Wednesday, May 2, 2007
The professor shoves a thick sheaf of papers back into the manila folder on his desk, sighs heavily, and attempts to rub away the beginnings of a migraine building behind his temples. Seated in the armchair across from him, waiting patiently for his response, is a weedy young graduate student. His warm brown eyes are tired but bright, and his expression is serious.
The professor takes a deep breath. "This is an ambitious proposal, Lupin," he tells him. "I admire your gumption. As I'm sure you know, careers can be made on these kinds of projects."
The brown eyes grow a bit brighter.
"But I feel obligated to warn you," the professor continues, "that there's a reason most anthropologists don't study illicit activity."
"I know that, sir," Lupin says quickly, scooting closer to the edge of his seat. "That's why I wanted to meet with you. The last book you wrote, on the crack trade in Baltimore—"
"Nearly got me killed," the professor interrupts firmly. "Several times, actually. You're aware of that, aren't you?"
Lupin nods, looking more serious than ever. "Yes. But, with all due respect, I didn't come to you to hear about how I might die. I came to hear about what it takes to stay alive."
The professor bites back a laugh. At least the boy has guts. "Well, you'll need patience," he says. "Good instincts, too, and a strong stomach." He runs a skeptical eye over the boy's thin cheeks, his drawn face, his frail neck disappearing into the collar of an argyle sweater. "And remember, there's a sweet spot when it comes to studying criminal activity. You have to be unthreatening enough to gain people's trust, but not so weak as to seem like a liability."
Lupin sets his jaw. "I can do that, sir."
The professor has his doubts about that. "Well, I've seen your other work, Lupin, and we're no longer talking about cutesy little interviews with Formula One pit crews. With underground street racing, it could easily get dangerous. Are you sure this is what you want?"
"Yes," the boy replies staunchly.
The professor can tell that there's no use trying to dissuade him from the project. In decades of teaching, he's learned that the brightest graduate students are also always the most stubborn. He lets out another sigh and says, "Okay, very well. I read your proposal, and I have to ask, why stay in town? Why not just get on a plane to Los Angeles? You've got a seventy-page proposal here, and forty-five of them are about Team Toretto."
Lupin shakes his head, frowning. "Well, that story's already been written, sir. There was a tell-all about O'Conner and the FBI that landed on Oprah's Book Club list last year. I want to write something new." He pauses. "Besides, nobody's seen Toretto in years. He's on the run. There are rumors that he's hiding out somewhere down in South America."
"But is there really street racing here? In town?" the professor asks. "I've never seen it."
Lupin smiles. "There's racing everywhere, sir, if you know where to look. O'Conner's story has really popularized it. Just look at Race Wars—it's popped up in a dozen new locations since the book came out."
"Ah, yes, Race Wars," the professor muses, glancing back down at the proposal. He rifles through a few pages and scans the contents. "It's a good idea to start there. That's a legitimate rally, right? Legal?"
Lupin nods again.
"Good," the professor says. "You should stay on the legal side of things for a while. Build up some trust with your informants before you go deeper."
Lupin opens his mouth to object, but the professor holds up a hand to stop him.
"Jumping straight into the underground scene is too dangerous," he warns. "You can't do it without an insider to make introductions for you. You'll be risking a lot if you try to go in cold."
Lupin licks his lips. "Well, that's the thing, sir," he says. "I already have someone in mind. Minnie McGonagall. She was a friend of my father's, and she owns that racing parts store over on Hawthorne Street. I haven't seen her since I was a kid, but she'll help me. I know she will."
The professor looks carefully into Lupin's face and sees nothing reckless there, just keen interest and cool resolve. The boy is eager, but he's no hothead. It makes the professor feel a bit better. There's no bigger mistake than sending a hothead out into the field, especially to do something as risky as this.
"Alright, go ahead. But tread lightly," he cautions. "Cultivating contacts takes time, so be patient. Don't push. And whatever you do, keep some emotional distance from what you observe. It won't be easy, but that's essential. Do you understand?"
Lupin nods for a third time.
"Well, then, Lupin, I wish you good luck."
Field Journal of Remus J. Lupin – Saturday, May 5, 2007
Well, I finally managed to get Minnie to sit down and talk to me this morning. Christ, it wasn't easy.
I've been trying since Wednesday, but she's skittish. She was friendly enough when I first walked into her store, but as soon as I asked about street racing, she shut down.
Cold as ice.
She said she wanted to know who the hell I really was, because she hadn't heard the name Lupin in over twenty years. I didn't anticipate that I'd need to dig up an ancient photo of me and Dad at the beach, just to convince her I was actually Lyall Lupin's son.
But, I mean, I also didn't anticipate that she'd refuse to believe Lyall Lupin's son could ever wear a sweater vest, so…
Once she finally believed me, though, I thought we were getting somewhere. She went on and on about how much she used to love watching Dad drive. But then, when I brought out the tape recorder and told her I was writing a book, she nearly kicked me out again.
She says she'll only talk to me off the record—and nothing can go in the book. For her, it's not worth doing anything that might bring trouble with the law because 95% of her business is legitimate. She has a deal with the racetrack just outside of town and, otherwise, mostly hawks racing parts to trust-fund babies with fancy cars. She doesn't make much money off of street racers, but they're always coming into her store to get bottles of nitrous and to shoot the shit with her. Some of them call her Mother Minnie.
I asked her to make an introduction for me, but, unsurprisingly, she refused.
I wasn't about to give up that easily, though. Coming into this, I knew it would be impossible to get direct answers. I knew I would have to be smarter than that.
So, I figured that Mother Minnie would probably have a favorite son. I told her I was going to Race Wars this summer and asked her which crew was her favorite, which of the drivers I wouldn't want to miss.
And that did it. Worked like a charm.
She smiled, actually fucking smiled, and then, I finally got a name.
Sirius Black.