Sorry for the long waits. Trying to do better. Honestly.
3. Travel
Pro-Drive Racing Pit Garage, Gateway International Raceway, Illinois;
Freshly washed-out tarmac and a gloomy, grey sky met Virgil and Alan Tracy as they stepped out of their hired SUV round the back of the pit garage. Rainbowed, pooled water was settling on the track, leaving the surface slippery wet and patchy. High above, the last drips of the rainfall were falling off the brightly coloured Pro-Drive logo, over the rear entrance to the team's pits, cascading downwards in a waterfall of light-catching teardrops.
Thread-like, wisps of sparse fog twisted between concrete buildings and transporters, chilling the air. Virgil turned his thin jacket collar up, shielding his exposed face just a little from the biting, crisp weather, and shoved his hands a little further into his pockets, flexing his fingers every now and again to keep the heat moving, and make sure that they hadn't died and fallen off in the frigid cold that was late Illinois-autumn.
"Shame the sun couldn't last, huh?"
Alan looked over with a wry grin, as he keyed in the entry code on a data pad beside the only access door to the garage, his fingers red and slowly freezing against the numbing, icebox plastic.
"Well, we are out early morning, in the States, in October, Virge. I think that island life's turning you soft."
He threw a light punch at the older man's shoulder, just catching his target as Virgil twisted away, before turning back to press the 'enter' button on the keypad.
"I'mnot turning soft, Alan."
Pushing the heavy, metal door open, as the electronic bolt pulled back away from the frame, leaving it free to swing, Alan walked through. He paused, holding the door open for his brother, pretending to consider this new option.
"Nah, you're right. You're just cranky. Not enough sleep."
Following his brother through, and catching on to the ploy a touch later than he would have liked to, Virgil grinned back, mentally blaming jet lag and Alan's surprise breakfast of cold pizza, for his mental sharpness, or lack of.
"Yeah, well, at least I don't try and bring back pretty waitresses with boyfriends twice the size of me."
Game, set and match, Virgil Tracy. Or so he thought.
"Are we forgetting the last time me and you spent quality time together State-side…?"
Before the exasperating blond could continue though, a man approached the pair, saving Virgil from reliving that embarrassing experience.
"Ready to head east, Kid?"
Matt Harshaw had a rogue, boyish face; like a man who was getting to act out his childhood dream and play with toy cars for a living, and a mop of brown hair that stuck up in tufts around his bulky radio-headset. Bright, green eyes lit up with a permanent smile, inviting and fiery all at the same time. Someone definitely to have on your side.
"You bet, Matt. Can't wait to kick Tag's ass all the way there and back again."
The crewmember's laughter, accompanied with merriment that really reached his eyes, was infectious, leaving Alan in spates of amusement, whilst Harshaw introduced himself to Virgil.
"Hey." He held out a hand that was taken graciously, and quickly, like two friends reunited after a long break, rather than complete strangers. "I'm Matt, Alan's Race Engineer. You must be Virgil. Sorry I didn't get round to meeting you yesterday at the race. Alan said his brother was about, but I had a lot to do."
"Don't worry about it. It all looked so busy down here from the stands." He gestured about the now half-empty room.
A collection of team-clothed people were wandering about the expansive area, moving large, silver, metal crates towards the exit, where they were being loaded up on to eighteen wheelers, with the Pro-Drive logo, booming, on their sides. Elsewhere, equipment was still being stowed; cables, manuals and computer units, loaded into cases and boxes around the two, red and white Ferraris that still stood in the middle of the garage, alone.
Following the gaze of the two others present, Alan's eyes fell upon his team-mate's and his own cars.
"Why are they still here?" He jerked his thumb towards the vehicles, nodding in their direction to clarify what he was talking about a little more.
"Long story." Matt sighed, and ran a hand through his thick hair, leaving it more jagged and thorny than ever. "The trucks left without them."
Alan's eyebrows raised so high they nearly hit his hairline, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, words unable to escape. Instead Virgil asked what he had been thinking.
"How did they manage to leave the cars behind? Surely, they're, ah, a little large and important-looking to miss?"
Smiling again, any annoyance forgotten quickly, and optimism shining through, Matt continued; turning a problematic situation into another source of excitement and adventure.
"Turned out the driver left his cab for a rest stop, came back and someone had closed the rear, loading doors. He asked the nearest person if the cars had been loaded, who thought he asked if the cars were going to be loaded. Of course, he said yes, the driver thought he had his cargo, and there you go. Wham. Bam. Thank you Ma'am. He set off for Indiana."
Alan still looked staggered, astounded, but managed to find his voice this time.
"He didn't think to look, and check. Hell, didn't he see them still sitting here in the garage? Didn't his truck feel too light? Gee, and we employ these people why?"
Laughing somewhat now, at the young driver's indignation, Matt simply said,
"Dunno. Ask Wyke. He signs the contracts. Then again, he did sign yours… Maybe he just doesn't read them first." Pausing for a moment, and glancing round the half-empty, nearly packed away set-up, Matt continued. "Anyway, some of us have some organising to do. I don't know what you guys have planned, but I think Wyke wanted a word before we leave. Departure's planned for about two o'clock this afternoon."
"Alright, Matt. I'll catch you later."
"Sure thing, Al."
Matt Harshaw left then, disappearing between stacked crates and semi-assembled computer units, chatting to others around him the whole time. His job; to keep others working, and the transportation moving.
After the race engineer had left, Virgil turned to Alan, with a puzzled look marring his Southern-State, blunt-and-rough, good looks.
"Wyke? He's your Boss, isn't he? I'm sure I've heard his name before."
Still grinning, in the after-effects of Matt's departure, Alan nodded his agreement.
Wyke Mulagen was Pro-Drive Racing's Team Principle, the man in charge of the cars, workers and big decisions. In the end it was his choice whether or not the cars pitted for fuel and tyres on lap 31 or 32; whether or not Tag or Alan got a longer first stint, or a better shot at pole position.
Forty-four years old, married with two young girls, he had a salt and pepper spotted, crop of short hair, and was in good physical shape, with a slight weather-beaten look that came from years of sitting out on a pit wall, come rain or shine. He'd started as a bottom-feeder fish, working in the garage as an engine-boy beneath one of the best in the business, and fought his way, tooth and nail, up. Bought shares in a failing team when the opportunity arose, and got an unequalled, incomparable team around him.
It was one of his children that came flying round the corner now, from between the boxes and consoles where Matt had disappeared to, all bouncing, brown curls, and big, green eyes. Lily. Sweet kid.
Her voiced enthusiasm reached the pair before she did, talking loudly and quickly. Regular fountain of enthusiasm, she was.
"Uncle Matt said you were here, Alan! Daddy said you weren't coming. I knew he wasn't telling the truth! I knew you'd come today!"
The bright-eyed, lively ball of energy and spirit ran straight to the racer's arms; where she was picked up and whirled around in a circle, before being placed carefully back on the concrete flooring.
"Hey, Buttercup. How're you doing, huh? Been a couple of races since I saw you last. School's not been keeping you away, has it?"
"Yes, but now it's holidays, so Daddy says I can see the races before the snow."
The small girl then noticed Virgil standing by, and stared inquisitively, but not discretely.
"Well, we'd better make your holidays good then, huh?" Then pointing at the other man standing close by, having noticed the source of her intrigue, "This is my older brother, Virgil. Virgil, meet Buttercup, Wyke's daughter."
The seven-year old frowned for a moment before turning to Virgil; arms folded and severe look on her young face.
"My name's not Buttercup. It's Lily. He always gets it wrong. Tag says Alan can't understand all flowers are different."
She shot Alan a look then of distain, as though he was intellectually beneath her, what with not being able to tell a lily and buttercup apart. Trying not to laugh at the indignant little girl, with her jeans rolled up to the knee and trainers with flashing lights, Virgil replied,
"Well, I can tell one flower from another, and you definitely look like a Lily to me. Alan's just hopeless. So what are you doing here, today?"
Puffing out her small chest, and raising her head a little, Lily tightened her crossed arms.
"I'm helping Daddy move the cars to the next race. I'm his bestest helper."
"Ah. I can see that. I bet he couldn't do it without you."
"Nope. He needs me and Beatrice."
A little confused, Virgil looked around the garage, expecting to see some scary-face doll or giant teddy-bear.
"Beatrice?"
Sighing, and feeling like she was talking to utterly brain-dead, inept people, Lily explained,
"She's my older sister, duh. She's out with Mommy today buying a new anorak, so that we can go to the next race. Her last one got ripped on a branch, and Daddy said it might be cold and rainy in Indi… Indian… Indian-apple-polish."
A little perplexed, for the umpteenth time that day, Virgil looked over to Alan, who mouthed 'Indianapolis' back.
"Obviously. Sorry I didn't get it at first, Honey."
"It's Lily, and I've got important things to do for Daddy. See you later. Bye, Alan." And then, the bundle of happiness disappeared back from the direction she had come from, leaving in as a rapid a whirlwind of energy, as she'd arrived in.
Once again, the two brothers were alone, in the entrance to the garage.
"Looks like you've got a fan, Al."
The just-about teenager shrugged.
"Yeah, but the other one, Beatrice, loves Tag. Tells him every week she's going to marry him when she's old enough."
"Aw, disappointed, Al, that you haven't had a proposal?"
Punching his brother lightly in the stomach this time, and rolling his vivid, blue eyes skywards, Alan muttered,
"Funny, Virge. Real funny. C'mon, let's find Wyke. See what he wants with me."