Free Yellow Flag by Robert Lipsyte Page B

crew chiefs muttered, but they got out of the way. Boyd Jurgensen, who was almost as big as Jackman, bumped shoulders and glared at Kyle. His uniform was as white as his car, still no big sponsor. Kyle wondered if he was angry that he hadn’t gotten Kris’s seat. Would they really have given it to him, or was that just a way of putting more pressure on me?
    A few of the older drivers and crew chiefs gave Dad friendly nods.
    â€œLuck, Kyle.” It was old Randall Bean, hand out. Gratefully, Kyle shook it.
    â€œMaybe you two can draft up,” said Ruff, “and stay out of our way.”
    Randall’s fists came up, but a track official stepped in and said, “Any behavior, boys, and you’ll be watching the race from your trailer.”
    Ruff grinned and turned away. The track official pushed his way to a small clearing in the front of the room and climbed up on a metal folding chair. He had to shout to be heard over the jittery chatter.
    â€œGot a visitor, men, from headquarters. Ben Dutton.”
    That quieted them down. Dutton, tall and wide, didn’tneed to stand on a chair. His voice boomed off the metal and stone walls.
    â€œWe don’t like what we saw last week. That chicken-shit deal at the finish got no place in big-league racin’. Simple rules. You get beat fair, you take it like a man. Nobody wrecks out of spite. Anybody carries this into this week, I’m here to tell you there’ll be penalties, now and up the road, not to mention we’ll be up your tailpipe. Hard racin’ but clean racin’. Any questions?”
    â€œI got one.” It was Gary Nagle. “Been bad wrecks here, you never come down. This about Family Brands and the waiver for Baby Hildebrand?”
    There was applause from the crowd and a few whistles.
    Jackman and Uncle Kale exchanged glances. Dad put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “It’s about last week, Kyle, not about you.”
    Dutton’s big face got red and hard. “Glad you asked that question, clear the air. What’s your name, son?”
    There were a few laughs as Gary hesitated. He looked sorry he had opened his mouth. “Gary Nagle.”
    â€œI know you, Gary, promising young driver, got the stones to speak your mind. Look forward to seeing you in the Cup series someday.” Dutton was smooth and tough. “Now I got a question for you, Gary. You want to grow this sport? You want more high-class sponsors tocome in, more big-league advertisers? What happened last week gave us the kind of black eye those knuckle-head ballplayers give their so-called sports.”
    There were a few laughs at that. Kyle sensed the angry mood starting to lift. Without answering Gary’s question directly, Dutton had taken control. Kyle was impressed. This was a taste of the big leagues.
    â€œLet’s see some racin’ today,” said Dutton. “Bangin’ and rubbin’s part of the deal, but not spinnin’ somebody into the wall ’cause you can. Good luck.”
    The local track official climbed back up on the chair and reminded them that a race can’t be won on the first lap and that anyone who came into the pit road at more than thirty-five miles an hour would be black-flagged to the end of the longest line.
    The track chaplain offered a short prayer that no one would be hurt, and then they were back out into the overcast day, dicey racing weather. Never know when the sun might come out and change the conditions of the track.
    â€œYou see Slater?” said Dad.
    â€œHiding in the back,” said Uncle Kale. “Ain’t heard the last of that dingleberry.”
    â€œRemind Billy to keep an eye on him,” said Dad.
    Jackman said, “Maybe I should just remind Slater that—”
    â€œYou got enough to do,” said Uncle Kale, “reminding your boys to hold on to their gas cans.”
    They were almost at the hauler, already smelling Billy’s barbecue, when