at the worst, it was in desperate need of a complete upgrade to more modern technology.

'Ladies and Gentlemen,' the track announcer continued, 'please remain standing for our national anthem performed by famed recording artist Lucilla Wray.'

Down on the track, the Reverend Emeritus was escorted away from the microphone stand by the black-clad enforcers from the Virgin Tower. A short while later, a firebrand of a singer - wearing white cowboy boots, a pleated skirt, a Western jacket covered in glittery rhinestones and finally a ten-gallon Stetson that added another twelve inches to her height - bounded onto the stand and began to belt out the familiar anthem at a volume that Ethel Merman would have been impressed by. She was accompanied by the brass section of the Henshaw Hi-Liters Marching Band from the Barton City Engineering College, but the musicians had trouble keeping up with Lucilla Wray's warbling.

Up on the grandstand, everyone in uniform jumped into a strict salute while the regular folks held their hats to their chest and tried to keep up with the spirited entertainer.

Just as Lucilla Wray's vocal cords blasted out the finishing notes, the traditional fly-over took place above the raceway. All stops had been pulled out to celebrate the Spring Swing event, so a five-strong squadron of classic Huey helicopters from the nearby Air Force Base filed past in a perfect V-formation.

The track announcer was soon busy relaying the ranks and call signs of the pilots in the formation, but it was clear by the looks of some of the older spectators that the characteristic hard rotor sounds of the Hueys only brought back lingering memories from past conflicts on distant battlefields.

Lucilla Wray finished off her enthusiastic rendition of the national anthem by waving at the many people whose eyes were on her. High above, the Hueys made a lazy turn to add a second fly-over before they made their way home. The spectators broke out in wild applause at the two events, and it offered the track officials a moment or two to get yet another person over to the microphone stand.

Once the applause had died down and the helicopters had moved away, the track announcer continued: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome our Grand Marshal for the EverFresh Two-Fifty, MacLean County's Senior Commissioner, Mr. Gregory Dietmar!'

Another round of applause rippled through the spectators - and maybe a boo or two - before the gentleman took the microphone offered to him. He proceeded to call out the traditional message, but a technical glitch with the microphone meant it never went further than the stand he stood on.

A lot of puzzled grunting later, it was discovered that Lucilla Wray had turned the microphone off after her performance. Once the glitch had been rectified, the senior commissioner tried again: " 's workin' now?  Uh… I guess it is. Ladies and Gentlemen!  Start!  Your!  Engines!"

The call was responded to by two events that were equally loud: first up, the motorcycle engines installed in the Mini-Oldtimers - that were already lined up on pit road - were brought to life with their typical, high-revving whines. Then, the entire grandstand erupted in a wild cheer that rolled across all of Thunder Park Raceway.

"Woooo-hooooooooooooo!" Wynne howled at the top of her lungs while she waved her beloved cowboy hat high in the air. "Let'em race cah-rs roah, ten-foah!" - The cry was soon followed by the first of many pssshhhts! as a can of Double-Zero disappeared double-quick.

While the chugging was going on, Mandy rubbed Blackie and Goldie's fur before she moved closer to Wynne. "I need to get back to work now. Have fun. You too, Mr. Bradberry."

"Thanks, Sheriff!" Ernie said and held up a can of 1910 Special Brew.

A long, warm and certainly loving look made the air crackled between Wynne and Mandy before they gave each other's hands a little squeeze. "Y'all need-a watch out fer them Virgin Towah folks, there, Sheriff Mandeh. They be nuttin' but a pain in the backsih-de… aw, y'all know that alreddeh. I hope ya have a quiet day an' evenin', darlin'!  Yuh?  See ya latah!"

"Later. Call me if there's any trouble," Mandy said and winked at Wynne before she crabbed her way past all the spectators on row fourteen.

"Dag-nabbit, this gonn' be a fuh-n day, yessirree," Wynne said and broke out in a grin. Two seconds after that, Tommy Atkins, Jr. on the row behind her chose the moment to let out a wail - his view was blocked once more. "Aw-fer cryin' out loud…" she continued as she looked over her shoulder, "ain't no need fer that howlin', son!  I be sittin', I be sittin'!  Merceh Sakes…"

*
*
CHAPTER 5

Getting off the grandstand proved much easier for Mandy than for Wynne or Ernie - her uniform alone saw to that. Halfway down the staircase, a family asked her for a photo with their pre-teen daughter whose career goals were either in show riding, cupcake-making or law enforcement. Mandy was only happy to oblige, so the photos were duly snapped much to everyone's satisfaction.

The open area at the foot of the side staircase was still quite full when Mandy reached it. She came to a brief halt to take in her surroundings and observe the people milling about. Though the howling motorcycle engines proved the Mini-Oldtimers were racing hard over on the track, plenty of spectators seemed to wait for the bigger classes later on before they would venture up to their seats.

The lines to the public restrooms and various concession stands were shorter than before the opening race, but still sizeable. The souvenir vendors continued to draw large crowds who browsed the clothes on the swivel-racks or pressed their noses flat against the glass display cases to see a particular diecast or sticker.

The majority of the spectators present were in the younger segment like new families walking around enjoying strawberry or chocolate milkshakes, huge lollipops or buckets of popcorn. Others had colorful helium balloons tied to baby carriages while others again sat in the shade with a can of soda and a bag or two of candy.

Men and women in their early-to-mid-twenties were clearly there on dates with all the typical elements that such events would entail. More mature race fans could be identified by their vintage or retro T-shirts and team apparel, but the members of that segment were far fewer while the races were going on as they tended to be up on the grandstand taking in all the weekend's action - save for the inevitable restroom and snack breaks.

Satisfied that nobody appeared shady, suspicious or downright villainous, Mandy resumed striding toward the white building used by Thunder Park Raceway's security detail.

Built as a bare-bones facility that would only come into use on race weekends, it had a rippled concrete floor, cinderblock walls, a roof made of corrugated iron and four windows that were so breezy it didn't matter if they were closed or not - speaking in jest, the track's security personnel were proud of the fact they had free, automatic air-conditioning.

A second cinderblock building had been grafted onto the side of the original structure. Serving as the track's detention center, it consisted of four perfectly square holding cells that - much to the vocal annoyance of the guards - were built to a higher standard than the crew quarters to adhere to the far stricter federal guidelines for treatment of prisoners.

Mandy took off her Mountie hat as she opened the squeaky screen door and stepped into the cinderblock building. That it was in even worse condition than their own office down south in Goldsboro didn't do much for her mood: there were a couple of swivel-chairs, an old three-seater couch, two tables and a coffee machine. The furniture had been scrounged up from here, there and everywhere, and wasn't far off from returning to the great, big flea market in the sky. The cushions were threadbare, the swivel-chairs whined from an acute lack of lubrication, and the table legs were uneven and often poorly attached - the only thing that worked was the coffee machine that burbled merrily, proving the pot was nearly ready.

At present, two of the track's security guards used the larger of the tables for playing a round of poker that saw toothpicks and bubble gum as the stakes. The uniformed men nodded at Mandy when she entered. After nodding back, she sat on the threadbare couch while she waited for the coffee machine to finish up.

Commotion outside robbed her of her moment to relax. Drunken shouts, crude comments and acid-dripping profanity were soon echoing across the open space in front of the cinderblock building, so Mandy sighed, donned her Mountie hat and strode outside to deal with the latest drama.

A long-haired, bearded fellow in his mid-twenties who was dressed in Messiah-sandals, blue-jeans and a formerly white T-shirt - presently covered in filth and a few splatters of blood - was forcibly led over to the detention building by Beatrice Reilly and one of the security guards. The color of Beatrice's face and the harshness of her grip around the man's arm proved she'd had enough of his crude comments.

Mandy put her hand on the hilt of her service firearm as she paid close attention to the spectators nearest to the dramatic scene; if anyone would heckle the deputy or perhaps even try to liberate the young man, she would step in at once and deal with it.

Nobody seemed to want to lift a finger for the young man, so Mandy followed Beatrice and the guard over to the detention building to verify that the proper procedures were followed.

After the detainee had been shoved into holding cell number one and the door firmly shut behind him, Beatrice updated the appropriate paperwork by adding the date, time, cause of the arrest and the person's name. Since the man had insisted his name was None Of Your F'ing Business, she left the last field open for later.

Beatrice saluted the sheriff when she noticed she had an interested spectator. "The detainee is under the influence of alcohol and most likely some kind of amphetamine or stronger chemical substance, Sheriff. We were contacted by several members of the public who reported him for acting in a crude, inappropriate fashion in the vicinity of one of the concession stands."

"Very well, Deputy. What's the story behind the blood on his clothes?"

"He tried to run when he spotted us, but he tripped over his own feet within a few yards. The fall caused his nose and cheekbone to come into contact with the pavement, but the resulting scrape wasn't sufficient for us to request medical backup."

"All right," Mandy said and looked at the report sheet to make sure the date and time were correctly listed so they knew when to release him from their custody. Everything was in good order so she had nothing to add.

While Beatrice adjusted her necktie that had been knocked askew by the general commotion of the arrest, Mandy kept an eye on her. Though she hadn't had a chance to reply to Wynne's theory about a crush being at the heart of Beatrice's oddly aggressive behavior toward her, the suggestion warranted deeper thought.

It seemed implausible at first glance, especially as Beatrice tried her damnedest to make Wynne steaming angry every chance she got, but maybe she was so afraid they would get on too friendly terms that her only option was to create a impenetrable layer of resentment between them. Whatever the root of the matter might be, it was undeniable that Beatrice had radically changed her attitude toward Wynne compared to her first few months at the Goldsboro office.

Mandy furrowed her brow as she watched Beatrice going about her business. She had never sensed any kind of family vibe surrounding the rookie deputy, but it hadn't escaped her that the community was very different compared to when she had been at Beatrice's age. It was neither the time nor the place to seek answers to such a sensitive problem, but it needed to be taken care of before it would grow into being a disruptive element - Mandy made a mental note of tackling it head-on Monday or Tuesday.

Her train of thought was cut short by the portable radio on their belts crackling to life. She and Beatrice both unclipped their radios, but the nature of the call soon made Beatrice put hers back.

'Deputy Simms to the sheriff. Deputy Simms to the sheriff, over,' Barry's voice said at the other end of the connection.

The cinderblock walls seemed to ensnare the radio waves and distort them to such a degree that no amount of fiddling with the knobs would make them clear, so Mandy stepped outside the detention center to get a better reception. "This is Sheriff Jalinski. Go ahead, Deputy. Over."

'I've completed my sweep of parking lot number three. There's nothing-' The transmission was suddenly interrupted and turned to static, but not before Mandy and Beatrice had heard the opening volley of one of Barry's trademark hacking and coughing fits that had a tendency to strike like a bolt from the blue.

"Dammit, Barry…" Mandy said and let out a groan. She looked at Beatrice who broke out in a shrug.

While they waited for Barry's lungs to catch up with his intentions, they were joined by Rodolfo Gonzalez and the far burlier Donald 'Donnie' Cummins, the head of security at Thunder Park. "I guess good, ol' Barry is having a good, ol' Barry moment," Rodolfo said with a grin; he patted the radio on his belt to show he had been able to listen in to the brief update.

Mandy nodded. "Undoubtedly so. Do you have anything to report?"

"No, Sheriff," Donnie Cummins said. "We haven't had any problems since the lost child was reunited with her parents over in section seven. There were obviously plenty of tears, but the little girl was never in any danger. She had stayed at one of the souvenir trailers while the parents had moved away thinking she tagged along."

"Very well, Chief," Mandy said as she eyed the head of security. She didn't know him on a personal level, but she was aware of a few details: in Donnie Cummins' younger years growing up in Northern California, his sights had been set on a career in the state police, but his color blindness had prevented him from pursuing the dream. Instead of giving up, he had gone into business for himself by starting an entry-level security company that rented out bouncers, doormen and even tuxedo-clad protection for weddings and the like. A few unfortunate incidents and subsequent lawsuits involving people on his payroll meant he had been forced to start over elsewhere. After various odd jobs within the industry, he had eventually found his way to Goldsboro, Nevada and Thunder Park Raceway.

Mandy continued to hold the portable radio ready just in case Barry Simms would overcome his coughing fit. She was about to ask Beatrice to find and check up on their colleague when the radio crackled to life once more:

'Deputy Simms to the sheriff. Deputy Simms to the sheriff, over.'

Feeling ready for anything that might come her way, Mandy took a deep breath before she depressed the little button. "Go ahead, Deputy. Over."

'I'm sorry for, uh, the other thing, but I've finished sweeping the second parking lot now… oh… stand by.'

Mandy sighed - Rodolfo and Beatrice shared a long look; Rodolfo snickered at his colleague while Beatrice rolled her eyes severely and let out a growled "Jeez, Barry…"

'This is Deputy Simms again, Sheriff. Disregard my last transmission. I've finished sweeping the third, not the second, parking lot. I was confused by a sign that- oh, never mind. I have two things to report. First, I spotted two men who appeared to swap a few bags of weed for cash, but they ran away when they saw me and I was, uh… unable to keep up.'

"Describe them, over," Mandy said in a stern voice.

'Uh… uh, well… one was tall and wore boots, blue-jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt of some kind. It could have been a windbreaker. He had a mullet… a big one… and a mustache… a small one. The other was less tall and wore blue-jeans and a sorta baby-blue T-shirt that had been tucked into his pants. He also had a small mustache and some fuzz on his cheeks. I guess he wore shoes as well, but I didn't get to see them. Over.'

Mandy scratched her eyebrow - those descriptions matched 96.75% of all younger men at the race track. "Very well, Deputy. And their build?  Over."

'Uh, one was slender and tall. The other was slender and… less tall…'

Rodolfo leaned his head back to allow free passage for a resounding laugh that burst from him. Once he had recovered from the first wave, he shook his head several times while letting out a constant stream of chuckles.

Beatrice had had enough and strode inside the cinderblock break room to knock back a mug of coffee, but Mandy keyed the mic again to get the rest of the story: "Noted, Deputy. What was the other thing you wanted to report, over?"

'After the situation with the men, I stopped to catch my breath at a late-model sedan. It was only after I had recovered that I, uh… noticed… that a young couple were… uh… engaged in… uh… adult… uh, activities on the back seat. It… it was in plain view…'

Rodolfo clamped a hand over his mouth to stop a second wave of the resounding belly laugh to escape him, but he was unable to - a moment later, he had to lean his head back and let rip all over again at the unlikely story and Barry's stuttering way of retelling it.

'Uh, they were in plain view of everyone, and… uh… not holding back, so… I, uh, asserted my authority by, uh… knocking on the window. They didn't hear me at first so I knocked again. The lady was, uh, uh…. ohhhh… on t- top, b- but she eventually opened her eyes and saw me. Uh… yes. I asked them to stop or cover up… and, uh… I don't think they had access to an… to a blanket or anything so they stopped. Over.'

For once, Mandy had to fight the same kind of reaction that had already claimed Rodolfo. She needed to gulp down several bouts of laughter before she was able to say: "Very well, Deputy. Be sure to file a detailed report of the incident. Sheriff Jalinski out."

While Beatrice Reilly went on her next patrol after her two-minute coffee break, Mandy and Rodolfo went inside the cinderblock building to get some liquid nourishment of their own. "Sheriff, I have a question… how come Barry always gets all the best assignments?" Rodolfo said as he pulled the squeaky screen door shut behind them.

-*-*-*-

"Woooo-hooooooooooo!  Go'ah, goa'h, go'ah thirtah-nih-ne!" Wynne cried at the top of her lungs as the Mini-Oldtimer carrying number 39 made a bold move to duck inside the 41-car that had been leading until then. The racers moved through turns one and two side by side until the 39-car bogged down in the loose on the inside going onto the short back straight. Number 41 powered ahead through its better momentum off the corner, but they were soon back at it for turns three and four - the two leaders continued like that for three laps until they came up to a cluster of slower cars.

"Aw, they gonn' be inna-heap'o trubbel now!" Wynne said before she cracked open a new beer with the familiar psssshhht! without taking her eyes off the action.

"Yeah, and I think you've had enough already," Ernie said and broke out in a grin.

"Haw?  Wotcha tawkin'bout, friend?  I ain't had nuttin' but them Dubbel-Zehas fer the past half hou'ah or so!"

"I know," Ernie said and pointed at the opened, and nearly full, can that Wynne had already put on the bench next to her before she had reached for the next one out of sheer instinct.

Wynne stared at the can on the bench before she looked at the one in her hand. Shrugging, she emptied the one she held before she did the same with the other one. Two empty cans and a loud belch later, she grinned at Ernie. "Haw, ain't nuttin' to it, buddeh!"

Down on the track, everyone in the group of cars close to being lapped tried to resist it for as long as possible so they would still have a chance to go for the victory in case the pace car would come out later - unfortunately, it created a misunderstanding between the two leaders and the 72-car. To avoid the far slower backmarker, number 39 zigged while the 41-car had already committed to zagging.

The end result was inevitable: they clattered together side-on-side going through turn four. The impact made both drivers lose control and head for the mounds of dirt that lined the track. Number 39 spun around twice and went backwards into the loose close to pit entry where it got stuck up to its axles; the 41-car veered off to the right and tried to climb the wall. It rattled along in a forty-five degree angle for a short distance before it rolled over gracefully like a pregnant manatee.

Wynne, Ernie and everyone else in the main grandstand let out an "Ohhhhhhhhhh!" as the accident unfolded. Wynne whipped off her cowboy hat and waved it high in the air to show her appreciation of the race action before she chugged down another Double-Zero simply because the moment demanded it.

The 72-car that had triggered the accident continued as if nothing particular had happened. As the pace car scrambled from the pits and drove onto the track, the 23-car took over the lead from its stranded and/or wrecked competitors.

Another cry of "Ohhhhhhhhhhh!" was heard from around the many spectators as the driver of the wrecked 41-car was helped out of the overturned vehicle by the track's safety workers - the driver was none the worse for wear save for getting the fire suit completely covered in reddish dust.

The overweight, camouflaged and facial-haired 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins sitting in the row behind Wynne and Ernie nearly spewed his beer out through his nostrils when he realized the driver of the 41-car was in fact female. "Whaddahell?  Ain't that a girl?!  Hell-yeah, that's a girl!" he bellowed at such volume that the rainforest growing on his upper lip fluttered in the breeze.

Wynne sent a dark glare over her shoulder before she drew a deep breath. "Naw, Mistah, Ah be perdeh dog-gone sure it be one o' them thar long-haired fellas!" she said at the same kind of loudness; Goldie whimpered at the potential for drama while Blackie let out a sound that could be perceived as a snicker.

"Whut?" the overweight man said; his face turned into a large question mark at the unexpected direction the conversation had taken. He shook his head a couple of times like he was uncertain of what had just happened - then he overcame it and let out a braying laugh. "Ain't no wonder the forty-one car done wrecked!  Wimmen ain't meant ta drive race cars. They can't turn fast enough 'cos of their boobs. They can't cross their arms. Ain't that right, honey?" he continued, poking his wife in the ribs.

"Izzat a fact, Mistah?" Wynne said and narrowed her eyes. "Then wouldya mind explainin' ta li'l, ol' me how in da wohhhhh-rld ol' Phyl O'Connell done won that there dirt-stockah championship las'yeah… haw?"

"Oh, well… that's different. She only got kinda small titties," 'Tommy-Gun' said and cupped his hands in front of his own set of double-D man-boobs.

Wynne stared at the camouflaged fellow until she realized the debate was a lost cause. Instead of wasting more of her energy, she dug into the cooler box to find something to wet her whistle. The first can she retrieved was a Midnight Velvet Stout that she handed to Ernie - he grinned and cracked it open at once. The next one was a Pale Lager, and that seemed a better remedy for not only quenching her thirst but to take her mind off the fellow behind her.

The experienced safety workers were able to clean up the mess in a short amount of time which led to the field lining up in rows of two to prepare for the restart. The lapped cars all went to the inside lane while those on the lead lap stayed near the outside retaining wall to have a clear track ahead.

Anticipating the moment when the flagman would drop the green, the drivers of the leading Mini-Oldtimers drove through turn four at greatly reduced speed; when the green flag flew, everyone stepped on the gas which created such a howl from the motorcycle engines that it sounded like a pack of dragons had been unleashed.

The fun and games lasted for exactly four seconds before the second-placed car got tangled up with one of the lapped cars all over again - it spun around and ended up facing the wrong way in the middle of the track.

Everyone was bunched up for the restart so everyone piled into the wreck which sent cars spinning everywhere. Clouds of red dust and clumps of clay were kicked up when the cars dug into the surface which made it even more impossible for those at the back to see where the wrecked cars were. Two cars rolled over while one in the middle of the field tried to emulate the mating ritual of elephants by mounting the rear of the car in front of it.

"Awwwwww, we got da big one!  Yessirree, da big one!  A short-track racin' big one!" Wynne howled and thrust her Pale Lager in the air with such force that a cascade of beer sloshed out of it and shot skyward. The pale-yellow, foamy nebula managed to stay aloft longer than anyone had predicted, but it soon returned to terra firma as yellow rain that splattered her shoes and jeans in beer - she only noticed the mishap when she found the can to be half-empty the next time she wanted to have some of it.

Ultimately, the drivers in the last handful of rows came to a halt at the finishing line where the flagman waved the red to signal the race had been halted.

"Aw-shoot… wouldya lookie there at that mess," Wynne mumbled when she finally noticed the white suds and wet spots that peppered her jeans and shoes. Napkins were about the only things she hadn't thought of taking along in the duffel bag, so the sudsy residue had to remain where it had ended up until she came home. "Haw, nevah mind… ain't the wettest I evah been in these he' jeans or nuttin'…"

A loud splutter next to Wynne proved to be Ernie who had apparently attempted to beat the squirt-beer-through-nostrils record set by the overweight fellow in the row behind them. Hacking and coughing, he leaned forward to brush the suds out of his mustache.

"Now whazza'mattah with y'all all'offa sudden, buddeh?" Wynne said and thumped her friend's back. "Sure hope it ain't catchin' or nuttin' 'cos I don't particularleh feel lack wastin' 'nothah beah taday. Aw… aw… aw, shoot… I shudden ha' spoke offit. Now I gotta hit da ladies all ovah ag'in. Dang!"

Still coughing, Ernie could only nod and shuffle back on the seat so Wynne could step past him - as she left, she handed over the leashes for Blackie and Goldie who seemed to take it all in their stride.

---

Wynne was determined not to fork out more money on T-shirts, diecasts or any other kind of souvenirs as she came back from the next visit to the public restroom, but a set of five classic bumper stickers for $4,95, an official licensed DVD titled NASCAR Winston Cup: The Best Races 1980-1989 for $14,95 and an autographed plaque commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the first-ever 200-mph lap at Talladega for the meager sum of $29,95 caught her eye and refused to leave until she had bought them. Grinning to herself, she put the items into a plastic bag and strolled over to the row of concession stands in the hope that something would catch her eye there as well.

The line in front of the hamburger stand was far too long for the amount of time she could spend on it, and the taco booth next to it carried a sign that said it had run out of all seasoning sauces save for 'level nine'-intensity chili. She had already had ribs and sweet potatoes in spiced gravy the night before so the soul food stand couldn't snare her in, and the line at the fried chicken vendor was even longer than the one where the burger-flippers worked.

Scratching her neck, she looked around for something else to try but found the selection lacking - the only remaining booth that didn't see a long line in front of it was manned by none other than Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane who moonlighted as a hot-dog wrangler. Just as she watched his actions, a sausage he attempted to roll back and forth on the frying pan like a proper chef flew clean off the gas-powered stove. It landed down on the ground somewhere close to his feet, but he calmly picked it up with a set of sausage tongs, cleaned it off by pouring bottled water over it and finally slapped it back onto the pan.

"Uh-huh… yummeh!  Naw, that sure ain't gonn' happen, friend," Wynne mumbled as she looked around for something - anything - else. "Shoot, we shudda brought some sandwiches or som'tin… dag-nabbit," she said and scratched her neck again.

'Hiya, Wynne!' a male voice said somewhere behind her.

As she turned around, she spotted Rodolfo Gonzalez and Donald Cummins walking toward her. "Howdy, Seniah De-per-teh!  Donnie!  How's it hangin', y'all?  Busted aneh'one taday?" she said and took off her cowboy hat as a salute.

Rodolfo shook his head. "No. But Bea has."

The mention of Beatrice's name made Wynne put her hands on her hips and let out a dark "Yuh, huh?"

"Yes, some guy who was buzzed up to his eyeballs on pills and booze," Rodolfo said before he cocked his head and stared at Wynne's jeans. "Say… has it been raining?  Your pants are all wet."

"Done dropped a beah on 'em."

"Mmmm!  Hate it when that happens. I hope it wasn't your last," Rodolfo said and broke out in a cheesy nod.

"It wussen," Wynne said before she shuffled closer to the two men. "Lissen guys… mebbe 'speshualleh y'all, Rodolfoh… wouldya mind tellin' me if Quick Draw is jus' as mean an' nasteh agi'nst othah folks or if I be the onleh one she done lacks ta toah-rment?"

"Well, honestly… she's been in an all-round foul mood the past couple of weeks, Wynne," Rodolfo said as he scratched his cheek. "I don't think you're being singled out or anything, but I definitely see your point. How about inviting her down to your trailer so you could have a heart-to-heart?  That might help."

"Yuh… or we mi'te trah ta wih-pe da flo'ah with each othah… naw. I ain't sure that be a good ideah at this he' point in tih-me, Rodolfoh. Mebbe latah. Hell, I ain't even sure where we wus gonn' do that there tawkin'… there ain't no neutral ground nowheah. Moira's be far too bizzeh, yuh?  An' mah trailah is also Mandeh's trailah an' that ain't gonn' work fer a heart-a-heart. An' Quick Draw still be stayin' at Missus Bizzehboddeh's… that sure ain't gonn' work neithah. Nosirree. Lawrdie, it ain't easeh…"

Before Rodolfo or Donnie could answer, Mandy's voice was heard from the portable radios in a loud and clear fashion: 'Sheriff Jalinski to all roaming patrols. Sheriff Jalinski to all roaming patrols. Urgent meet-up at section eight for an operational update. We have a code five on the loose, repeat a code five on the loose. Acknowledge at once. Over.'

Donnie Cummins whipped his radio off the belt and pressed the transmit button before the last echo had even faded out. "Gonzalez and Cummins responding to the meet-up in section eight, Sheriff. ETA three minutes. Break."

'Track security patrol number one responding. ETA two minutes. Break.' -- 'Deputy Simms responding. ETA, uh… five, six… maybe eight minutes. Break.' -- 'Track security patrol number two responding. We're almost there. We already have visual contact with you, Sheriff. Break.' -- A moment later, Beatrice joined in as the last one: 'Deputy Reilly responding. ETA two minutes. Break.'

Wynne's eyes had grown ever wider as she tried to keep up with all the radio chatter. "Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die!  Whaddindahell's goin' on up he' all'offa sudden?  Whadda one o' them there code fih-ves be?  Som'tin good or som'tin bad?  An' whe'dahell's section eight?"

"Section eight's the infield spectator enclosures, Wynne," Rodolfo said - Donnie Cummins was already on his way there. "And a code five is an exhibitionist-"

"A whut?"

"A flasher. Sorry, Wynne, I need to hustle."

"Sure!  No worries… hustle an' bustle, Rodolfoh!  Go'ah get that there li'l buggah!  I be rootin' fer ya!" Wynne shouted using her hand as an amplifier. Two seconds later, her brain had finished parsing the message it had been given; she jerked upright and broke out in a loud "A flashah?!  Whaddinda-wohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-rld?!"

-*-*-*-

Getting back to her seat involved just as many apologies, humorous quips and near-stumbles as the other times she had needed a bathroom break. She had barely had time to grin at Ernie - who handed her the leashes - and slapped her rear onto the soft cushion before the entire grandstand broke out in a disappointed groan that made her look around with a "Haw?  Whazzat?"

The track announcer made it crystal clear for her: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, we now have official confirmation that the Mini-Oldtimer race will not be restarted due to the lengthy barrier repair. The last completed lap will count as the result which means the top five will be-'

"Awwwwwwwwww-y'all gotta be shittin' me!" Wynne cried; she had already dug into the cooler box to find a can when everyone around them packed up and got to their feet - with no action on the track for the foreseeable future, everyone wanted to be first in line down at the restrooms and the various vendors. "Whah didden them folks red-flag the durn thing when I wus down dere?  Now we gotta go down dere all ovah ag'in with 'em dawggies an' the coolahs an' ou'a stuff an' ten-frickin'-thousand people all 'round us an' everythin' an'… an'… dag-nabbit!"

'The next event,' the track announcer continued, 'will be the first qualifying heat for the dirt stockers. We'll keep you posted on when the barriers have been replaced so the event can get back underway. In the meantime, here's a little music to keep you entertained.'

"Them dirt stockahs is that there class ol' Phyl gonn' be in… I don't wanna miss that, but… dog-gone, I ain't sure which o' them qualifyin' heats she gonn' pahr-tah-ke in. Ernie, whadda-y'all reckon?  Ya wanna wait he' or stand in a lih-ne somewheah fer the next half-hou'ah?"

"Sorry, Wynne… I need to take a leak… and I can't even wait five minutes," Ernie said and got up at once. He blended into the human traffic and was soon gone.

Wynne had already opened her mouth to add a humorous quip or two when she found herself without human companionship - apart from the scores of people who continuously filed past her long legs on their way to the staircase. "Yuh, okeh… I sure do know that feelin', yessirree. I guess this he' thing is an all-girl show now, haw?"

Woof!  Yap-yap-yap!

"How 'r y'all hangin' on, anyhows?  Ya dawggie ears still safe an' sound?"

Woooof…

"Okeh. A li'l loud?  Yuh, I hafta agree with that no-shun. Them motorcycle engines wus kinda loud in all their howlin' even with them there earplugs."

Yap!  Yap!  Yap!  Yap!

"Yuh, I heah ya, Goldie," Wynne said with a grin. She dug into the cooler box to get the water for the dogs and a fresh can for herself. "Les'get our whissels wetted. Yuh?"

---

Ten minutes later, the crowd had thinned out sufficiently for Wynne to get up and collect all their gear. Once everything was lined up and ready to be carried down, she took her cowboy hat off and wiped her glistening brow and neck on a handkerchief.

The track workers were still busy repairing the outside retaining wall at turn one where the big one had happened and at turn four where the Mini-Oldtimer had tried to scale the dirt bank. A closer inspection of the wall had revealed that several posts holding the mesh wire fence in place had shifted in their foundations, and at least one of them needed replacing - in short, it didn't appear the dirt stockers would hit the clay any time soon.

The sun continued to beat down from a clear, blue sky which made the ambient temperature creep into the high nineties if not higher; although the grandstand did have a roof, it wasn't large enough to cover all rows. As a result, a distinct heat haze rose from the benches that were exposed to the sun's harsh rays, and a strange, moldy smell emanated from the baking concrete.

Wynne was about to reach for another beer to be fully prepared for the umpteenth descent when she was interrupted by her telephone ringing deep down her pocket. She furrowed her brow when the caller-ID said Ernie B. - "Y'all got the one an' onleh Wynne Donnah-hew he'. Whut, ya done gotten yaself lost or som'tin?  Tawk ta me, good buddeh."

'No, I'm not lost. I'm down at the entrance to the infield. I'm wavin' my hat… can you see me?'

Wynne turned around to look down at the section of the track that stretched beyond the pit road. She had already stowed her binoculars into the duffel bag so she only had a short-sighted view of the area. "Naw… I ain't seein' no wavin' hat or nuttin'. Whazzup?"

'With this lengthy red flag, how about we used those infield passes you bought?  There's plenty of great stuff to look at here.'

"Haw!  Yessirree!  That there be theeee fih-nest ideah I done heard the entiah day… yuh, okeh… tawk to y'all latah 'cos I be with ya in a mo', bro'!" Wynne said and closed the connection at once.

Still chuckling at her rhyming slang, she turned around to pick up her own cooler boxes - but she came to a hard stop when she realized she needed to carry all of Ernie's coolers as well. "Lawwwwwwwwr-die…" she croaked as she made a quick finger-count of the items her shoulders would be required to haul around.

Woof?

"Naw… naw, I be fih-ne, Blackie. Thanks fer askin'… shoot, if this ain't Wynne Donnah-hew in a dang-blasted nutshell, I ain't sure whut is!" she mumbled as she reached for the first cooler box.

---

Wynne's mood improved by leaps and bounds once she, Ernie and the dogs strolled around the infield. Not only did her nostrils pick up the glorious smells of hot oil, high-octane gasoline and leaded exhaust fumes, her eardrums were caressed by the roars and burbles that came from the exhaust pipes of the highly tuned racing engines.

The ground shook and the air trembled as several of the dirt-stock teams warmed up their cars in preparation for their first qualifying heat. Some of the younger fans among the spectators milling about in the infield thought it was too much and began to wail, but Wynne had a big, ol' cheesy grin permanently stuck to her face.

"Haw, this he' place is paradih-se on Earth, yessirree…" she said and reached into one of the coolers for a can of Double-Zero. After being liberated from half the heavy load - that had threatened to reduce her height by several inches due to a compressed spine - she was able to move around far more freely. She had even tied Blackie and Goldie's leashes to two of her belt loops so she could have her hands free to drink beer, wave her hat at friends and shoot plenty of pictures and videos of the various wild, crazy and colorful goings-on that surrounded them.

Ernie had been too busy chugging down a 1910 Special Brew to reply, but once the suds had been wiped from his mustache, he was able to add an eloquent: "Sure is."

Several smaller camper vans and larger recreational vehicles had been driven into the infield to add some big-track flair to the EverFresh Two-Fifty. The spectators who had arrived in one of the campers had set up a tiny, two-person plastic swimming pool that a T-shirt-wearing fellow was busy pouring water into by way of a long, snaking garden hose. His girlfriend had already changed into hot-pants and a bikini top and seemed ready for a dip; waiting in the shade underneath a sunblind, she held two tumblers containing drinking straws, umbrellas and sickly-green cocktails.

The people in the larger of the RVs had set up a rooftop bar complete with lounge chairs, a parasol and even a grill. A column of gray smoke rose from the open grill to show the food was almost done - the designated chef kept track of the meat and the trimmings while drinking beer and sharing jokes with her friends.

Although the spectators were separated from the rear of the actual paddock by a mesh fence for safety reasons, plenty of race fans pressed their noses against the wires to get an up-close look of the mechanics who worked tirelessly to prepare the race cars.

It was no secret that the mighty corporate dollar ruled the upper echelons of the stock-car world, but the dirt stockers were still grassroots motor racing so the cars were parked on tarpaulins instead of inside heated garages. While most cars sported stickers from local or regional sponsors, only a select few had all-enveloping paint jobs that carried well-known brand names like those seen in TV commercials - most of the cars were there for 'go,' not 'show.'

Wynne tore her eyes away from a late-1980s Chevrolet Monte Carlo Aerodeck stocker carrying the #25 and sponsored by Johnson's Plumbing - Hoses & Fittings when Ernie nudged her shoulder. "Haw?  Whazzat, buddeh?"

"Roscoe Finch and Geoffrey Junior just waved atcha, Wynne," Ernie said, pointing at their pool-buddies who were decked out in their coolest outfits: dark-blue jeans, shiny belt-buckles, white Western shirts and large cowboy hats. Both had an arm wrapped around the waist of a date who resembled each other to such a degree they had to be sisters.

"Howdy, Rosco'ah!  Juniah!" Wynne cried and waved her hat in the air like tradition and good Cowpoke manners dictated she should. "A-yup, y'all be lookin' fih-ne!  'Membah wotcha mommahs done tole ya, yuh?  Onleh holdin' hands on yer first date an' all… ain't no kissin' or nuttin'!  Ya heah?"

Roscoe and Geoffrey Wilburr, jr. waved another time before they strolled off with their dates. Once the strapping fellows and the wholesome, young ladies were out of earshot, Ernie turned to Wynne and poked her in the side. "Say, Wynne… did ya stop at holdin' hands on your first date with someone?"

"Aw-hell no," Wynne said and turned back to watch the race cars.

---

A few minutes later, Wynne and Ernie exchanged a brief and slightly awkward "Howdy" with Goldsboro's only hairdresser, the fifty-something Holly Lorenzen, who strolled through the infield arm-in-arm with Derrike Iverson.

As always, the hairdresser wore black tights that she needed to be poured into. Further up, she wore a short-sleeved, deep-burgundy blouse that featured such a plummeting neckline she had needed to add sunscreen to the top of her cleavage; she had dyed her hair in a shade of brownish-red to match the blouse. A pair of stylish sunglasses covered her eyes but not the thick layers of make-up she preferred to wear despite everyone telling her she didn't need it to look stunning. The biggest difference between her present look and her regular outfit were the ballet flats she wore instead of her beloved four-inch pumps - high heels and a gravelly surface just didn't mix.

The tall, heavy-set Derrike looked like he always did with the exception that he wasn't wearing a filthy apron. The short-sleeved shirt and the high-waisted pants he wore were undeniably Polyester garments - and not even of the best quality.

Wynne watched Holly and Derrike walk past before she reached into one of her cooler boxes to get a beer. Her fingers were so experienced in the fine arts of selecting cans that she didn't even need to look to pick the right one. A pssshhhht! was soon heard, but before she could move the Double Zero up to her lips, she came to a sudden stop to stare at the next couple who strolled toward them.

Down on the ground, Goldie mirrored her owner's actions while Blackie continued another three feet ahead. The fact their leashes were tied to Wynne's belt loops meant that the black German Shepherd's progress was stopped dead - one thing she despised above all else was to be held back, so she let out a guttural growl that told the world of her annoyance.

"Ernie… Ernie… quick," Wynne said and waved her friend over to her. "Lookie there… next ta Nanceh Noo-yen… whodahell is that?  That can't be… can it?  Naw… but it sure does look lack 'im… nah. Whaddinda-wohhhhhh-rld, it sure iz!  It be Tuckah Gahhh-rfield!  He done shaved!  An' bathed!  An' he be wearin' nih-ce duds!  An'… an'… an' the ol' boy is smilin'!  Holeh shittt!  Lawrdie, someboddah musta spiked his beah… or mah beah 'cos I don't bah-lieve mah eyes!"

Tucker Garfield was in fact a man reborn. Although he still wore black boots, they had been buffed-up and shone like little suns. His black jeans were in pristine condition as were the pale-brown leather belt, the white cotton shirt, the brown Western-style vest and the black bolo tie. Clean-shaven for the first time in years, he had even trimmed his sideburns and wet-combed his hair to present himself to Nancy Tranh Nguyen in the best possible fashion.

The most striking feature of the born-surly tow-truck driver was the fact a big, ol' grin was plastered all over his face. His eyes were all aglow whenever he looked at the far shorter woman next to him, and it was obvious he floated along on Love Cloud Number Nine without a care in the world.

"Hello again!" Nancy said as she and Tucker strolled past the stunned Wynne and Ernie. "Thank you so much for your help yesterday. The stink is almost gone now. Maybe you could come over for iced tea and cookies some time?"

"Aw, ya sure is welcome an' all. Yuh, I reckon I mi'te 'cos I got som'tin ta tawk ta y'all 'bout," Wynne said before she finally sampled the beer she had opened nearly a minute earlier.

Unable to take her eyes off the transformed Tucker Garfield, she kept staring at him as she moved ahead without considering the leashes that were tied to her belt. A second later, an "Ooooof!" escaped her as she needed to carry out an urgent balance-adjustment act to stay erect - in short, she had to perform a move any figure skater or tight-rope artist would have been proud of.

Blackie barked at the weird maneuver while Goldie whimpered from being yanked a foot ahead. The Golden Retriever shook her head several times to get the collar back in place, but Blackie took care of it for her by grabbing it with her teeth and pulling it back down into its original position.

"Y'know, Wynne," Ernie said and offered his friend a wink and a cheeky grin, "if you get that kinda fumblin', stumblin' woozy from a non-alcoholic beer, maybe it's time for you to switch to camomile tea?"

"Oh, haw-haw-flippin'-haw, buddeh!  Always full o' great ideahs, aintcha?  Whah, y'all certainleh be full o' som'tin!"

"D'awwwww!" Ernie said and swatted at Wynne's shoulder.

Wynne evaded it easily and soon broke out in an impossibly wide grin. "An' I didden even spill none off'it!" she said and promptly chugged down the rest of the Double-Zero to make sure she wouldn't spill any of it in the future either.

---

She, Ernie and the dogs strolled along the fence for another few minutes or so before all four came to a halt at the sound of a familiar specter from everyone's past. The gruff voice had shouted something unintelligible somewhere in the middle distance, but Wynne hadn't needed to hear more than a syllable to recognize it. "Lawrdie, that wus… aw, Snakes Alive… Ernie, y'all heard it, diddencha?"

"I heard it," Ernie said in a dark tone. The moment called for a strong beer, so he grabbed a Centennial Brew at once and opened it with a psshhht!

Wynne stepped up on tip-toes to see above all the cowboy hats and baseball caps worn by the sea of humanity. She strained her hearing to confirm her initial suspicion and was rewarded by another gruff exchange between the person in question and someone else - the 'someone' seemed to be on the receiving end of a severe verbal thunderstorm that comprised of nothing but of put-downs, slurs and four-letter words.

"Dang-blasted, it's Artie Rains," Wynne croaked, tore off her wraparound shades and smacked a hand over her eyes. It stayed there for a moment or two before she needed it to reach for a beer instead. "But wheredahell he at?"

Ernie took a long swig of the strong beer to compensate for the news that nobody wanted to hear. "What for?  Don't tell me you wanna meet him?" he said as he wiped the suds out of his mustache with the back of a hand.

"Aw-hell, no!  I wanna run in the othah direc-shun is whut I wanna do!"

"Yeah, I hear ya. I think he's over there… somewhere. I ain't lookin' for him in case you were about to ask!"

"I wussen… c'mon, friend," Wynne said and turned around in a hurry - this time, she made sure to pay attention to the leashes. "Les'get outta he' befo' that nasteh-ass sombitch get a no-shun o' comin' this he' way…"

-*-*-*-

A great cheer rose from the many spectators when the track announcer's voice replaced the music that had been playing from the tinny P.A. speakers: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, the track repair has been completed and we're close to getting back underway. The first qualifying heat for the dirt stock cars will commence when the senior track official has inspected the work. Thank you. And now back to the music.'

It didn't take long for the infield crowd to thin out following the announcement. Because Thunder Park Raceway didn't have a pedestrian tunnel underneath one of the turns like so many of the paved ovals did, the lines at the exit gates were soon as long as those at the restrooms and the various vendors had been earlier in the day.

"Wynne, unless you've developed the ability to sprout wings and fly at some point durin' the last half hour, I think we oughtta wait for the worst tidal wave to recede," Ernie said as he looked at the colorful sea of bobbing heads that seemed to ebb and flow depending on the direction taken by a majority of them.

The mention of sprouting wings and flying away made Wynne look up at the sky just to be on the safe side - she could still hear the scary flapping of the vampyre ghoul's leathery wings from the big, bad monster-showdown she and Mandy had been involved in down south at the Silver Creek film set. "Yuh, sure ain't no bad ideah, that… waitin' fer them folks ta clear out, I mean," she said after a while.

She reached for a beer at once to take her mind off the spookiness, but changed her mind and grabbed a few ice cubes instead - the icy squares were just the thing to cool down a little. "Hey, Ernie… y'all wan'some ice ta suck on?"

"No, thanks. I got this," Ernie said and held up the Dark Lager he had just opened.

The sky remained clear and blue in all directions with nary a bird anywhere. Far east of the race track, Wynne's eye was caught by the sun reflecting off the silvery skin of a US Air Force patrol jet returning to base. "I ain't much fer bein' mashed up ag'inst all them strangers, anyhows. An' them darlin' dawggies o' ou'ahs hate havin' so maneh feet close ta 'em."

Woof! - Yap!

"Yuh, girls, 's whut I done said!  Naw, noboddah done lack havin' their toes stepped on. Hurts lack a sombitch, don't it?"

Woooooof…

"Or," Ernie said and cocked a leg to show off his safety boots, "ya could wear some of these. You can have a car drive over them without feelin' any pain."

Wynne chuckled and patted Ernie's arm. "Mebbe, but they sure ain't stylish, buddeh!"

Now they had been blessed with a little more breathing space, Ernie, Wynne and the dogs strolled further along the mesh fence to look at the race teams working to prepare the cars. With the announcement that the delay was about to come to an end, the intensity had increased among the crew chiefs and their mechanics.

Wrenches and spanners continued to be given good workouts while final checks were carried out on radiator hose-clamps, brake fluid reservoirs, spark plug wires, fuseboxes and assorted other parts that would cause the car to retire from the event if they failed.

One or two teams lagged behind their schedule and needed to work even harder to get through the pre-race work sheets; other teams were already done bar for a quick polish or adding a new sticker from a local sponsor who had parted with a little more cash. When the first racing engine was brought to life somewhere in the paddock, other mechanics groaned out loud since they had yet to reach the proverbial home stretch.

Though it hadn't been Wynne's intention, they ended up at the rear of the EverFresh team's pit area. As the reigning dirt-stock champion, Phyllis O'Connell was the undeniable star of the series and the face of the ad campaigns for not only Thunder Park Raceway's own promotion but the EverFresh Corporation's line of antiperspirants and deodorants as a whole.

Phyllis sat at a table doodling her autograph on photos, T-shirts, diecasts, hats and all the other typical items. Now and then, she posed for selfies or spoke short messages into her fans' cameras or telephones to create a personal connection with those who had come to see her and the EverFresh logos on her race car.

She had donned her fireproof driving suit that added plenty of star-quality to her already cool, charismatic and desirable image - and to give everything an extra, little flair of superstardom, her mirrored Aviators had been pushed up into her hair where they looked even cooler.

A representative of the main sponsor stood next to her with his nose buried in his telephone instead of looking at the fans who were there to see the star. Not too far from the table, the team's mechanics worked through the last items on their checklist prior to the qualifying race.

The contrast between the three vastly different worlds couldn't be greater, but they were each fully dependent on the other two to make the whole thing gel. The best driven car would never win if it kept breaking down; similarly, the best prepared car would never win if the driver wasn't up to the task - and none of it would ever happen without the financial support of large or small sponsors.

Wynne and Phyllis happened to lock eyes across the line of people. The driver grinned and reached below the table she sat at. A moment later, she held up a red ball cap carrying the Chevrolet bow tie and a stylized 84 - her racing number throughout the championship. She quickly added her signature to the cap, held it up once more and pointed at Wynne.

Ernie kept track of the silent exchange with a cheeky grin on his face. Chuckling, he dove into one of the cooler boxes to get yet another can of beer. "Say, Wynne…" he said as he cracked it open, "what's up with you and all those younger women, anyway?"

"Whut?  I beg yer pardon?  Which youngah wimmen?"

"Oh, you know… Beatrice is half your age… Phyl's gotta be close to ten years younger. They're drawn to you like bees to a honeypot!"

Wynne rolled her eyes before she looked back at Phyl, but the driver was too busy signing autographs and interacting with the fans to look up. "Ernie…"

"Yeah?"

"Y'all obvis'leh fergot ta duck at some point or 'nothah… 'cos ya sure is tawkin' outta yer you-know-whut."

Ernie let out a cheeky laugh that matched his cheeky grin perfectly. "Whatever ya say. I think it's pretty obvious. I'll bet you were a real bird-dawg in your twenties."

An impressive snort burst out of Wynne as she turned around and shuffled away from the EverFresh pit area. "Y'all been watchin' them wrong kinda mooh-vies ag'in, Ernie. Didden I warn ya 'bout watchin' them there mooh-vies an' thinkin' they wus real?  They mebbe good fer som'tin, but sure ain't knowin' how-"

Wynne interrupted herself when she spotted Mandy striding along not too far from their position in the infield. Instead of drawing unwanted attention to herself by shouting, she whipped off her cowboy hat and waved it high in the air to catch the sheriff's eye - it worked as Mandy soon responded to the wave and changed direction.

"Yeah, come to think of it… tell me… ain't Mandy a couple of years younger, too?" Ernie said as he poked his elbow into Wynne's ribs.

"Owch!  Yuh… yuh, she is. Lawrdie, buddeh… give it a rest, will ya!  Don'cha need-a take anothah leak or som'tin?"

"Not right now."

"Aw, I be thinkin' y'all need-a lookie at som'tin real int'restin', lack way da hell ovah yondah… yuh?  Catch mah drift?  Haw, ain't that a Blue Oval sign way, way, way ovah yondah?  Whah, it sure is!"  When her words had little effect on her friend - beyond another cheeky grin - she put her hands on his shoulders, turned him around and gave him a little shove to let him know it was high time to skedaddle.

On the ground, Blackie and Goldie shot each other a puzzled glance at the unexpected development, but the sight of their other owner approaching meant they forgot all about the strange thing that had just gone on. A couple of happy yaps and barks were let out to celebrate the reunion.

Mandy soon filled the gap left behind by the chuckling Ernie Bradberry. After she had crouched down to greet the yapping, woofing and tail-wagging dogs, she stood up straight and put a hand on Wynne's elbow - while in public, that was the furthest she could stretch any personal affections in order to maintain her authority.

"Howdy, darlin'!  Dang, it sure is hawt an' gettin' hawttah, yuh?  I be sweatin' lack a dog-gone heifer in a slaughtahhowse even chewin' on ice an' wearin' mah hat."

"Yes, it's quite hot. You do remember to drink water, right?" Mandy said with a wink.

"Aw, yes Ma'am!  I be chewin' plentah o' them ice cubes an' all!  Lissen, I done spoke ta Rodolfoh an' Donnie eahliah, an' them fellas done tole me y'all wus chasin' a flashah!  Tell me them gahs wus pullin' mah leg!"

Mandy shook her head. "I'm afraid not, hon. Several concerned spectators reported it. He's in his late teens or early twenties. At least the weirdo isn't completely naked-"

"Haw!  Thank the bearded gah in da skah fer li'l favahs, huh?"

"Yes. He's wearing a brown trench coat and neon-green swimming trunks. When he does his thing, he pulls the coat open and reveals he has I Am Adonis painted across his chest. The letters are backwards so I'm guessing he painted himself in front of a mirror and just didn't think of how they'd look."

"Lawrdie… he gotta be mellah in da noggin or som'tin. That jus' ain't ri'te!  Whah, that be theeee weir-duhst thing I done heard fer weeks an' weeks. I Am Adoh-nis?  Haw… too durn weird if y'all ask me."

"Technically speaking he isn't an exhibitionist, but he's still breaking several laws."

"Yuh," Wynne said and reached for a can of beer. Considering Mandy's words about drinking plenty of water, she re-directed her fingers to scoop up a handful of ice cubes instead. "Chewin' cube?" she said with a grin.

"No, thank you."

"Suit yerself, there, Sheriff Mandeh!" Wynne said and threw the ice cubes into her mouth. After a short bit of crunching, she furrowed her brow as another thought entered her mind. "Darlin', I reckon I done heard ol' Artie Rains a li'l while ago… but please tell me that wus mah eahs playin' tricks on me."

"No, Rains is here."

Wynne scrunched up her face and began to look around at once. If there was one person she would prefer to avoid, it was her old nemesis Arthur 'Artie' Rains - even the Adonis-flasher would be a step up from the disgraced, former Sheriff of Goldsboro. "Dang!  I bettah be on mah toes, then, so I can make a run fer them hills should ol' nasteh-ass Rains show up ta rain on mah parah-de."

"I've seen him a couple of times. He's hanging out with Mr. Iverson, Miss Lorenzen and that crowd. And Robert Neilson for that matter."

"Lawwwwwwwwr-die… we jus' done saw Holleh an' ol' Derrike. I guess we wus luckeh Artie wussen with'em. An' he be with the town drunk, too?  Haw, I guess ol' Rains is turnin' inta one o' them town drunks as well… at least from whut I done heard. But mebbe they jus' be vi-shuss roo-murs, I ain't sure," Wynne said and shoved her hands into her rear pockets. "Haw. No skin offa mah buh-tt. He sure don't be gettin' no sympatheh outta me. He done made his bed an' now he gotta lie in it. Yessir."

Nodding somberly, Mandy checked the time before she reached for her portable radio. "Sheriff Jalinski to all patrols. Sheriff Jalinski to all patrols. Need a status report, over."

'Deputy Reilly responding. I have nothing right now, Sheriff. Break.' -- 'Gonzalez and Cummins responding. We broke up a small scuffle at one of the T-shirt vendors, but it was minor and created no paperwork. Break.' -- 'Track security patrol number one responding. We have nothing. Break.' -- 'Deputy Simms responding-'

The first two seconds of one of Barry Simms' characteristic hacking, coughing and spluttering fits could be heard loud and clear over the radio waves before he broke off the transmission.

Wynne laughed out loud, Mandy groaned and Blackie and Goldie both let out woofs and yaps that meant 'I don't know why they hang onto that human… he's completely useless.' - 'And he always smells really bad, too.' - 'Yeah…'

'Dep- Deputy Simms- resp- responding, Sheriff…' - Barry's sickly wheezing between each word was louder than the word itself - 'Noth- nothing to report. Uh… break.'

"Sheriff Jalinski to all patrols. Acknowledged. Deputy Simms, do you require medical attention, over?"

'Uh… no, Sheriff. Over.'

"Very well. Sheriff Jalinski out," Mandy said before she clipped the radio onto her belt. She offered Wynne a warm smile before she touched her elbow once more. "I better be on my way. And so do you. It can't be long before the next race starts."

"I ain't too sure when them folks gonn' race… the entiah ske-doole wus given a kick up the backside bah that there wreck there," Wynne said and pointed her thumb over her shoulder. "Lawrdie, can't we jus' stay he' an' tawk fer a cuppel-a hou'ahs or so?  Ernie be teasin' me plentah an' that there heavveh fellah behind us done live in a dif'rent cen-too-reh an' a lotta things…"

They shared a long, loving look to prove there was a kernel of truth in Wynne's words even though they were mostly made in jest.

"I'm sorry, hon… we can't laze about until Monday," Mandy said as she gave Wynne's elbow an extra squeeze. "All of today and from noon to dusk tomorrow will be a high-intensity circus act for the Sheriff's Department."

"Yuh, I know. Darn'it. Anyhows, y'all got Mistah Adonis ta catch an' I need-a have a-cuppel mo' beahs- shoot, I mean ice cubes, o' course. See ya some tih-me, Sheriff Mandeh!" Wynne said and took off her hat to salute the best sheriff Goldsboro had seen in decades.

Down on the ground, Blackie and Goldie jumped up and let out a barrage of happy yaps and woofs that earned them both a strong fur-rubbing from the departing Mandy.

*
*
CHAPTER 6

'Ladies and Gentlemen, the long wait is finally over. As you can see, the cars competing in the first qualifying heat are now being pushed onto pit road. Because the original schedule was disrupted due to the lengthy track-repair, the field has been determined by drawing lots rather than the times set in the abbreviated free practice session. Therefore, this heat will see cars number two, six, seven, nine, fourteen, twenty-three-'

While the track announcer ran through the starting grid, Wynne and Ernie were busy with a completely different, but no less important, debate: "Yuh, I heah wotcha sayin', buddeh," Wynne said as she held onto the ubiquitous beer can, "sure them Cup Tah-yotahs 'r fast an' all, but they jus' ain't givin' me that there buzz… ya know?"

"Oh, sure," Ernie said and dug into his own cooler box to get a Pale Lager.

"Yuh," Wynne continued after taking a long swig of her Double-Zero. "I will say them Tah-yotah teams somehow seem bettah in designin' their paint jobs, tho'. Some o' them 'r perdeh dog-gone classic. I mean, the fortah-fih-ve an' them Monstah colahrs, yuh?  An' the twentah-three McDonald's cah-r. O' course, the eleven cah-r sure ain't bad neithah an' that there eighteen 's been 'round fer decah-des, yuh?  If onleh they wus Chevrolets, I could realleh get behind 'em. But they ain't so I can't. Naw."

Goldie broke out in a wide yawn at the discussion - she and Blackie had heard it all a hundred times before. It was too hot to sleep, so the Golden Retriever decided to empty the water bowl instead; once it was all gone, she nudged her owner's legs to get her to refill it. Blackie just looked on with her tongue hanging out.

The nudge made Wynne reach into the next cooler to get the bottled water. Once the bowl had been filled to the brim and pushed back into the shade so it wouldn't cook in the sun, she turned back to Ernie to continue the debate.

"O' course, them paint jobs wus so much bettah back in the day. There jus' ain't no comparison. Yuh?  Lawrdie, when I watch them ol' videos from the eighties an' nineties… there wussen no teams who didden have iconic colahrs, yuh?  I mean, jus' think o' that there Skoal Bandit or da Goodwrench colahrs or da Westurhn Aw-toh colahrs or da Millah High Lih-fe or Ge-noo-ine Draft-"

"That was a Ford, though…"

"That wus a Pontiac first!"

"Yeah, but a Ford later."

Wynne had just drawn a deep breath to hop into a spirited defense of the Penske South Miller Pontiac when her flow of speech was suddenly and rudely interrupted by the overweight fellow on the row behind them.

'Tommy-Gun' Atkins leaned forward and yanked at her tunic. "Fer cryin' out loud, will you folks find som'tin else ta talk about!  Ya been yakkin' about it ever since ya got back here!  There must be som'tin else ya can yak about now!"

Wynne lowered her sunglasses to fire a broadside of blue fire from her eyes, but the camouflaged fellow with the fluttering facial hair also wore shades so her rays just bounced off. "Izzat a fact, Mistah?  Mebbe y'all got some topic or 'nothah y'all want me an' mah good buddeh he' ta tawk 'bout instead?  Naw?  Then Ah suggest ya keep ya-"

The situation was saved from going down the wrong alley altogether when the loud racing engines were fired up all along pit road. Soon, the field set to compete in the first of the two qualifying heats rolled out onto the track to line up behind the pace car.

Everyone on the grandstand cheered, clapped and whistled, so Wynne took the opportunity to turn her back on the man behind her and whip out her telephone. After fiddling with a few of the video recorder's advanced features and settings, she held up the telephone so she could film the pace laps and the start of the race.

---

At the end of the first qualifying heat, Wynne stuck two fingers in her mouth and produced a piercing whistle to mark the victory of the number 59 Top-Q Kitchenware Chevrolet Lumina run by the Ohlsson Bros. race team - Ernie couldn't even be bothered to feign interest; yawning, he used his Ford cap to fan his ruddy features.

Down at Wynne's feet, Blackie misinterpreted the whistle and jumped into an offensive stance. The black German Shepherd let out a couple of strong barks while whipping her head around to find the monster, ghoul, critter, zombie, space alien or assorted other otherworldly creature that had attacked them.

The strong barks petered out and grew puzzled when nothing untoward seemed to be anywhere near them. A furrow developed across her doggy-brow as she first looked up at her owner and then down at Goldie who was just lying there with her tongue out.

When Blackie let out a softer, but no less puzzled, bark to ask what in the world that had been all about, it was replied to by a bored yap-yap-yap! that made the fierce German Shepherd give up and snuggle down next to her golden companion.

"Okeh, that wussen the best evah race I done watched," Wynne said before she temporarily let a pssshhhht! take over the conversation, "but it wus okeh all in all. 'Spe-shu-alleh 'cos one o' them there bow tie boys won!  Dontcha reckon, Ernie?"

The only reply Wynne got from her friend was a loud, insistent and only slightly mocking snore that made his impressive mustache flutter in the breeze.

"Awwww, c'mon, buddeh!  Them Foh-rds finished third an' foah-rth. Wussen too bad!"

Chuckling, Ernie sat up straight and grabbed a can of Pale Lager - then he remembered he had only just had one of those. After putting it back into the cooler box, he found a Centennial Brew that he cracked open at once. "Nah. I guess it was okay. But nothin' really happened… it was green most of the way save for that smoker on lap nineteen."

"That sure ain't no lie… aw, mebbe it be lack that there sooper-sti-shun them folks down at Daytoh-n done had fer them there twin one-twentah-fih-ves back in the good, ol' days… 'member?  When nuttin' done happened in the first o' them qualleh races, the othah one wus bound ta be wildah than a wild thing with wreckin' he' an' wreckin' theah an' wreckin' ev'rehwheah."

'Ladies and Gentlemen,' the track announcer said, 'because of the tight schedule, the victory ceremonies and interviews with the winners of both qualifying heats will be held after the second race. As you can see, the first cars have already taken to the track. The many fans of last season's Pro Dirt Stocker champion Phyllis O'Connell will of course be on the lookout for her familiar number eighty-four Chevrolet Lumina… the EverFresh Fighting Spirit machine.'

A great round of applause and appreciative whistles burst from the main grandstand which overpowered the tinny P.A. system. The track announcer had been prepared for the reaction and kept quiet until the initial response had died down - a second wave of cheers rose when Phyllis left the pits and trickled around the dirt track to slip into the proper grid position.

'And there we have her, Ladies and Gentlemen. Because of the special way the field was formed, she will start from eighth on the grid. One car will not start the second qualifying heat… the number 38 TrueGlue Home Improvement Solutions Ford Taurus has burnt a piston and will be withdrawn. The other drivers in the field are-'

---

Wynne held her telephone ready when the field entered turn three in a tight pre-start formation. The pace car slowed down to hardly anything at all to keep everyone together; then it sped up and jerked into the pit lane.

"Aaaaaaan'… boogiteh-boogiteh-boogiteh, les'go racin' boys an' Phyl!" Wynne roared at the top of her lungs. Forgetting all about her surroundings, she jumped to her feet to see the fast-moving race cars funnel into turn one on the opening lap - she had barely let out a "Wooooo-hoooooooooooo!" when she noticed plenty of wailing from the row behind her.

Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed little Tommy Atkins, Jr. bawling his eyes out at having the view blocked all over again. The boy's father moved his lips in a lengthy round of silent cursing - it made his beard and boulder-belly jiggle around ominously.

"Ooops. Mah bad," Wynne said and sat down once more. She inched around on the bench to be able to look at the Atkins' "Aw, there, li'l fella, y'all don't hafta crah too hard 'cos I guaran-dang-tee there gonn' be mo' than one restart in this he' qualleh race, yessirree…"

A loud cheer from the crowd broke out even before Wynne had had time to finish the sentence; twisting around on the bench, she held up the telephone to capture the sight of two cars going door handle to door handle all the way down the back straight and into turn three.

The car on the outside caught a rut, broke loose and jerked toward the wall, but the driver was on top of his game and caught it before it could make an impact. Several places had been lost, but the qualifying heat was scheduled for eighty laps so there would be plenty of time to make up the lost spots.

"Awwwwwww-yuh, now we tawkin'!  Now we tawkin'!" Wynne said as she tried to keep the colorful, loud and frantic action in focus.

---

The concrete grandstand reverberated as the dirt stock cars thundered past lap after lap. The field soon began to spread out as the best and most experienced drivers pulled away up front while others drifted back into the clutches of the chasing pack; numbers 10 and 63 diced for the lead through the next five laps with neither of them ever able to gain the upper hand for long.

While all that slicing and dicing was going on up front, Phyllis played the long game in her number 84 Lumina. Racing around in a comfortable third place, she didn't attempt to close in on the leaders nor did she seem to press on too hard to stay ahead of the chasing pack. The EverFresh car nearly always hit the perfect lines through the turns, she was quickly on the gas going onto the straight, and she had no problems overtaking the few cars who were being lapped.

On the row behind Wynne and Ernie, 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins let out a derisive snort before he dug into his fresh bag of pork rinds. After crunching loudly on them for a short while, he slurped some beer to chase down the salt. "Oh, what the hell is she waitin' for?" he said before he wiped his meaty lips and dripping-wet facial hair on the back of a hand.

Wynne drew a deep breath to answer the question in her own inimitable style, but thought better of it - at least until the large fellow continued:

"Don't she understand we done paid ta see her win?  Why the hell ain't she racin' harder?  What kind of fake shit is this?"

Wynne counted to ten inwardly; then another ten. The twenty-count matched the lap time for the leading car perfectly which seemed to be a good omen. Grinding her jaw, she turned around to stare at the gentleman behind her.

The first thing she noticed was that his fierce-looking wife had gone elsewhere - the next was the man's swimming, watery eyes that proved he'd had a beer too many in the oppressive heat. "Mistah, Phyl ain't trah-in' hardah 'cos she onleh need-a be in that there top-ten come the checkah'd flag. Yuh?  This he' race is the qualleh heat, yuh?  Ain't no cups or prize moneh or laurel wreaths or nuttin'. Them winnahs get spoke ta bah them there ray-dee-ohh folks an' that be it fer now. This is fer the startin' line-up in that there finals race. An' that be whe' y'all gonn' fih-nd plentah o' hard-ass racin' an' them big rewards. Yuh?"

It soon became obvious - from the neon-green question mark that hovered a foot or so above the large fellow's head - that he didn't understand a single word of the things Wynne had tried to tell him.

Wynne stared at him for a few more seconds before she turned back to follow the frantic race action. She needed to have at least one hand on the telephone at all times because she wanted the video recording to be as professional and jerk-free as she could, but that meant she couldn't crack open a can of beer to have her whistle wetted. In turn, that meant her mood was a couple of notches down from where it should have been considering everything that went on around her.

"Ernie, mah deah, deah friend," she said after another five laps of hard racing and a bone-dry throat, "if I done asked real politeleh an' all-"

Psssshhhht!

The familiar scent of an H.E. Fenwyck 1910 Special Brew soon reached Wynne's nostrils; a very large grin spread over her lips as she took the can and chugged down the first half in a series of gulps. "Whah, much obliged, buddeh!  That sure hit the spot…"

A loud cheer rose from the spectators when another spot - namely the rear bumper of car 26 - was given a hard thump down on the track. The 26-car was shoved aside by the 40-car in a classic bump 'n run, but the driver had soon caught back up and retaliated by giving the offending number 40 some of its own medicine.

"Haw, this is jus' dang-blasted purr-fect!  It sure don't be gettin' no bettah than this!  Shahrt-track racin' at its fih-nest, yessirree!" Wynne cried while she filmed the latest side-swiping altercation down among the colorful racers.

-*-*-*-

A stalled car on the outside of turn three brought out the yellows on lap 35. The pace car was scrambled from the pits and soon led the field around at reduced speed. Once the race cars were under control, a wrecker truck was sent out from the infield to deal with the stranded vehicle.

Ernie used the caution period to make a 22-gallon pit stop of his own, so Wynne had invited Blackie and Goldie up on the bench next to her. Plenty of fur-rubbing, doggy-loving and happy yapping were exchanged while the race cars trickled around at low speed.

It took longer than expected to retrieve the stranded car - its transmission had seized, so it needed to be lifted off the ground at the back to be towed away, but the angle it had stopped at made it difficult for the wrecker crew to get the job done.

Wynne grew impatient as did the rest of the spectators around her. After chewing on a handful of crushed ice and pouring more fresh water into Blackie and Goldie's drinking bowl, she dug into her pocket to find her telephone. Mandy's number was soon found and selected.

"Durn… voice mail," she mumbled as the pre-recorded message was all she heard.

Scooping up another handful of crushed ice, she let her cool, wet palm run across the baking skin on her forehead and neck. The sensation literally took her breath away, but it was a relief from the murderous sun that continued to beat down upon them from high above.

"Haw… I wondah if that mi'te work," she mumbled to herself as she took an ice cube, pulled out the upper hem of her tunic and ran the small chunk of ice across the skin of her chest. The square, little thing melted at once and sent freezing drops of water down into her cleavage where it pooled at the underside of the sports top she had chosen for the day. A loud "Yeeeeee!" burst from her as the experiment had proven to be a little too effective.

Behind Wynne, 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins leaned forward and yanked at her sleeve all over again. "Lady… will you stop makin' all those crazy noises?  Ya scarin' mah little boy here, an' he don't like bein' scared. An' when he gets scared, I get angry!"

Wynne turned around, lowered her sunglasses and shot the man an annoyed glare that bounced off him like water off a goose. Her temper compiled a list of four or five replies that would fit the situation perfectly, but her common sense nixed all of them and told her brain to find something else or forget all about it. Ultimately, she settled for forgetting all about it though she did let out a non-committal grunt that could mean whatever 'Tommy-Gun' wanted to hear.

She was in no mood to deal with anyone's nonsense, so she turned around once more, dug into her duffel bag and found her cheap binoculars. The pits were given a thorough sweep without finding anything interesting that warranted a closer study.

There was more going on in the infield section: the young couple with the old camper van and the plastic swimming pool seemed to have a great time with their colorful cocktails and a little hanky-panky in the pool. The folks atop the larger RV right next to the camper were still busy flipping burgers and all the other traditional staples of a varied diet - some of them sat on the lawn chairs while others leaned over the railing to sneak a peek at the happy couple in the swimming pool. Elsewhere in the infield, at least five people partied hard around a boom box that had to be playing some kind of wild rock'n'roll judging by their wiggling hips.

A sigh escaped her as she moved the binoculars further up to take in the scene at the stalled race car. The wrecker crew had at last been able to get its rear free so they could attach the lifter-chains, but it would be several more minutes before the race would restart.

The heat was easy to ignore when the race was underway, but the sun seemed to get stronger during the caution period. Taking off her cowboy hat, she fanned her face, neck and arms without getting much relief. Another handful of crushed ice was soon popped into her mouth to little effect.

A sudden commotion over in the infield made her give the binoculars another go. It took her a few moments to discover that the epicenter of the hubbub seemed to be centered around the fans who had been dancing around the boom box only minutes earlier - a uniformed person stepping into view proved to be Beatrice Reilly whose body language suggested she was spit-flying furious over something.

"Aw… looks lack Quick Draw wussen satisfied yankin' mah chain… naw, she jus' hadda ruin someboddah else's day as well. Whah coudden she ha' let'em folks parteh?  I thunk that wus whah we wus he'. I mean, realleh, Quick Draw… that kinda behaviah is jus' low," Wynne mumbled as she moved the binoculars around to take in as much as she could of the odd scene. "Lawrdie, girls!  That's ou'ah darlin' Mandeh ri'te there!"

Woof? - Yap-yap-yap?

"Yessir, she be ri'te there. Mebbe y'all can see her with yer dawggie vi-shun an' all?"

Blackie let out a disappointed Woooooof as she shook her black head - Goldie was far less interested in any kind of physical confrontation, so she returned to the water bowl while she had it to herself.

"Aw, that be too bad, yessir. Anyhows, they… they be doin' som'tin but I ain't sure whut… looks lack mebbe one o' them there folks dancin' done fainted or som'tin… yuh… or mebbe… naw… an'… Quick Draw be holdin' back a young fella who sure does look lack he be reddeh ta dish out a knuckle sam'wich or som'tin. An' Mandeh be holdin' onta someboddah else… a fella in a… haw… a brown coat or som'tin. Snakes Alive, that fella gotta be roastin' in that- haw!  Haw, ou'ah darlin' Mandeh an' Quick Draw done caught that there Adoh-nis flashah!  Whah, they sure did!  Lawwwwwwwwwwwwr-die!"

Blackie jumped up and let out a few supportive barks that showed she would much rather be in the infield sinking her teeth into the exhibitionist than stuck on the scorching concrete grandstand.

Behind Wynne and the dogs, the little fellow in the camouflage outfit similar to his father's wailed out loud at the excited running commentary and the subsequent barking - it made 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins jerk forward and smack his meaty fist into his palm. "That frickin' does it!  You made Junior cry again!  I'm tellin' ya for the last stinkin' time, lady… if y'all an' your mutts don't stick a frickin' sock in it, I'mma-gonn' call security an' have ya removed!  Ya hear me?"

Wynne's upper lip curled into a sneer that was mirrored every step of the way by the one on Blackie's doggy face. She counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty without getting any closer to a physical or verbal response that wouldn't see her hog-tied and hauled off to the track's detention center.

Her temper was spared a fiery, volcanic eruption by her telephone ringing. The break seemed to satisfy Atkins, Sr. as well - the annoying fellow leaned back and found a popsicle for his wailing kid in their cooler box.

Wynne's mood improved when she saw the caller-ID said Mandy. Accepting the call, she put the telephone to her left ear while she stuck her pinkie in the other to shut out the world. "Howdy, darlin'. Sure is good ta heah ya voice an' all."

'Hi, hon. Is anything wrong?  You sound different.'

"Yuh, well, we be havin' a li'l trubbel up he', but it ain't nuttin' we can't handle. Lissen, I done watched y'all an' Quick Draw apprehend that flashah fella there!"

'We've just locked him up. No ID, no nothing save for shoes, socks, swimming trunks and a filthy overcoat. Get this, he says he hitched a ride to the track from Mount Olympus and that the Greek goddess of love Aphrodite is his closest relative. We only have to call her to have his name verified.'

"Lawrdie. Yuh, well, best o' luck wi'that one, huh?  Aw, I jus' wanted ta heah ya voice an' all, so… much obliged fer callin' back. I know how bizzeh y'all is so I don't wanna be takin' up aneh o' yer tih-me or nuttin'. Ya nevah know 'round these he' parts but mebbe we gonn' meet bah chance latah, yuh?"

'Maybe. I have a feeling we'll get busier as the evening goes on… who knows. Maybe we'll be spared any major dramas for once.'

"Well, that sure would be a first, wudden it?  No majah drah-mahs in li'l, ol' Goldsborah is lack figgah-eight racin' with no wreckin'… I ain't sure it evah done happened."

'Well, let's see. Talk to you later, hon.'

Grinning, Wynne removed her pinkie from her right ear - with a ploppp - before she sat up straight. "Bah-bah, Sheriff Mandeh!  Stick it to 'em!"

---

Ernie returned just shy of five minutes later carrying a small plastic bag from Retro-Repros. As he sat down, he opened the bag to show Wynne what was in it. "Bought ya a present."

"Ya whut?"

"Yes, Ma'am. A reproduction of the commemorative T-shirt from the 'ninety-two Southern five-hundred. It's got a renderin' of ol' D.W. and the number seventeen Western Auto Chevrolet on the front. The back of the shirt also shows the car in one of those front, side, rear views, you know?"

"Aw, buddeh!" Wynne said and pulled out the colorful T-shirt. She couldn't stop grinning as she took in the sight of the perfectly rendered likenesses of the legendary winning driver and car superimposed onto the logo of the historical event. Like Ernie had said, the rear of the shirt showed the familiar car in such painstaking detail it could be used to create an exact one-eighteenth scale replica if anyone should want to do so. "Merceh Sakes, son!  This he' thing be gor-juss!  Whah, Ah sure don't desuhrve nuttin' lack this!"

"Oh, I think you do. Anyway, I don't know your size… hell, I don't even know my wife's size after her pregnancy… so I picked a Large. The vendor told me it was the average these days. I hope it fits."

Wynne made sure to re-fold the T-shirt with careful gestures before she put it back into the plastic bag. Once the task had been accomplished, she pulled Ernie into a big, back-slapping hug. "Much obliged, old friend… thanks a million!  Lawrdie, I'mma-gonn' be the enveh o' Goldsborah paradin' 'round in this he' Dee Dubya an' Westuhrn Aw-tah shirt, yessirree!"

"Glad you like it. Hell, you've done so much for me over the years… remember the 'eighty-eight Coors Mellin' Ford Thunderbird hat you gave me a couple of years ago?"

"Uh… yuh?"

"The other month, I wore it when I visited some kin over in Georgia. They told me I might get it autographed if I went over to the racin' museum in Dawsonville 'cos there was some kind of event goin' on… well, I excused myself and flew over there at once-"

"Lack ya would!" Wynne said with a grin.

"Yeah. And yup, I did get it autographed. By The Man himself-"

"Oooohhhhhhh!"

"Yes Ma'am, he was there to celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of the insane pole lap at Talladega!  Man, that sure made my day… hell, it made my week!"

"Aw, holeh shittt, buddeh!  Way ta go… Lawrdie, that musta been dang-blasted awesum' an' all."

"Awesome Bill from Dawsonville!"

"Yessirree!  An' the champion apple that done fell from the famileh tree made da ri'te deci-shun, yuh?  'Cos he be drih-vin' a Chevrolet… but that's a whole 'nothah debah-te," Wynne said with a grin so broad it could hardly fit on her face.

---

"Goodness Gra-shuss almi'teh, Ah do bah-lieve them folks 'r reddeh ta throw the green… fih-nalleh!" Wynne exclaimed when the pace car brought the field down toward the start-finish line at reduced speed. As her legendary rotten luck would have it, she had just opened a can of Double-Zero so she had to resort to pinning it down between her knees to have both hands free.

She held up her telephone at once to film the restart while keeping an eye on the flagstand. As soon as the green flag fluttered to signal the restart on lap 42, she let out a "Wooooo-hooooooooooooo!  He' we go ag'in!" that made the scaredy-dog Goldie jump and let out a whimper.

Locking the telephone onto the cars in the first two rows, she held it as steady as she could though she was tempted to whip it left-to-right to catch all the colorful action. The odd, bluish-gray haze that seemed to hover over the front stretch even after the final car had passed made her furrow her brow and look beyond the display. "Haw?  Ernie, ya seein' what I be seein'?"

"Yeah, oil smoke… but I ain't sure where-"

Then everything happened at once: not only did the spectators let out a resounding "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh!" that made the grandstand shake, they all jumped to their feet to see the unfolding drama - the little kid on the row behind Wynne wailed as always, but there was no help to be found from his daddy this time as the elder Atkins had jumped up as well.

The track announcer's voice went up an octave as he delivered his next message: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, it has moved from doubt to confirmed fact!  The car creating a thick blanket of oil smoke out there is in fact the number eighty-four Chevrolet Lumina!  Last year's champion Phyllis O'Connell is in real trouble, race fans!  If she doesn't finish in the top twelve in this heat… and right now, that doesn't look likely… she'll have to face the humiliation of being relegated to the consolation race. And that is if they can fix whatever's wrong with the engine!'

"Holey shittt!" Wynne exclaimed at such a volume that Goldie jumped all over again. The can of Double Zero she had pinned down between her knees began to slide down as a result of her being unable to sit still, but she caught it in the nick of time so none of the precious nectar would be spilled.

"Well, it is a Chevrolet…" Ernie said as he cracked open a can of 1910 Special Brew. It earned him a mock growl that made him laugh out loud.

Wynne quickly swapped the telephone for the binoculars to be able to get an up-close look at the number 84 EverFresh Lumina the next time it drove past the grandstand - sure enough, the rear panel had turned pale-brown from the oil that leaked from somewhere in the system. "Lawrdie, that sure don't look too good, buddeh," Wynne said before she panned back to the flag stand. "Haw, lookie there!  Them offi-shuals be reddeh-in' the ol' black flag… Lawrdie, if Phyl is shown dat, it be game ovah."

The pits saw plenty of hubbub near Phyllis' stall. Her crew chief and a few others wearing EverFresh team gear argued their case in a debate with several of the track officials - the debate seemed to ebb and flow with some points taken and others rejected.

"Mebbe they be trah'in' ta sell that it be a pinhole leak or som'tin…?" Wynne said as she kept the binoculars firmly glued to her eyes.

Ernie chuckled before he drained the latest beer. "Some pinhole!  More like a nine-inch nail-hole if you ask me."

"Noboddah did… but anyhows. That kinda smoah-ke sure ain't pro-dooced by rear-end grease burnin', that's a durn fact. But it sure be weird an' all 'cos there ain't no smoah-ke outta them exhausts or nuttin'… it done smoah-kes like an ol' sombitch when she be on'da gas on'da straights, but there ain't much smoah-ke once she done lifts off fer them cornahs… weird, dat."

"Maybe an oil reservoir has ruptured and is drippin' onto the headers or something?"

Wynne briefly lowered the binoculars to get the full picture, but they were soon back at her eyes. "Mebbe. She still got plentah o' speed so I be perdeh dog-gone sure it ain't no burnt piston or nuttin'… haw, it wus one helluva long cau-shun period, tho'. Them racin' engines hate goin' off the boil fer that long."

"I remember seein' it happen a couple of times after long rain delays…"

"Yuh. We both done seen it plentah o' tih-mes back in the day with them ol'-schoo' carbahreted engines… which is what them folks be usin' he', o' course," Wynne said while she kept the binoculars on a tight view of the oily rear of Phyllis' race car - she only lowered them to take a couple of ice cubes to suck on. Once that had been accomplished, she reached into the nearest cooler for a pre-emptive Double-Zero. "Shoot, if onleh that there announssah guy could be bothah'd ta tell us how menneh laps wus left…"

"Let me see… eighteen," Ernie said decisively.

"Whaddindahell?  Where y'all been keepin' that there calculatah, son?"

Ernie pointed at the large electronic scoreboard that had been set up in the paddock area directly opposite the grandstand. "Don't need one. It says so right there. Now there's seventeen laps to go."

"Haw," Wynne said; she kept the binoculars close to her eyes which meant she never saw where Ernie pointed. As Phyllis' smoking Lumina raced past, she whip-panned the binoculars to keep up - "Whoa… howdeh-doodeh, tutteh-frutteh!" she croaked when the rapid sideways movement joined forces with the beer and the heat to make her just as dizzy as if she'd had a handful of Extra Strongs.

"What?"

"Haw… nuttin'. Jus' a li'l… mo-shun sickness or som'tin… whoa."

"Next stop, camomile tea," Ernie said and nudged his elbow into Wynne's side all over again - The Last Original Cowpoke couldn't be bothered to reply.

Once Phyllis' car had raced past twice more, Wynne lowered the binoculars. "I ain't seein' this he' thing holdin' on 'til the end," she said before she finished off the latest Double-Zero before it would get lukewarm.

---

With seven laps to go in the second qualifying heat, Phyllis' race car was still in the field as it seemed the crew chief had won the debate with the track officials on waving or withdrawing the black flag.

The last handful of laps had seen her gradually lose her pace relative to the other cars; as the number 84 raced past the grandstand on the 73rd lap, it was obvious to all but the hard of hearing that it was running rough. She remained in eighth place due to her natural driving skills and dogged defense of every position she was challenged for. The car was much slower on the straights but just as fast as the competition in the corners - since she approached them with reduced speed, she didn't need to slow down as much.

"Ya know, Ernie," Wynne said around a mouthful of ice cubes, "I kinda feel bad fer them drivahs up front. Yuh?  They be havin' a fa-bew-luss race but there ain't noboddah lookin' at 'em an' their sponsahrs. Ev'rehboddah be lookin' at Phyl an' her smokin' vee-hickel… I mean, okeh, she be the star an' that ain't nevah been nuttin' dif'rent since the dawn o' racin', but them famileh-run teams that don't got no EvahFresh Corpora-shun backin' 'em need eyeballs too, yuh?"

"Yeah, but like you said, that's never been any different. The haves have and the have-nots don't. That's racin'… hell, that's life."

"I s'pose. Still… mebbe we could hold some kinda spe-shul promo-shun fer some off dem smallah teams down at Moira's or som'tin. A meet-the-teams kinda day or som'tin?  Anyhows. I need-a think 'bout it a li'l mo'."

The cars continued to race around and around the dirt oval; each time the number 84 EverFresh Lumina went by the start/finish-line and the grandstand, it sounded a little sicker.

"Aw, an' there we got that there white flag!  Yessirree… one lap ta go sponsah'rd bah-"

"The Ford Motor Company 'cos a Ford's gonna win the heat!" Ernie said and finished off by thrusting his latest beer high in the air and letting out a "Whoop!  Whoop!  Whoop!  Fooooooord!" that not only made everyone close to him stare in wide-eyed disbelief but the young Tommy, Jr. on the row behind them break out in a howling wail.

Ernie's celebrations were soon drowned out by the sigh of relief that burst out of most other spectators at the track as the smoking EverFresh Lumina rattled across the start/finish-line.

As soon as Phyllis had received the checkered flag, she brought the oily race car to a halt against the inside retaining wall halfway down to turn one. The window net was quickly pulled down so she could climb out and sit on the windowsill. Always proficient in the fine art of Putting On A Show, she waved at the crowd before she pretended to pinch her nostrils and fan her nose.

"Haw, that be ol' Phyl, awri'te," Wynne mumbled. Despite her reservations, she clapped and whistled like the rest of the people up and down the many rows - she didn't even have to rack her brain to recall a few scenes of similar showmanship from the time they had been an item. Back then, such scenes had occasionally been brought into play when a large-scale argument or small-fry heated words between them needed to be sweetened.

The track had soon been cleared of cars. As the grading tractors returned to get rid of the worst ruts and water the clay, the entire roster of mechanics from Phyllis' team swarmed around the smoking Lumina. The hood was opened to make an initial assessment of the dramas that had befallen it and to attach a tow rope to the internal hooks. Once one of the wrecker tractors had arrived, the stricken vehicle was pulled off the track, through pit road and into the paddock area beyond it.

'Ladies and Gentlemen,' the track announcer said, 'please direct your attention to the EverFresh Fighting Spirit winner's circle where you'll be able to see and hear from the drivers who won the qualifying heats. For the fans of last year's champion, EverFresh driver Phyllis O'Connell, well, her car is being towed back for what will undoubtedly be extensive work. We'll keep you posted. In the meantime, here's-'

The track announcer soon introduced the winners of the heats who received their deserved accolades in the form of a small placque and a front-row starting position in the finals later on, but it seemed the majority of the spectators on the grandstand had little interest in that. Many got up and walked away to do other things like standing in endless lines at the restrooms and concession stands even though the cars running in the consolation race were about to roll onto the track.

When 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins, his fierce-looking wife and their camouflage-wearing son got up and shuffled off without as much as a goodbye, Wynne let out a sigh of relief. "Hey, buddeh… we 'r gonn' stay an' watch that there consola-shun event, ain't we?" she said as she dug into the cooler box to get some more ice cubes.

Ernie mirrored his friend's actions - with the slight exception that he searched for a Pale Lager instead. "Oh, hell yeah. I wouldn't miss it for the world… maybe a Ford 'll win again."

"Lawrdie, dat a done deal, den!" Wynne said and broke out in a cheesy laugh at her clever wordplay - down at Wynne's feet, Goldie buried her face in her paws for the exact same reason. Blackie just woofed, woofed and woofed a little more like she was snickering at the whole thing.

-*-*-*-

The eighteen dirt-stockers that droned around Thunder Park in the consolation event were visibly slower compared to the front-runners, or even the mid-fielders, in the qualifying heats. The lack of direct action was only logical as the drivers appearing in the consolation event were those who had been left behind in the two qualifiers.

Only the top-two finishers would be transferred into the finals - where they would share the last row and then race around with no hope of ever finishing higher than last on their own merit - so all those who knew they had no chance of keeping up just seemed to drive around at a leisurely pace to get to the checkered flag. Some overtaking maneuvers did take place over the course of the 35-lap event, but they were few and far between and could hardly garner any interest among the few spectators who had stayed in the grandstand to watch.

Ernie was content since the top three cars were all Fords, but even Wynne found it hard to concentrate in the baking heat. The rays of the sun tried to drill mineshafts into her skull despite the presence of her cowboy hat, and she had an inkling that her neck was about to get sunburned given the unpleasant pins-and-needles effect she felt there.

After yawning, she let out the umpteenth sigh and checked the clock on her telephone for what had to be the 101st time during the consolation race. She had just put the telephone away all over again when it rang.

"A-yup, mebbe that be Mandeh!" she said with a grin as she found it once more - the grin seemed to get stuck on her face even while her brow was furrowed in puzzlement. "Naw, it ain't… it be a numbah I ain't got in that there registreh."

"Reject it," Ernie said as he reached for a beer, "it's probably a scammer or a telemarketer."

"Naw… I nevah reject nuttin' 'cos it mi'te be impahrtant ta the othah fella." Tapping the correct bar, Wynne put the telephone to her ear. "Howdy, y'all got the one an' onleh Wynne Donnah-hew he'. Who is dis, come on back?"

'Hi, Wynne… I guess you recognize my voice.'

Wynne had been in the process of fanning her glistening face with her beloved cowboy hat, but she plonked it back on her dark locks upon hearing the familiar voice that spoke in her ear. "Yuh… howdy, Phyl. Shitteh luck, haw?"

'It wasn't shitty luck but bad prep-work. The clamp on an oil line had come loose. We need to change the engine. I wondered if you'd be interested in giving us a hand-'

"Whut?!  Give y'all a hand?"

Ernie let out an "Ooooooh!" that earned him an elbow in the side.

'-changing it. It would be great PR, Wynne. For my team, for EverFresh and for your hotel slash B-and-B. We have the radio people here and everything. How about it?'

Wynne whipped off her hat all over again to give her thoughts plenty of room to develop. After wiping her brow on the sleeve of her tunic, she took the binoculars and tried to locate Phyllis' team down in the paddock area - a small cluster of support vehicles that had been parked there made it impossible for her to see that particular stretch of the infield.

'Wynne?  I'm sorry to lean on you, but I need an answer P-D-Q.'

"Yuh, I be thinkin'… I be thinkin'…" Wynne said and put her hat back on to stop the murderous rays from cooking her gray matter. "Lissen, Phyl, I'mma-gonn' come down an' tawk ta ya in person, okeh?  This ain't fer discussin' ovah this he' phoah-ne. Yuh?"

Down at Wynne's feet, Blackie and Goldie shared a puzzled look that was accompanied by several yaps and woofs.

'All right. Go down to the teams' entrance to the paddock. It's near turn four. I'll send someone over there with a team pass. Thanks!'

"Haw. Don't thank me yet 'cos I ain't done thinkin' 'bout it. But I'mma-gonn' be there in a cuppel-a minnites. Okeh. Bah, Phyl."

Another "Oooooooooooh!" escaped Ernie, and this time it earned him a friendly shove in addition to the elbow in the side. Chuckling, he reached for the nearest cooler box to quench his thirst and take away the oh-so-terrible pain that stemmed from having been elbowed twice in a short amount of time.

'See ya soon, Wynne,' Phyllis said and closed the connection.

An unreadable expression fell over Wynne's face. Her eyed glazed over as the potential for calamity, pitfalls and personal disasters involved in such a scenario clashed with the potential for success, positives for others and personal victories.

The permutations were endless which made her overheating brain bog down halfway up the proverbial hill. The positives were hazy at best but the negatives were crystal clear - her gut feeling told her that in bright-red block letters.

A sense of knowing exactly what to do suddenly flowed over her, and she broke out in a relieved smile as she dug into her jeans to find her telephone all over again. Being upfront and truthful was always the best antidote to doubt and uncertainty, so Mandy's number was soon found and accessed.

'Hi, hon… I'm on patrol so it needs to be brief,' Mandy said at the other end of the line.

"Howdy, Sheriff Mandeh!  Phyl jus' called me an' asked if I wanted ta come down ta them pits o' theirs fer a li'l public rela-shuns work an' such… their engine done crapped out on 'em in da race so they need-a change it… I tole her I wus prolleh gonn' swing bah, yuh?  But I wudden do nuttin' without lettin' ya know first so it wudden be a nasteh-ass surprih-se fer y'all or nuttin'."

'Oh… thank you,' Mandy said and let out a chuckle. 'It's all right, hon. We both know what we have.'

"Lawwwwwwwwr-die, ain't dat a fact!  Yes, Ma'am!  Okeh… uh… I jus' wanted ta let ya know. Yuh?  Okeh… see ya latah. Luv ya. Bah!"

'Love you too, hon.'

Jumping to her feet, Wynne plonked the hat back on her dark tresses and began to take inventory of the things she might need. "Ernie, I be ovah yondah in da EverFresh pits. Yuh?  I be guessin' ya ain't comin'?"

"To work on a GM product?  No thanks," Ernie said with a grin.

"Didden reckon ya would. Okeh, I can't bring 'em dawggies, so please take care off'em. There be coo' watah in that there coolah box. Yuh?  Oh, an' would ya mind leavin' jus' one beah fer me fer the tih-me I get back an' all?"

"I'll try!"

"Much obliged, buddeh," Wynne said before she crouched down to pull Blackie and Goldie in for a little fur-rubbing.

-*-*-*-

The tall wire mesh fence separating the regular infield from the area reserved for the teams was rolled aside by one of Thunder Park's security guards once Wynne got there. All she had done was to take a couple of steps beyond the boundary, but a sense of being Alice in Wonderland - or Wynne in Pitland - made her break out in a wide grin.

"Wait here, Ma'am," the guard said before he spoke into his portable radio to announce Wynne's arrival.

Wynne replied with a enthusiastic "Yessir!" as she took in the colorful sights surrounding her.

The consolation race continued to drone on in the background, but none of the mechanics of the teams who had qualified for the finals had time to pay any attention to that. Most of the dirt stockers that would appear later were being tended to under marquees or simply on sheets of canvas. Some cars had already gone through their pre-race checklists and had been pushed closer to pit road itself; others were still in the nuts-and-bolts stage and were jacked up for whatever under-body maintenance it required, or stood on metal stands with their wheels off, or had their hoods opened for various engine-related checks.

It didn't take long before a young woman in her mid-twenties jogged toward Wynne's spot at the main entrance. Wearing the typical EverFresh-team apparel, the woman clutched a special paddock pass on a long key chain; she was clearly on the look-out for a woman matching Wynne's description because she came straight for her. "Oh… are you Miss Donohue?"

"A-yup, that be li'l ol' me, awri'te. Wynne Donnah-hew. Howdy, there, nih-ce lay-dee," Wynne said and tipped her hat like any proper cowpoke would.

"Hello. Here's your paddock pass. It needs to be visible at all times," the woman said as she handed over the key chain.

Wynne took it at once and slipped it around her neck. Holding it up, she took in the details with wide open eyes. "Awri'te!  Wouldya lookie there!  Haw!  Ain't dat som'tin?"

"The security guards come by every now and then to verify that there are no trespassers here… did you hear about the flasher?"

"Yuh, I sure did, Mizzeh!  Some folks 'r jus' plain weird, yuh?  But anyhows… les'go ovah ta ol' Phyl," Wynne said as she and the young woman turned around and began to head back to the EverFresh tent. "Aw, now I be realleh impolih-te an' all… I didden catch yer nah-me?"

"Anita Dobson, Miss Donohue," the young woman said with a smile. "I'm on what's known as the fan-spitality team in the EverFresh family. Like hospitality services, only for the fans. We arrange meet-and-greets and the like."

"Aw, that sure be som'tin. An' ya realleh oughttah call me Wynne 'cos I sure ain't gonn' be respondin' ta Mizz Donnah-hew or nuttin'!" Wynne said with a grin that turned puzzled when Anita replied:

"I'd rather keep a professional distance if you don't mind, Miss Donohue. All right, here we are," the young woman said and turned off the central aisle.

"Yuh… okeh… whutevah," Wynne mumbled as she followed Anita into the EverFresh tent.

The last time Wynne had seen the tent was when she and Ernie had stood on the other side of the fence while Phyllis had signed autographs, but the playful mood had come to a dead stop after the problems with the engine had nearly caused the car to miss the finals.

The crew chief and his team of skilled mechanics swarmed around the number 84 Chevrolet Lumina that'd had its hood, radiator and front sheet metal removed to ease the access to the empty engine bay - the ruined motor had already been craned out and sat forlornly on a heavy-duty trolley; the offending leak had drawn filthy-brown streaks down the block, and the oil continued to drip out of it and onto the ground below.

Despite the presence of two large floor fans that sent a constant breeze onto the scene, everything reeked of hot oil, warm tires, leaded exhaust fumes and sweat - the latter was evident in the damp patches on the mechanics' T-shirts as well as their glistening arms and faces.

Wynne had expected everyone to be in a state of unrestrained panic with all the barked commands, gruff comments and four-letter words associated with such a state of mind, but the professional team worked in perfect step. The tools that were put into action to prepare the engine bay for a fresh V8 produced the occasional clang of metal-on-metal, but it was nothing compared to what it could have been.

Phyllis O'Connell soon walked around one of the corners of the tent. She had her telephone to her ear but found time to flash a big thumbs-up at Wynne when she noticed her. When the call was over, she took the long, scenic route around the mechanics on her way over to Wynne so she wouldn't get in the way of anyone.

She continued to wear her driving suit, but she had unzipped it down to half-mast and had tied the sleeves around her waist - it left her upper body protected by the compulsory four-layer fireproof underwear. She wore her mirror Aviators at first, but soon took them off and clipped them onto the upper hem of her undershirt. "Hiya, Wynne. Thanks for coming over. Wow, you look great today… that tunic really suits you," she said with a smile.

Wynne stuck her hands into her rear pockets. Unlike Phyllis, she kept her sunglasses on. "Yuh. Much obliged… a' yer welcome. Lissen, is there somewheah we can tawk in private?  I got som'tin impahrtant ta say ta y'all that ain't meant fer no aw-dience, if ya catch mah drift."

"Ah… yeah, let's go into the team bus," Phyllis said and made a half-turn so she could point at the rear of a vehicle that peeked past the corner of the tent.

---

Wynne had expected a super-luxurious, all-singing-all-dancing, top-of-the-line motor coach the size of an overland bus with a leather interior, a fully equipped bar and at least forty speakers hooked up to a sixty-inch TV, so she had to let out a chuckle at the sight of a bog-standard GMC twelve-seater minibus - the only unusual aspect to it was the vinyl team graphics that had been attached to its flanks.

After Phyllis had moved the sliding door aside, she and Wynne climbed up into the bus and sat down on separate rows. The backrests acted as a barrier between them, and that suited Wynne just fine. When the sliding door was closed, the noises produced by the mechanics as well as the race cars that continued to drone on in the background all faded away.

Wynne toyed with a loose thread on her beer-stained jeans for a few seconds until she had forced the words she needed to convey into forming a proper sentence. "Phyl, I got som'tin I need-a tell y'all an' I need-a do it now befo' we get aneh furthah. Okeh?"

"Okay…"

"It gonn' be a long-winded affair an' I 'preciate it if ya don't intahrupt me 'til I be done. yuh?"

"I'm all ears," Phyllis said with a smile.

"Okeh. He' we go. I'mma-gonn' tell ya whut this ain't. If y'all is hopin' this he' deal gonn' be some kinda ovah-toore or foot-inna'doah or whutevah, y'all be barkin' up the wrong tree, pardner. Mah lih-fe ain't nevah been bettah than whut it is now, yuh?  When I done met mah darlin' Mandeh, mah fu-chure wus sealed in concrete. I ain't gonn' do nuttin'… an' I mean nuttin' whut-so-stinkin'-evah… that gonn' jeppah'dih-ze whut I got with'er. An' y'all can tah-ke that ta da bank. End o' discus-shun. Now, all that said, I ain't got no problem speakin' ta them ray-dee-ohh folks an' mebbe doin' a li'l P.R. fer y'all an' Moira's bar an' grill an' da hoah-tel an' them things. Hell, I don't even mind posin' fer pic-chures or video, yuh?  But nuttin' ain't nevah gonn' get rekindled between y'all an' me. Okeh, I done mah filibustah. Y'all may speak now."

Phyllis smiled and reached out to put a warm hand on Wynne's arm. "I hear you. Not only that, I understand perfectly. Am I disappointed?  Maybe a little. Maybe I was hoping there was still a spark between us. You know… I saw the writing on the wall after speaking to your wife yesterday evening."

"Aw, we ain't-"

Phyllis broke out in a grin. "Perhaps you haven't put your names on the dotted line, but take it from me, Wynne… you're married!"

"Yuh, I s'pose y'all mi'te call it that. Yuh…"

"Yeah. So I guess I already knew. Getting in the way of your happiness, or actually ruining anything, was never my intention. But you know me… I can't help but flirt a little when I see a gorgeous gal."

"Yuh, tell me 'bouddit," Wynne said and lowered her wraparound sunglasses so she could look over the rim.

Phyllis nodded a couple of times; nothing further needed to be said on that topic since they both remembered how it had been when they were together - and especially how it had ended.

Sliding across the seat, Phyllis pushed the sliding door aside and stepped down onto the ground. "My guys are on top of the engine change, so how about we found the radio people and did a little P.R.?  I'll highlight your and Moira's bed and breakfast and you can say nice things about EverFresh."

"Sounds lack a plan ta me," Wynne said and followed her ex out of the team bus.

After Phyllis had shut the door again, she put a hand on Wynne's arm to make her come to a brief halt. "I'm glad we set things straight… no pun intended. We've both grown since we split up."

"Yuh, I guess we have. Haw, we gotten oldah is whut done happened."

Phyllis grinned at the undeniable truth of the statement. "Yeah, and it's getting worse each and every morning. Hey, on another note… I saved that EverFresh Chevrolet cap I autographed for you-"

Their voices were soon absorbed by the din as they walked back into the team tent; in the background, the track announcer sounded like he was on the brink of falling asleep as he called the final few laps of the consolation race.

-*-*-*-

After the heart-to-heart in the team bus and the subsequent radio interview - the poor reporter had become as confused as any human being had ever been due to The Last Original Cowpoke's inimitable style and enthusiasm - Wynne's spot in the grand scheme of things was reduced to doing odd jobs like washing and polishing the oil off the rear of the Lumina with a bucket of hot water and a sturdy brush.

Instead of being an active player in the engine change which would only have ruffled far too many feathers to count, she walked around with her telephone documenting everything that went on in the EverFresh tent: she filmed the guy in charge of brakes and wheels checking the rotors and the pads before attaching the steel wheels, she filmed the 'fan-spitality' lady Anita Dobson co-ordinating a meet-and-greet between Phyllis and a young, wheelchair-bound fan, and she filmed the crew chief conducting the team of mechanics like a symphony orchestra as they slotted the new engine into place using a special, long-armed crane on wheels.

Twenty-nine minutes after the broken engine had been taken out, a mechanic crawled into the dirt stocker Lumina to toggle all the appropriate switches that sent power to the ignition boxes, the fuel pump and the chassis fans up front at the radiator. Once the crew chief gave the command, the mechanic flipped open the shield protecting the master switch and worked the starter button.

The engine had already run on the dyno so everything should theoretically be in tip-top condition, but as any mechanic knew, the risk of stumbling upon a gremlin at the worst possible moment was always present - fortunately for all involved, the racing V8 came to life with a roar and a brief cloud of smoke as the headers and exhaust pipes were blown clean.

Wynne captured the nervous moments, the actual start, the resulting cheer and everyone's highly visible elation on her telephone. The engine kept running smoothly so she moved around the car to record the distinct sound coming out of the exhaust pipes.

Grinning like a wild thing at the full-bodied burble and the smell of racing fuel being burnt off, she suddenly realized her telephone was down to 29% power. Though she had a power bank in the duffel bag up at their seats, she was obviously going to need all the available power to film the big dirt-stocker finals later on, so she decided to finish off in style by panning across the car, the mechanics and finally Phyllis who gave her a big thumbs-up.

"Haw!  That sure wus fuh-n, yessirree," she mumbled as she stopped the recording and slipped the hot telephone into her pocket to cool off. Her whistle badly needed to be wetted, so she shuffled around the main part of the EverFresh tent as well as the hospitality enclosures to search for a cooler box containing the golden nectar: "Soda pops… mo' soda pops… an' even mo' soda pops… apple joose, orange joose, papaya joose… haw, ain't got no dang clue whut that there thing is, but nevah mind… pineapple joose… peach-flavah'd iced tea, lemon-flavah'd iced tea, cranberreh-flavah'd iced tea… aw, whaddahell 's goin' on he'… them folks ain't got no beah nowheah!"

Anita Dobson had overheard Wynne's mumbling and soon came over to see if there was anything she could do to resolve the issue. "Miss Donohue, you look like you could use some help."

"Whah, I sure can, Mizzeh… Anita wussen it?  Anyhows, whe'dahell 'r them beahs kept?"

"I'm afraid we don't serve alcoholic beverages here, Miss Donohue."

"Awwww-shoot," Wynne said and pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow. "But hold 'em hosses, pardner, 'cos them Dubbel-Zerahs ain't got none o' that there alcah-hawl in 'em… that be whah they be called Dubbel-Zerahs, yuh?"

"I'm afraid it doesn't change anything, Miss Donohue."

A blank expression fell over Wynne's face; it stayed there for a short while until the corners of her mouth began to droop. "Shoot. Ugh. Okeh. Yuh… mebbe I oughtta skedaddle back up ta mah coolahs, then… naw, I need som'tin ta drink. Ain'tcha got a Coke or som'tin?  Not that there joose-"

"Well, it just so happens that Team EverFresh and the Bay City-based Frizzie's Brewing Company have signed a four-year sponsorship deal, so I'm afraid we don't have products from other-"

"Dang… jus' when Ah done thunk this he' deal wus gonn' be dif'rent… mah rotten luh-ck jumps up an' bites me onda buhhhh-tt," Wynne said and wiped her desert-dry lips on the back of her hand. "Yuh, okeh, can I have one o' them there wotcha'callems instead?  Anythin'. Jus' not that there joose there 'cos that stuff gives me heartbuh-rn an' I hate that."

"Of course, Miss Donohue. I'll be right over," Anita said and made a beeline for the nearest cooler box.

Wynne put her hands on her hips while she waited, but she soon had far more important things to contend with: a genuine smile spread over her face as Mandy entered the EverFresh tent. "Haw!  Ovah he', Sheriff Mandeh!" Wynne cried and waved her hat high in the air.

Mandy grinned back and strode over to her partner in her typical no-nonsense gait. "I can hear it's going well," she said and nodded toward the Lumina that continued to run at an idle to check for any new leaks.

"Yuh, it be goin' fih-ne. I reckon we almost done he'… or I am, anyhows. How 'r things down at them there holdin' cells?  Is ol' Adoh-nis givin' y'all aneh hassle?"

"No. Well, except that he finally took off his swimming trunks when he was being registered," Mandy said and leaned against the edge of a table.

"Lawwwwwwww-rdie!"

"Quite. Even that was a misunderstanding as Deputy Simms had asked him to take off the coat… well, the deputy had a coughing fit before he could complete the sentence, so Adonis thought he was meant to get rid of everything. He kept his socks on, though."

"Aw… Barreh, Barreh, Barreh," Wynne said and let out a long chuckle.

Anita Dobson came back into the main tent holding a pink-and-white can. It took her a few moments to find the tall woman in the white tunic, but she was soon on her way over to the corner. "Here you go, Miss Donohue. A Frizzie's Diet Raspberry Fizz," she said as she thrust the can into Wynne's hand.

Wynne took it by sheer reflex and let out a "Whah, much obliged, there, Mizzeh!" but her jaw slipped lower and lower as she caught an eyeful of the colorful can. Being radically different to what she usually enjoyed when it came to liquid nourishment, she studied the can from all angles to see if it would be safe to sample it.

"Hello, Sheriff," Anita continued with a smile. "I'm Anita Dobson, a member of the EverFresh fan-spitality team. Can I get you a refreshment of some kind?"

Mandy pushed herself off the table she had been leaning against to give the impression she was about to jump back into the fray. "No thanks, Miss Dobson. I won't stay long."

"All right. Just call me if you need anything, Sheriff," Anita said before she turned to Wynne. "Miss Donohue, is there anything more I can do for you right now?"

It took Wynne a short while to tear her eyes away from the pink can, but she eventually let out a "Wha'?" that made Mandy smirk and scratch an eyebrow. Wynne's eyes moved from Anita to Mandy and back before she shrugged. "Naw, this is… uh… jus' fih-ne, Mizzeh. Much obliged."

Smiling, Anita left Wynne and Mandy behind to tend to the needs of the other EverFresh guests.

Wynne continued to study the can even as Mandy came over to her to caress her elbow a little. "Darlin', y'all know me, yuh?"

"I'd say so. Why?" Mandy said with a grin.

"Aw, I wus jus' wonderin' whut part o' me done looks lack I mi'te be on da market fer a razz-berreh fizz… a diet razz-berreh fizz!  Lawrdie. Y'all reckon li'l Renee Tooleh mi'te lack this?  I ain't sure I dare drink it. I gotta feelin' it mi'te explode in mah face or som'tin."

"A diet soda… no, I don't think Renee will like it."

"Yuh, I betcha ri'te. Ya always is. Okeh. Dag-nabbit, whut's the worst than can happen?" Wynne said and cracked open the can of Frizzie's Diet Raspberry Fizz. The can responded with the classic psssshhhht! which meant their relationship was off to a good start. The first probing sip didn't offer much save for a slightly artificial aftertaste, so Wynne chugged down close to half of it in a series of gulps like she was used to. "Aw… it be… it be… kinda… okeh. I guess. Mebbe a li'l too-"

A resounding belch of roughly the same strength and wind speed as a Texas tornado blasted up her gullet, through her throat and out her mouth. Before it faded away, it had made the tent's ceiling flutter up and even drowned out the burble of the idling racing V8. Next door, a Virgin Tower missionary fainted and several babies began to wail - the former made little impact in the overall scheme of things, but the latter prompted the mamas of the babies to curse out loud at the selfishness of certain individuals.

"Holeh shittt…" Wynne croaked as she stared at the can in a state of wide-eyed disbelief. Not wanting to risk another apocalyptic event, she put the rest of the can of raspberry fizz on the table and walked away in a hurry.

"Bless ya," Mandy said around a cheesy grin.

"Haw… much obliged, darlin'… Good Lawwwww-rd almighteh, that wus… haw… som'tin else, lemme tell ya," Wynne said and took off her cowboy hat to fan her face.

Before Mandy could return to her scheduled patrol, Phyllis entered the tent while untangling the arms of her race suit so she could pull it up over her shoulders. "Oh… hello, Sheriff," she said as she eyed Mandy. A photographer from the official EverFresh website followed a few seconds later carrying a camera that probably cost more than the Chevrolet Lumina dirt stock car did.

"Miss O'Connell," Mandy said in a perfectly neutral voice.

Phyllis grinned as she waved the photographer past her. "How about a photo?  Yes, let's have a pic of the three of us together. Sheriff, you can stand in the middle-"

Mandy narrowed her eyes as she glanced at her partner's height that was several inches superior to her own; then she glanced over at Phyllis who was perhaps not quite as tall as Wynne but certainly beefier due to her extensive exercise routines. Grunting, she figured out in no time that if she stood anywhere near Tall & Beefy, it would make her look like a kid dressed for Halloween - not only would it undermine her authority, it would be disrespectful toward the uniform. "Miss O'Connell," she said in a no-nonsense voice, "I'm afraid we need to take a raincheck on that photo. I have to return to my patrol."

"Oh… okay."

"Wynne, I'll wait outside."

"A-yup, Sheriff Mandeh," Wynne said before she stepped forward with her hand stretched out. "An' I need-a get back upstairs ta mah dawggies, Phyl, so… yuh. Okeh?  I jus' wanna wish y'all good luck or som'tin… naw, wishin' someboddah good luck be bad luck, yuh?  Shoot… uh… okeh, haw!  Break a leg!"

"Thanks, Wynne," Phyllis said and put out her own had.

A big grin spread over Wynne's face; it faded when Phyllis pulled her into a sneaky hug instead of simply shaking hands. They only remained in that position for a couple of seconds, but it was enough to make her uncomfortable. "Bah-bah, Phyl. I be watchin' from the grandstand. Go kick some buhhh-tt, yuh?" she said once they pulled apart.

Phyllis nodded and flashed Wynne a big thumbs-up. "I'll try. It'll be checkers or wreckers for me tonight!"

Part 3

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