The pounding music and hot, muggy atmosphere from the inside of The Rusty Nail hit Mick like the opening of a furnace. He had made it just in time as fat raindrops began to pelt his windshield; hastening his retreat from the shelter of his Mustang to the enclosed deck of the bar. Once inside, he peered through the haze and spied Steadman Marlin and Carl Edwards engaged in a game of snooker in the back of the billiard room. Lynard Skynard belted out the virtues of being a simple man and already the cigarette smoke stung his eyes. Ken Schrader perched on a stool near the pool table, engrossed in the game while he nursed his beer. "Fuck a duck, looky what the cat dragged in!" Steadman grinned as he measured his next shot. His English was terrible (on the table, not necessarily his manner of speaking) and "Cuzzin" Carl was simply biding his time in the hustle.
"Helluva way to greet a cripple!" Mick flashed him a half-grin, He made his way over to the short bar in the corner and took his double shot of Early Times. No beer tonight-he needed something a little more potent. Not only did he want to drown his sorrows, he intended to choke them to death as well. Quickly inhaling the glass, he decided after the initial burning sensation subsided that it wasn't bad and quickly acquired another round for himself and his companions.
Schrader wryly glanced up at Mick. "Makin' up for lost time there, Mickey?" the old veteran driver quipped. "Yer drinkin' like a man fixin' to run from his problems or beat `em to a pulp!"
Mick fixed his gaze on the TV above the bar, not at all interested in a re-run of a Hooters Procup race. "Dad always said you could read `im like a book."
"Well….I dunno, kid. The difference between readin' you and your ol' man is like readin' a Jeff Foxworthy book and `War and Peace'"! Ken quietly chuckled. He playfully nudged Mick in the ribs, "I heard they're gonna let you drive Phoenix and Homestead."
"Yeah…kinda feel like I've got to get back in that car. Like I'm gonna go crazy if I can't get back out there. Foot still hurts like hell, but I don't care if they have to chop it off, I'm gonna race."
"Yer preachin' to the choir, boy." Ken grunted between another sip of his beer, "I technically retired 5 years ago and I'm still drivin' as much as I used to. My retirement lasted about two weeks and if I didn't get back in a car, I swear Annie would've strapped me to somebody's hood!" He took another gulp, "Y'know..yer a lot like yer Uncle Darrell…he was almost in a body cast after a bad flip at Daytona…had three guys literally pick him up and put him in that car at Pocono the next week. Ol' D had some balls on him back then…"
"I hear Aunt Stevie keeps `em in a jar now." Mick couldn't help himself. Schrader almost choked on his beer as they both broke up.
"Mick-you gonna play? Better ante up, bro." Steadman called from the table. Mick put his quarters on the table and ordered another round. The camaraderie of his old friends almost pushed the thoughts of those ghastly photos out of his mind. Almost.
Mick had happened to look up and there sitting at a booth near the jukebox sat Johnny Sauter and a few of his bully boys. Perhaps it was the booze, his overworked imagination or simply his overly stressed system but Mick could swear that the group was looking in his direction. They seemed overly amused by his presence and suddenly his mood went from jovial to black. Schrader was regaling the group with another of his filthy jokes and just threw the punch line when he noticed the stormy look on Mick's face.
"Hey kid, you ok??"
"I'd like to know what the hell Sauter and his girls find so damned funny." He growled. With his thick plume of blue-black curls, he reminded Schrader of his old tomcat, Goblin preparing to battle all the bad cats in the alley.
Schrader shrugged, trying to defuse the already tense atmosphere. "He's just bein' his usual charming self-don't pay him any mind, son."
But the alcohol in Mick's system was already boiling his blood with rage. He didn't like the way Sauter kept looking at him with that oily, knowing smile. As if he could sense the anger rising in Mick, the bad vibes seemingly drew Sauter over to the pool table where he also set his quarters down for the next game.
"Sooo, Waltrip. Got a ride lined up for next year?" He tilted his chin cockily and stared Mick in the eye, challenging him.
"Say..uh..Johnny….there's another table open. We're playing on this one." Steadman could sense trouble brewing and imposed himself between Sauter and Mick.
"Yeah, c'mon…I'll play ya over here myself." Carl offered, the last thing he wanted was to be involved in a brawl; he was sitting 3rd in points and he couldn't afford any controversy.
"I've got a ride-the same one I had this year." Mick said firmly, "Unlike yourself, I don't have to live season to season on the welfare circuit!"
Sauter arched his eyebrows in mock reproach, "Oh-ho! Of cource not! How foolish of me to assume `golden boy' here has to scrap for a ride! Ain't got no talent so he'll just suck Junior's dick for a job just like his ol' man!" That did it. The proverbial shit had just hit the fan.
Schrader groaned "ohell" and slid off his perch as Mick literally pounced on Sauter with his hands around the smaller man's throat.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Steve gently untangled himself from Junior's arms as he rose to answer the soft rapping at the front door. It was well-past 10 and he idly wondered who it could be at such a late hour. Junior had simply dozed off in his arms, lulled by the soft rain on the windows.
"Hey…!" Steve grinned as he pulled a half-drowned Michael into the front door. The two regarded one another quietly. Michael had been a little reluctant to face Steve after his afternoon tryst with Junior. But there was no resentment in the other man's eyes-only the warm welcome of an old friend. Relieved, he embraced Steve tightly.
"How's he doin'?" He asked softly. "Rory said something about he might be needin' surgery in a couple days."
"He's holding his own…it's about all we can hope for right now." He looked up at Michael, "He's scared right now, Mike. He's gonna need us-both of us-we can't let him down."
"I know and I'm here…I ain't goin' anywhere."
The walked into the living room where Junior was sprawled on the sofa. Michael reached down and scratched the aging head of Bud, who pushed his broad head into Michael's hand. A deep purr resonated from his big grey and white form as Michael stroked the old cat.
"Damn… this cat's gotta be older'n dirt!" Michael chuckled.
"He's thirteen next year…" Junior grinned, now awake. "Remember I got him after Adam died? Guess I just needed something to hug…"
"You coulda hugged me!" Steve mock-whined.
"Nah…you know Daddy woulda kicked my butt. `Don't go getting' fruity on me!' That's what he used to tell me, y'know."
Michael sat back beside him and Steve, Bud now firmly entrenched on his lap. "Don't you ever wonder how he'd take this, Jun? This deal between you an' Steve-and I guess you could toss me in too. " He paused, now introspective, "Y'know what? I think he'd be proud. Oh he'd piss an' moan a little at first about it but I think he'd be proud of the fact that you remained true to yourself."
Junior swallowed hard, "Ya think so, Mike?" He whispered, "I know there was times you were closer to him than I was. Hell, I think he adopted you."
"Don't ever question that your Daddy loved you. He's always gonna be with you-in one form or another. He'd never be ashamed of you."
Junior sighed and pulled Michael and Steve into an embrace, "Thank you." It felt so good and reassuring in that little room with it's tacky knickknacks, velvet Elvis paintings, and plethora of sleeping cats. "What brings you out so late anyway? Ain't it time you were in bed?"
"Was up with TJ in the shop-trying to get a crew for Mick next week. You'll be happy to know that the folks at Budweiser just about wet themselves when I told `em that the kid was going to be in the 8." Michael was tired though-exhausted. Dealing with anxious sponsors can take their toll on a body. He sleepily dropped his head against Junior's shoulder, "Besides, I kinda just wanted to hang with ya, bro…the ol' lady at home said you were scheduled for surgery day after tomorrow…."
Junior sighed, "Good news travels fast." He only told Teresa so far and now half the free world knew the details of his upcoming ordeal. It wouldn't be long now before they started writing his obituary, or at least an obituary for his career as a Cup driver.
"I can go if you'd rather be left alone…"
Junior stroked the side of his face, "No-don't go…I'm glad you're here. I can't think of anybody other than you an' Steve that I'd rather be with right now." Except you, Dad…I could really use your guidance right now…..
Strangely, the wind outside picked and the lights flickered and went out for a brief moment.
Steve frowned, "That was weird….what was that all about??"
Junior shrugged, "I dunno…you know that happens every time the wind blows…"
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
At the Mooresville Neurology Clinic, Radiology Technician, Wayne Mellon pulled the MRI scans for the week's upcoming surgeries. He noticed the file marked "Dale Earnhardt Jr." with interest and peered into file. Not only was he interested in the upcoming procedure scheduled for this special patient, he was also a long- time fan of the legendary driver and his father. The file contained many images-some dating back as far as 2002. There was his last concussion from Indianapolis and a couple taken just two weeks ago when he suffered a blackout. Something about these last images didn't look right-the skull of the subject in the last scan was much, much smaller than those earlier photos. Something is very, very wrong here….he mused. He quickly looked at the roster of surgeons who would be working on this case and located the neurosurgeon in charge.
"Hopefully, it's not too late to get him to re-evaluate the prognosis-otherwise this poor bastard's gonna have brain surgery that he might not even need!" After all, the last scan was not the brain of a 37 year-old male but that of an elderly womanl! He prayed that he wasn't too late to stop this procedure.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
"Damned Ford…" Rory muttered as she watched Ken Schrader tow Mick's Mustang up the driveway. "Told him not to buy that damned thing!" Dismay over what appeared to be a dying vehicle turned to dismay over the mis-adventures of a wayward son as she watched Ken, Carl and Steadman pull Mick's inert body from the bed of the pickup. "Shit! What `ave ya done now, Mickey…" she groaned as she watched the three men pull and half-carry Mick up the steps to the porch. She sighed and went out to the front landing and opened the door. There, Mick was slung half-conscious and bloodied over Carl and Steadman's shoulders.
"Bring `im into the kitchen and let's not get blood all over my new floor…" she muttered. "I don't even want to know what happened but I'm sorry that you lads had to be involved in it."
"I can say without shame, that he was defending Michael's honor." Ken began grinning wryly.
Rory stared open-mouthed for a moment, "Excuse me now, Mr. Schrader??"
"Johnny-boy Sauter was runnin' down Michael, said a couple of nasty things and Mick jumped on him. Took us three and four others from the bar to pull him off….couple of Johnny's thugs jumped on us and it was a reg'lar free-for-all!"
"Aye…Mick was in a foul mood when he left. Shoulda never let him out of the house in that state…" she mused. "Don't know what's got into him…"
"I'll tell ya what-he can throw a right hook better than Greg Biffle!" Carl grinned.
"Well he got that from dear ol' Dad layin' into Lake Speed!"
Rory eyed Schrader evilly, "You just won't let that go, will ya Kenny?" She nudged his portly form while she put a clean wash cloth to Mick's swollen nose. Badly bruised but thankfully not broken.
"Well..you shoulda seen him! Pulled that ol' Pontiac right in front of the Spam-mobile and let Lake have it!" Schrader loved reliving that old Michigan race from '95 in which the lapped car of Lake Speed was all that kept Michael out of victory lane. It was Schrader's mission in life never to let Michael (or anybody else) forget that glorious moment in testosterone-driven angst.
"Ach Mum…take it easy, will ya?" Mick groaned as Rory roughly cleaned the dried blood from his wounded snout.
"You're a grand sight, Mick…what were ya tryin' to accomplish tonight?"
Now spent, Mick shook his head, "I dunno…I was mad-he made me madder…"
Taking Mick's face in her hands, she said, "And why were you so angry in the first place?"
God, how could he tell her? He wouldn't-couldn't hurt her with the revelation in those old photos. A voice inside him whispered, "Just let it go…let it go…." Indeed, he would only cause more hurt by digging up skeletons from the past that best remained buried. Instead he took the easy route, "He was just saying hateful things about Dad and Junior…I wasn't standin' for it."
Rory held his gaze for a moment longer, somewhat relieved that he still loved his father enough to defend him. Satisfied, she let him up. "Go to bed, Mickey. We can hash this out in the morning if you want."
Nodding wordlessly, he padded over to the stairwell that led to his roost above the kitchen. "Thanks, guys….I owe ya."
"No problem! We know where to find ya." Schrader grinned.
"You're supposed to be keepin' him out of trouble, Kenny…" Rory began.
"I dunno…he's like Michael…trouble's gonna follow him like flies on a diaper."
It was getting late. Tomorrow was another day. "It's getting' late boys, go home to your wimmin!" She sighed as she spied Michael's tired, blue Camaro pulling up behind Schrader's truck.
"Yeah…we'll see ya around, Ro…." Just as he turned, Michael wandered in with a perplexed look on his face.
"Hey….don't tell me the ol' Poontang died again?" he grinned, "Whar's that boy at?"
"Asleep-he had a little too much fun at the Nail again and the boys drove him home-and I think we need to be turnin' in as well, Mikey- it's half-midnight already."
Michael shrugged and Schrader poked him in the ribs with a sly, "Git `r done!" he growled. They watched as Schrader unhooked the tow bar from Mick's car and retreat down the winding drive to the gate. With a sigh and nerves completely shot at the moment, Rory circled her husband's waist and pulled him close.
"If Junior hasn't worn you out, do you have a little left over for me?"
Michael looked down at her, mildly shocked. "Aww hon, I just stopped by to check on him-probably wasn't there an hour! Nothing happened-"
"Oh stop it! I was just pullin' ya. I know you wasn't-" Lips meeting as she stood on tip-toes and pulled his face to meet hers, "You ought to listen to Schrader once in awhile…"
A smile slowly spread across his features, "Git `r done…oyeah." And he did.
Chapter 17
The mahogany clock in the corner slowly struck the hour of ten the next morning as Michael fidgeted in his seat and Rory stared fixedly at Ritchie Gilmore as he dryly went over the figures of gross earnings and statistics for the final quarter of the season. All in all, it hadn't been the best of years for DEI. The few wins the team had earned were glorious indeed but the ill-fortune of injuries and accidents sadly out-weighed all of the good. Still, with Junior scheduled for surgery in a few hours, you'd think they'd cut this short….Rory mused, thoroughly irritated with both Gilmore and Teresa.
"….of course, we do have an avenue for next season that might yield a little more profit when it comes to retail…of course, that depends on how Michael would feel about running one more season." Ritchie ended a long dialogue on retail finances that basically had half the table asleep. "Your thoughts, Mike? Michael?"
"Huh?" Michael had been more or less daydreaming and nursing his fourth cup of bitter coffee. Rory inhaled sharply and looked at her husband. The last place he needed to be was behind the wheel of that car again! He was just getting to the point where he was finally beginning to accept retirement-how could they even contemplate this? She wanted to scream at Teresa and Gilmore for such a foolhardy notion. Was the company in such dire straits that they would put the extra profit a few cheap souvenirs would bring above Michael's life?
"Remember ol' Rusty's `Last Call'?" Ritchie began, "NAPA wants to do something similar to that-a farewell tour, so to speak. Besides, with Junior possibly out of commission and Mick's still basically a rookie, we still need a veteran driver to anchor the team."
Michael shrugged, "Guess I could-wasn't quite ready to hang it up anyway." He sheepishly looked at Rory for support, his gaze returned by an icy stare and silence from his partner. It was as if a cold front had suddenly crossed the room.
"Slugger? Your thoughts?" Michael's long-time crew chief, long suffering one at that, shook his head and gave a wry grin. He had already planned on retiring himself but what the heck? Perhaps their mid-season hiatus was just what they needed to get back on track. Michael and Slugger had literally been through every sort of adversity thrown at them-even separating for a time being while Slugger took a quick break with Ray Everham. Eventually, he returned to the fold at DEI and five Daytona 500 victories.
"I'd give it a shot-if we fall on our asses, it wouldn't be the first time." He grinned and shoved Michael in the ribs.
"Speaking of the team, " Rory began frostily, "I think ya might be forgettin' the one who's supposed to be goin' under the knife this afternoon. If ya don't mind, Teresa, I think we best be going-"
Teresa nodded and sighed, "I suppose. Anything else can wait until after the Atlanta race. But before you go, I need to talk to you and Michael." No good can come of this, Rory thought as she gave Slugger a departing hug.
As the others filed out of the conference room, Michael pulled up a seat next to Teresa's, "So…what's on your mind."
"I'm not going to beat around the bush when it comes to our financial situation. I honestly think I can bring some of those numbers that Ritchie was talking about up substantially. Right now, you and Rory still own the rights to #3 just as Richard Childress did for years and I think we could all benefit if you'd sell me the writes to that number-after all, it was Dale's number and he'll be forever associated with it." She waited a moment for her words to sink in. "I think if I put my marketing associates on this, we can do a little better. We've got all of the teams well represented in terms of merchandise except Michael's. I understand that you want to be selective on what you put your name on but we've also got to look a little harder at the bottom line. Surely understand that."
Rory shook her head angrily, "Oh no! Absolutely not! I'm still coming to grips with the fact that you're conning my husband back into that car next year. You're not taking the one thing I have left from Dale. Richard gave me that number so Michael could get his team started after you and Norris fired him!" Shaking with fury, she rose to leave, "You'll have that car in your name over my dead body!"
"Michael-surely you would see the logic in why we feel that the organization would benefit-"
Michael glared, "The only thing I see is you would have free rein to add more cheap knick-knacks and souvenir crap on the market-those profits would only wind up in your bank account and another yacht in the marina."
Teresa's tone turned icy, "Listen the both of you. I know how you feel about Dale, Rory. He never gave up on you-that much is true while you were in Longkesh prison-but your freedom cost him dearly. I think it's time you repaid the debt you owe to the company he founded."
The color drained from Rory's face as she slumped against Michael's chest. "What are you saying?"
Teresa nodded, "You think about this for a few days. But you better remember that it was Dale's money who paid for your freedom-and your brother Kevin's life. And Michael, I don't think I have to explain that if not for Dale, you'd be working in that warehouse back in Owensboro. Your days as a racecar driver would've been over long ago."
She turned and paused beneath the gilded oil portrait of Dale that loomed over the head of the table. It felt like some sort of Judgment Day as the tension hung cold and heavy in the room. Teresa had at one time been a close friend of Michael's while Dale was alive but those days seemed to have long since passed. The glory of past championships and Daytona's reining king meant little now as it all came back to the old adage, "you're only as good as your next race." Some of the old bitterness that Michael had long since buried rose to the surface.
"You know Ter, I don't need your permission to exist. I don't need this company as much as you think. Neither does Mick. If we packed our shit and left right now-if I up and sold my portions of the company's assets-you'd be up shit crick and you know it." He said in a low growl, "How dare you hold this over my wife's head? How dare you bring this up now and throw it in our face?" He rose, towering over her. "Trust me, you need me more than I need you. If you have one ounce of decency, your stepson is lyin' in a hospital right now and we're fixin' to be with him if you don't mind."
Taken aback, Teresa silently watched them go. As always, she had badly underestimated Michael's reserve and strength. It was as if Dale's own spirit had found it's home in Michael's very soul. As he had once said, "As long as I'm still here, Dale is too." She should have found comfort in that statement, but instead it threatened her and chilled her to the marrow.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Mick sat at the kitchen table alone. He knew he should've been at the DEI staff meeting but after last night's fun, he was barely coherent when Michael and Rory left. "Don't worry about it-ain't got nothin' to do with you anyway. You'd end up falling asleep at the table." Michael said before he left.
He barely remembered last night. Sauter and a fight. Kenny and Carl tossing him in the back of a truck. Why had he gotten into it with Sauter in the first place? A disparaging comment about Michael and Junior's dick-that's what started it. And the pictures-who had sent them?
Mick closed his eyes and groaned. So his father had done some wild shit in the past. Yes, he was shocked and repulsed by those grainy images but how could he bring himself to stay angry with his father? His mind drifted back to the first time he met Michael. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine. He looked like Superman to Mick, who had been nurtured by his mother's memories. To Mick, he was greater than Richard Petty, Dale Earnhardt and Jeff Gordon all together and now Mick had to come to the realization that his father wasn't Superman or God Almighty but a man; just like himself. "Ah Dad…I'm so sorry…" he whispered and laid his head in his arms against the table.
"Jeeeeezus boy! That'll learn ya not to get shitfaced and take on the whole bar!" Michael grabbed a beer out of the fridge and smacked him playfully on the head. He cocked his head at Mick curiously as he got no response from the heap on the table. Mick slowly raised his head and tried to meet his father's eyes.
Brows furrowed, Michael pulled up a chair and quietly regarded his son. "Hey kid, we gotta get up to the hospital. You goin' with us?"
"Yeah Dad. I'll go."
"Mick? What's botherin' ya, boy?" After the small war in the boardroom with Teresa and a potentially larger one on the horizon, Michael really wasn't up to deal with `Kid Angst' at the moment. He was already exhausted from locking horns with his boss and later on the way home, his wife over the prospect of driving again.
Mick shook his head, how could he even begin to explain? "I-I don't know how to say this Dad. Uhm…last night…Sauter started some shit…."he began. He was fishing for answers but he resolved to take the easy route.
"Johnny Sauter? He's always startin' shit…was this really worth startin' a pissin' match over?" Michael began to get a bit cross with the boy. He definitely wasn't in the mood for this.
"It's not that, Dad…it's what he said about you and Junior."
"And….?"
"Uhm….he basically called you a fag you..uhm… uh….suckedJunioroffforyourjob…" Oh shit! One look at Michael's icy gaze told him he had gone far enough with his analysis of last night's transgressions. Michael stared at him silently, regarding him.
"And you put what's left of your career at risk over this? Mick, you've been involved in enough fights with other drivers this year- you can't afford any more of these malfunctions.." He leaned closer but the hard look was replaced by something softer, "Let me ask you something. You know Junior's gay-you've known him just about all your life, right?"
"Yessir"
"And you know as far as drivers go, Junior's as tough as they come, right? Don't sound like a fag, now does he?"
"No sir…I-I don't have a problem with Junior. Or Steve either." Mick shook his head, his father had a habit of occasionally talking in circles-one was never quite sure where he was often going with a conversation but it all made sense in the end.
"But you have a problem with the notion of me being like Junior and Steve, right?" Michael asked softly. Mick's mouth fell open. He didn't know what to say. "Dad-I..I… dunno…." He sighed, a sob catching in his throat. "It just goes against everything I've been brought up on…" Indeed, these past few days seemed like his whole world as he knew it had been turned upside down.
"First up, boy. Don't EVER pass judgment on me-or anybody-hear? There's a lot in this world you ain't lived long enough to learn yet. When you've got as many laps under your belt as I do, maybe then you toss your two cents…." He paused to make sure his words were hitting home as his gaze never left Mick's face. "Don't think I don't care about what you think of me because it hurts my heart to think that you'd hate me for what I've done in the past-and I'll admit, I did some crazy things that I don't think are necessary to revisit. Not that you'd understand anyway…. All I ask for is acceptance."
"Dad-I-I do accept you….I could never hate you..ever." And he meant it. "But please answer me this…y-you never did anything behind Mom's back, did you?" There-it was out. The one thing that bothered him the most.
Michael sat back, both shocked and mildly amused. "Hell no, boy. I'd never cheat on your momma! Shit-she was all for getting' crazy with me back in the bad ol' days!" he laughed out loud. "Is THAT what was buggin' your ass??"
The third person that he couldn't identify! His own mother with his father and Junior! He blushed furiously and resolved to destroy the evidence in his desk. And the fiend who sent it to him….