CHAPTER 3:
RESPITE
Jones Avenue has been invaded.
Jones is a long, straight road in an industrial district like so many in L.A's outskirts. Small two-storey warehouses, workshops and garages make up the majority of the buildings in the area. But at this very moment, the buildings are empty and the streets are free of traffic; all apart from the hard core of racers for whom L.A is one big circuit.
Jones has been scouted for a few days and picked as the destination for tonight's racing. With the cops always on the look-out to bust racers, locations have to be changed every night to give you the best chance of not getting caught.
People use scanners to constantly monitor the police frequencies, making sure that the cops are busy some place elsewhere. Up and down the quarter mile strip of Jones Avenue that is now packed on both sides with racers, a network of walkie-talkies links them together.
Right now, everything is on pause; the racers sit in their cars with the engines running, ready to bail if the cops arrive, like gazelles at the sight of a lion. They'll only begin to leave their cars when a report comes over the scanners signalling a serious incident that'll distract the cops for a while. Even then, they won't stray far from their wheels. Showing off your new hairstyle? Trying to get a date? You should have done that back at the Produce Market, 'cos now it's all about racing.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen, the minutes tick by as they wait for something to keep the cops busy. Murder, hold-up, hostage taking, the racers aren't picky.
The atmosphere this waiting creates is thick and suffocating in the air; tension, excitement and adrenaline, fear, joy and panic. Remember what it was like when you first did something really exciting? Your heart pounding, your head spinning...double it. Then double it again.
Ain't even close.
It's clear, at least to the racers, that there have been races at Jones before; the red painted line that marks the start of a quarter mile dash has faded over time, but not enough to disappear completely. Ask any of the older racers and they'll tell you that the line has been there forever. It may be worn and beat up, a nuisance to some and insignificant to others, but it's still there; it belongs on the streets.
Sitting on this line are four cars;
Winter Frost, in her white Mazda RX-7, with a silver, black and grey 'Ice Dragon' design down both sides of the Vesus Motorsport bodywork.
She has 'Blood Sugar Sex Magik' by the Red Hot Chili Peppers kicking ass on her iPod, drumming her thumbs on the steering wheel to the music. She goes through her usual pre-race ritual of setting up the NOS delivery programme on the laptop sitting on the passenger seat, and opening the valves on the NOS tanks under her seat. She doesn't have to worry about the engine or any components of the car; she stripped and checked them all herself in the last two days.
She still finds it amusing that some women only check their hair as a pre-race.
Matt Reilly's comments still ring in her mind however, boiling her blood. How dare anyone question her abilities? But she's going to prove him wrong tonight, he'll see.
Domingo 'Ding' Alvarez, in his red and black Honda Civic Type R complete with Westside Corp 'Stealth' bodykit, with 'Baby' written on the hood; the name of his girl.
He is listening to House of Pain's 'Jump Around'. It's his song for getting fired up for a race. He beats this bunch of pussies and then kicks that fag Sean Westwood's ass, and then it's Ding Alvarez, King of L.A. After that, it all the girls he wants, all he can handle. As for Baby? Well, she's nice an' all, but he's going for something high class. Maybe even one of the girls that's always around with Westwood. Though why only one?
Zack Grey, in his dark blue Mitsubishi Evolution VI, with a large silver Mitsubishi logo vinyled on the hood.
He has Metallica's 'Enter Sandman' playing. He grunts and growls, screams and shouts, smashing his hands into his head. He wants to win this race badly, for him it's all about the prestige of winning. He failed everything in high school, failed to get into the military because of his health, failed, failed, failed. He's a failure at everything, he knows it, he knows it. Everyone knows it and they're all laughing at him, like they always have. But he's going to win and show them all.
Matt Reilly, in a dirty black Toyota Supra, with the flame decals.
There is no music, only the engine ticking over. All sounds, scents and feelings are secondary to Matt, they are processed and stored at the back of his mind. It's simple in theory, he wins this race and he gets to race Westwood. He beats Westwood, he gets what he wants and leaves L.A. Where he goes after that, he doesn't know. There is no point in thinking that far ahead.
He takes a deep breath and focuses a quarter mile down the road, where a large section of the racers have gathered, hungry for the big finish. The finish lines of L.A. have seen crashes, smashes and split second decisions, but Matt didn't want any of those, just for it to be nice and simple.
Mulling it over in his mind, Matt realised the simplicity of the concept; he gets from here to there faster then anyone else, no big deal. If only it were as easy as that, as easy as theory. Still, this doesn't stop the NOS-injected diesel engine in his chest from doing backflips.
Matt watched as a leggy rockabilly redhead strode out into the middle of the road between Ding and Zack, after getting the go-ahead for a start. She pulled a scarlet hankerchief from a back pocket of her skintight denims and waited. A particularly gruesome murder up in the hills had tied up the cops. De La Soul were wrong; for racers, 187 is the magic number.
Time to get down to business, and business could be profitable tonight. As well as the right to race Westwood, there was a buy-in of 2G's per racer, meaning the victor would walk away with 8G's in their back pocket. Not a bad night all-in-all.
If you win.
Matt reached up and flicked on the palmtop computer attached to the dash, the 3x5inch screen flaring to life. He selected the icon marked '', setting up his NOS delivery programme that linked the engine to the two cylinders of gas positioned between and behind the Supra's front seats. As well as controlling engine sparking and launch control, the computer monitors engine output, and tells the driver the best time to fire a shot of Nitrous Oxide gas that will boost the horsepower of the engine to incredible levels, double or sometimes triple the usual output for a brief moment. It is essentially a 'turbo boost' if you wish to use such a crude term.
Without the computer programme's guidance, a driver can put in NOS before the engine's power level peaks and not have much effect, or put in too much NOS at an early stage and blow the engine to pieces. Of course, only a complete amateur or someone suicidal would put in a NOS shot too early.
The system ran a check and announced that all components of the engine and the NOS system were working. No serious faults to stop him now. But he couldn't just go into this race - this race with so much at stake - without tactics. If he was to win this race, not only would he have to be fast, but he'd have to be smart too, although a little bit of luck wouldn't go wrong. It was time to think this over.
Matt looked over to his left. Immediately next to him was Zack Grey's Evo, with Zack still thrashing around like he was being electrocuted.
Matt looked down at the wheels of the Evo...good, the chassis was sitting quite high above the wheels. It was stuff like this that Matt noticed, and it was stuff like this that made him good at what he did.
Maybe he didn't have a mechanic's knowledge of how to build and service a car, but he sure knew specifications. It had been his speciality back home, pouring over technical manuals and magazines until he knew the facts and figures for most performance cars. Maybe a bit geeky, sure, but it had made him money over the years.
And one thing he certainly knew was that a showroom Mitsubishi Evo was a lot less powerful than his Supra, only churning out around 280bhp. On a rally circuit that the Evo was built for, it would have smoked the Supra, but on a straight street drag it needed some help. The fact that the Evo sat high on its axles may not have meant much to other people, but to Matt it meant that Zack Grey hadn't added the extra 100lbs or so worth of parts and upgrades that would have made the Evo as powerful as his Supra. Scratch one car.
Ding Alvarez's Civic was faring a little better. Despite an average racer's Civic running about 250-300bhp, Ding's Civic positively growled on the line. However, with a tiny tailgate spoiler stuck on the ass of the Civic, Matt knew the Honda had nothing like the downforce his Supra had. Downforce was essential in keeping the car pushed down against the road, more downforce meant less of the engine's power was lost, and Ding lacked that. Scratch two cars...probably.
There was only one wildcard, as far as Matt was concerned, Winter. Her Mazda RX-7 was probably similar to his Supra in nearly every way. Buy an RX-7 or a Supra from a showroom, and you drive both away with a turbocharged engine that cranks out 276 brake horsepower. Both are nearly identical in weight, length, width and height. The only differences are that the Supra has a better power-to-weight ratio by about 0.2%, while the RX-7 has a better torque-to-weight ratio by about 0.1%. And this is all discounting upgrades.
But these were far from showroom models.
As far as he could tell, the race was between Winter and himself, and it would be decided by who has the best upgrades, a little skill, or perhaps a shot of luck.
Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw Westwood standing there, grinning smugly. It was so tempting to get out and grab Westwood, hit him again and again and again and again. It would solve nothing, and it would make everything worse, but it sure as hell would have made Matt feel a whole lot better. But this wasn't about him.
"Help me, Matt."
The voice came through crystal clear, despite all the noise. It always did.
"Help me, Matt. Get me out of here."
He dispelled all thoughts to the back of him mind apart from one; Win. He needed this race, or who knows when he would get another opportunity.
Then, one movement concentrated Matt's thoughts, emotions and fears into one.
The redhead raised her arms high above her head, the hankerchief motionless in the still night. Almost time to go.
Each of the four cars roared above the whoops and hollers of the crowd, their engines screaming, desperate to put all their pent-up power into action. The cars strained against their handbrakes, like pitbulls on the leash. Exhausts pump fumes furiously, while ICE's do the same with music.
The hands were still.
Each driver has one eye on the redhead and the other on the green line a quarter mile ahead.
Still.
Matt's heart is pounding, thumping around his ribcage like a pinball. His palms are sweaty. He's holding his breath. His mouth is dry. His eyes water, making him want to blink, but he's afraid he'll miss the start. Even with all this, his mind is still homed in; homed in on the redhead, the hankerchief, homed in on the finish line, and homed in on why he's doing this.
"Help me Matt. Get me out of here. Please. I'm trapped."
Still.
Forever has been compressed, eternity is this one moment.
Still.
Still.
Down.