Free Checkered Flag Cheater by Will Weaver

he said from behind the camera.
    Trace fixed a smile on his face. “No big deal,” he said, not breaking expression.
    After the photo, Trace headed to the tech lane, where he pulled in behind the other four top-finishing Super Stocks, which were going through inspections one by one. His engine was hot, and Jimmy waited with a fire extinguisher full of water. Trace kept the rpm up while Jimmysprayed the radiator. Thin jets from the silvery can—their squirt gun—hissed into clouds of steam; slowly the temperature-gauge needle drifted down out of the red. “We’re good!” Trace called, and Jimmy stepped back from the hot fog, his face speckled with watery mud.
    The other cars were finished with brief inspections. A tech guy bent down to Trace’s window. “We’d like to see you in the tech shed,” he said, and pointed.
    Trace shrugged and drove forward, turning left into a metal-roofed garage. Bright lights came on to greet him.
    â€œTake the lid off,” the main tech said to Jimmy. Harlan, close by, was chewing a toothpick.
    Jimmy quickly unpinned the hood; he and Harlan lifted it free. The tech guys gathered around. One removed the air cleaner and shined a flashlight into the throat of the carb; another guy worked the butterfly choke. The tech guys operated in silence except for the
clink
s of small wrenches. After a couple of minutes, they stepped back without comment.
    â€œNext we’d like to look at your valves,” the chief tech man said.
    â€œYou might as well relax,” Harlan said to Trace. “Looks like it’s going to be a while.”
    Jimmy was ready with a small socket and ratchet; he removed the valve covers. The tech guys bent over the exposed valve springs and rocker arms, which were shiny with warm oil. Using micrometers as well as a feeler gauge, they measured clearances. After a few minutes of this,they straightened up and stepped back, poker-faced. “Looks okay,” one of them said.
    â€œYeah, well—I never seen a Super Stock run like that,” said a voice from the side. It was Jason Nelson’s father. Jason, still in his racing suit, stood beside him.
    â€œMe neither,” the chief tech guy said to Harlan. “So we’re going to pump a cylinder. See what you’ve got.”
    â€œHave at it,” Harlan said.
    â€œLet’s do number 4,” the tech said to Jimmy, who bent over and spun out the spark plug of cylinder number 4. As he worked, he looked up at Trace with nervous eyes; Trace flashed him a thumbs-up. Beside Jimmy, Harlan removed two rocker arms so the valves to cylinder 4 would remain tightly closed, then loosened the ignition coil wire so that the engine would turn over but not start.
    â€œOkay. Do your thang,” Harlan said, stepping back.
    A tech guy came forward with what looked like a complicated bicycle pump; it had a short nose, a screw-in nipple, and a graduated tube with a disk inside; its purpose was to measure cubic inches of air—the displacement of a cylinder. After twisting the gauge’s nose into the spark-plug hole, the main tech man nodded to Trace—who touched the starter button and turned over the engine.
    The guy squinted at the volume reading. “Again,” he called.
    Trace obeyed.
    After three revolutions of the motor, the tech guy heldup a hand. “We’re at 44.95,” he announced. “Times eight cylinders, that makes”—there was a pause as he did the math—“359.6 cubic inches.”
    â€œThere you go,” Harlan said. “No way we’re over 360 inches.”
    The tech chief leaned in to read and confirm the cylinder displacement, then turned to Harlan. “Next we’re going to take a fuel sample.”
    Harlan’s lips tightened slightly. “Like I said, have at it,” he said with a shrug. He moved to the rear of the Super Stock, took off the smaller, back lid, and removed the gas cap from