Chapter 2: Dips and Dives of Red Rock County.
As it turns out, traveling with these two girls was the best decision I ever made. Still though, I wasn't totally sure about that as we motored along route 66 the next day. We had spent the night in a roadside halt on the other side of Oklahoma. After a long and energetic discussion about whether or not I should stay in the trunk overnight, I was allowed to sleep in the girls motel room with a line quite literally drawn across the floor in duct tape.
“You cross this line for any reason, you die. Got it?” McClaire’s threats were a lot kinder than Star's, but that didn't make them any less legitimate. A fact I found out as she unbuckled her boot and took it off only for a 357 magnum revolver to come tumbling out. It hit the floor with a thud between us, momentarily making for a tense moment. She looked at me, clearly unsure if I would take the opportunity to lunge for the gun, but I just looked up at her and shook my head and she smiled, visibly relaxing.
The name McClaire was still bouncing around in my head, and I still hadn't put a finger on who she was. All I knew for certain was, like Stella Star, she was a badass. Nothing, and I mean nothing seemed to phase this girl. Becoming an accessory to kidnapping was at best a minor inconvenience of where to put her suitcase, and when a scorpion wandered into our hotel room, she crushed it under her barefoot as if it was an ant.
“Uh, you realize that was a scorpion right? That could have stung you and killed you?” I asked, as she ground the unlucky little critter into the floorboards. She struggled casually, before replying…
“I'm too lazy to put my boots back on this late.”
Obeying their line in the sand was easy enough. I had access to the bathroom, and my bed was an extra blanket and a couple of pillows on the floor. Better than when I was homeless for sure, but not quite to the nicety of my buddy's couch back in Chicago. He was probably happy I disappeared, always worrying to death about the trouble I caused and the heat I brought onto his family. Constant visits from the police, be it for shoplifting or selling cigarettes on the corner. I was just trying to make a buck like anyone else, it's just the legal methods always seemed to elude me.
The next morning, after an admittedly much needed shower, my stomach was growling something fierce. Stella went across the street to a diner and picked up a travel men's breakfast for her and McClaire, but as I somewhat expected, nothing for me.
“You know, if we are going to take him with us, we're going to have to feed him.” McClaire said, as if feeling out if Star had excluded me intentionally or not. The answer was clear as glass…
“He can lick the dirt off the floor for all I care, let him starve!”
“Star, remember what I said? This is an exercise in forgiveness.” McClaire said and Star rolled her eyes.
“Quit acting like my mother McClaire! The only reason he's still alive is because you asked me not to kill him!” Star hissed, jumping to her feet, pointing at her with a piece of bacon.
“Like Max?” McClaire asked calmly, and as if they were magic words, Star sat back down in a pout.
“Yeah, like Max…” She growled under her breath, as McClaire laughed.
“So you see the connection I'm trying to make right? You want to race again, you're going to have to prove to me you can put your vendettas aside. You're representing me now in a historical sense, and it's a very delicate matter. If you can't understand that, you'll never leave my island again.”
“Not a chance in hell…” Star hissed in reply.
“Yo- you have an island?” I asked, and as if acting on reflex, as if she couldn't stand the sound of my voice, Star picked up a plastic knife and hurled it at me. It bounced harmlessly off my chest, but had that been a real knife, it would have been a kill shot.
“Enough.” McClaire said, her voice now stern and serious. She then gave a very clear order.
“Go get him something to eat.” McClaire said, and Star glared at her, and then at me. Silently, she stood up and walked out of the hotel room. As soon as the door shut, McClaire relaxed and sighed deeply, shaking her head in disappointment.
“I'm sorry about her, she's come from a very… high stress life.” McClaire said to me.
“She mentioned she used to be an assassin?” I said, and McClaire looked at me with an eyebrow raised, surprised Star had told me that.
“Yeah, she tried to kill me once, but I convinced her that working for me to make the world a better place was better than burning it to the ground.”
“Sounds noble. Your name rings a bell Miss McClaire, should I know you from somewhere?” I asked as she took a sip of her coffee.
“Not a race fan I see?” McClaire asked with a smirk.
“Don't worry, this time tomorrow, you'll know exactly who I am!”
She wasn't kidding either. With McClaire now behind the wheel, I was starting to regret eating the breakfast Star had so unkindly provided to me. It was evening now, and the road had become an undulating snake of a lane, going up and down constantly like a boat on some very sharp waves. Every now and again, the car temporarily became an aeroplane before crashing back down to the ground with a “skrrt” of the tires.
“Oh God, I'm going to be sick,” and that was before we got to the corners. Tires crying bloody mercy as they burned up across the blacktop. McClaire attacked corners like a bayonet charge, throwing the Mustang at a turn with reckless abandon. All I could do was hang on, relying on the vague hope we stayed on the road. Sometimes it didn't, the car shaking violently as a pair of tires dipped off into the dirt, hopefully not towards a tree. However, after almost an hour straight of this torment, I welcomed the sweet, swift end of being smashed against a tree, because I was much more worried about the danger of puking now. I was getting thrown around the trunk like a ragdoll.
“Oh God, please let it end!” I screamed to the heavens. But the V8's roar drowned out any and all of my pleas for mercy. The Mustang continued racing, dancing, and jumping down the road for what had to be infinity until later it finally fell silent.
“Let me out! Let me out! I gotta puke!” I begged, pounding on the trunk lid until I heard the lock clunk. I barely got my head over the edge of the lip of the bumper before all hell broke loose, and I emptied what little I had in my stomach onto the parking lot of this gas station. Star was laughing her ass off, as you might expect. McClaire on the other hand looked much more sympathetic.
“I guess I went a little too hard for you huh?” She said awkwardly, as if she had forgotten I was back here at all.
“A-Hahaha! I bet you're regretting that breakfast now, aren't you!” Star teased, pointing and laughing until she was weak in the knees. I meanwhile was miserable, I couldn't even push myself back into the trunk I felt so faint. Luckily, McClaire returned with a canteen of much needed water.
“Sorry about that. I get a little carried away having fun!”
“What are you? Some sort of race car driver?” I asked, and to my surprise she smiled and nodded.
“Some say the best in the world, but I wouldn't trust a journalist!” She said with a playful giggle before continuing.
“Anyway, I'll go easy for the rest of the day. I don't want you blowing chunks all over the trunk of my new car…”
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Somewhere between Texas and New Mexico, hoping to get to Arizona before nightfall.”
“Arizona? Why such a rush?” I asked.
“We're going to scout out a race we might enter next year. It's called the Grand Canyon Classic, it's an old fashioned Time Trial road race around the Grand Canyon. There's a quarter of a million dollars up for grabs, and that might go up to a million next year.”
“Cha-ching! God damn, who knew race car driving paid so well?”
“Only if you win, a lot!”
Winning a lot was not an issue for Stephanie McClaire. I found out later that night, at our overnight stop about 70 miles east of Flagstaff Arizona, that Stephanie McClaire was the most successful female race car driver that has ever lived. With race wins in everything from international sports cars, to Nascar, to open wheeled racing like Formula 5000, she was the real deal. She showed me her driving suit and helmet, both emblazoned with the number 77 in a dramatic swooping logo shaped like a stopwatch.
“Stella Star here has sort of become my protégé as a way of recovering from her old life. Believe it or not, she's got enough natural talent that she almost beat me on a few occasions.” McClaire explained, pointing over her shoulder to Star as she watched Hawaii Five-O on the TV.
“I did beat you at Watkins Glen.” She quipped and McClaire shook her head.
“It was a Photo finish…” McClaire replied with a wink. After another night with “the line” rule, our next stop was Flagstaff proper, where the competitors for the Grand Canyon Classic were gathered. Star and McClaire parked the car in town, and we spent the day on foot. It was a much needed chance to stretch my legs. As we walked, McClaire explained to me the ins and outs of the event.
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