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The answer is six million dollars worth of souped-up stock cars. At first, I thought it was a stupid choice—a dozen vehicles to entertain a bunch of over-grown boys for one fucking night.
But then, I realized the cars could stay in the garage here at the track. Let new freeport clients take them out for a spin. Maybe sponsor a charity race somewhere down the line.
The cars have identical engines—Ford V-8s capped at 5.9 liters. They’ve all got new tires, with a dozen extra sets in the pit for quick replacement. Same chassis, just like official NASCAR vehicles. The fuel tanks are filled with Green E15.
Each of my guys’ll take home his own fire suit and helmet as a little souvenir. I hired pit crews from the Dover Speedway; paid them triple overtime to get them here for the night.
Everyone in the Ring is laying side bets before they make it out the door. The Speedway’s safety coordinator proposed running only two cars at a time, but these guys don’t take kindly to suggestions. We’re racing in heats of four, top two stay on the track. My money’s on Sawyer Best to win it all.
I’m leaning against the unfinished grandstand, sipping an ice-cold bottle of Berg, when Braiden Kelly comes to slouch beside me. He keeps his eyes on the track as he takes a slug from his own water.
“Imagine my surprise when my lawyer called to say the prosecutor lost all interest in my case,” he says, like we’re talking about the weather.
“A lot of that going around these days.”
“I owe you one. And I don’t forget my debts.”
I nod. We’re both good at bookkeeping.
“How’s Herself handling the news?” he asks.
“Like she just found a winning lottery ticket.”
“And her brother?”
Kelly doesn’t give a shit about Leo. But he’s asking about the aftermath of our little game on the Philly docks. I shrug.
“The boyo looked to be in pretty bad shape,” Kelly says.
“He was discharged from the hospital on Wednesday.”
Kelly raises his eyebrows. Three and a half weeks is a long hospital stay, even for a strung-out head case kept chained to a table for years. But if Kelly thinks that was overkill, he keeps that to himself. “Could be dangerous,” he says. “Out on the streets. A man could find himself in the middle of a war.”
“He’s staying here for a while. In one of the freeport guest houses.” But that’s not as interesting as what Kelly just said. “It’s a war out there? You’ve got guys on the front line?”
“Let’s just say your Krauts didn’t appreciate being relieved of their inventory.”
“How long will it take you to turn over that shit?” I’m genuinely curious. I have no idea how Kelly’s business works.
He turns his head to the side and spits, like he’s trying to get rid of a bad taste. “We dumped most of it.”
“Dumped? You’ve sold it already?”
He shakes his head. “Dumped. We took it ten miles offshore and tossed it overboard. Crash is the reason good lads and lasses are dying in the streets. Never sold it. Never will.”
“I just assumed…” I assumed he raided the warehouse for the financial gain of the drugs inside.
“Don’t you worry,” he says with a lopsided grin. “I’ve still got plenty to confess to Father Cullen, come Sunday. And the twenty keys of coke in your boyo’s back room made it all worthwhile.”
“Yo! Kelly!” Cole Wolf hollers from the track. “You’re up next!”
Kelly pushes off from the wall and heads over to the cars. The guys saved the green one for him.
I watch a couple of rounds. The noise of the engines is ferocious. Each driver makes at least one pit stop, mostly for the hell of it, and the scream of hydraulic tools adds to the chaos.
Gage Rider craps out after one heat and comes to grab a bottle of water. “Christ, that’s loud,” he says.
“Half the fun, right?”
