her window.
Sorry, lady.” He pointed to a sign that read Media Only.
“Well, that’s me,” she said cheerily, holding up the pass she had been given when she checked in at the speedway’s PR department.
The man shook his head. “That gets you into the pits. A parking decal gets you in here.”
“Maybe I’ve got one. They gave me so much stuff back there.” She fumbled through the big white envelope, then triumphantly held up the red-and-white decal.
“Lick it and put it on your windshield so I won’t have to stop you next time.”
“I sure will, and I’m sorry I didn’t know to do that. This is my first time, and—”
Behind her, a horn sounded impatiently.
She wet her finger, then rubbed it over the back of the decal and affixed it to the glass.
Satisfied, the attendant motioned her in.
It had been raining earlier in the day, and there were muddy places where the grass was worn down. She stepped out of the car and into a puddle, groaning as her heel sank to her ankle. She was going to have to pick her way along carefully and opted to leave her heavy briefcase behind.
Pausing beside the car, Liz gazed up at the crystal-blue sky and marveled at what a beautiful day it was. Not a cloud in sight, and a balmy breeze was blowing in from the ocean, just a few miles to the east.
Despite her trepidation over her new assignment, she was grateful for the tropical respite from the cold chill of New York in February.
According to the schedule she had been given in her credentials packet, it was the day before trial runs, and several cars were out on the track taking practice laps. Now and then a roar from the grandstand would herald a favorite driver pulling onto the track.
Elsewhere in the infield, campers and trucks were parked. She could also see that a lot of tents had been erected.
The air was thick with the smell of food sizzling on charcoal grills, and seagulls circled overhead, drawn to the picnics going on below.
There were concrete buildings for toilets and showers. First-aid stations were dotted about. Concession booths sold souvenirs—mostly T-shirts and jackets emblazoned with different photos of drivers and their race cars.
It was, Liz thought, like a small city. Fans actually lived at the track almost the entire month of February, and the local economy welcomed them with open arms.
She found her way to the concrete retaining wall behind the area where cars made their pit stops for gas and new tires. According to the speedway map, by walking alongside it, she would eventually reach the garage area, where she hoped to find her driver.
Liz had no idea what Rick Castles looked like. There were not, as yet, any publicity photos, but she planned to take care of that right away. She was glad she had tossed the caps imprinted with the sponsor in her carry-on bag instead of packing them in her checked luggage. Otherwise, she couldn’t have had the photos taken today, because Rick and all his crew needed to be wearing them to give Big Boy’s exposure. And she could not afford a delay. His press kit had to be made available as soon as possible.
At the garage gate, a separate pass had to be issued. While the guard was making it out, she asked if he could tell her where she could find Rick Castles.
“Well, let’s see…” He pulled a clipboard from under the counter and scanned it. “Castles is car number sixty, and he’s got stall fifty-five.”
She thanked him, pinned the garage pass to her badge, took a deep breath and entered her new world.
The first thing she did was trip over a lug nut someone had dropped.
She almost fell, but a man in a greasy jumpsuit grabbed her arm and brusquely warned, “Lady, you better watch it in those shoes. This is a dangerous place.”
She gave a nervous little laugh. “Oh, I agree. And thank you. I’ll know better next time, believe me—”
He grabbed her again, this time to keep her from being run over by a car whipping off the pit road to enter the garage area. “You’re gonna get yourself killed if you aren’t careful. What are you doing here, anyway?”
Liz pulled herself up to her full height of five foot four and tried to look self-confident, which wasn’t easy when she had just been rescued twice. “I’m the new public relations representative for driver Rick Castles. Could you tell me where I can find stall fifty-five? That’s his garage space.”
He glanced about thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see. Castles is a rookie, so he won’t be with the hot dogs, that’s for sure. Fifty-five should be back that way.” He pointed, then started to walk away but paused to repeat his warning for her to be careful. “If you don’t keep an eye out around this place, you won’t make it. Trust me.”
Liz was puzzled. She didn’t see any concession stands inside the garage and wondered what difference it made if Rick were a rookie as to whether his garage space was near them. Maybe being located near the food stands was some kind of privilege older drivers got that newer ones didn’t.
Someone whistled as she continued walking.
Again she wished she could have changed. Ordinarily she would have traveled in leisure clothes, but Jeff had insisted she join him and the rest of the staff for brunch to say goodbye before going to the airport. So she’d had to dress for that.
Spotting a young man with several cameras hanging from straps around his neck, she waved and called, “Hi there. Are you a freelance photographer?”
“That I am,” he said with a tip of his ball cap. “The name’s Pete Barnett, and I’m the best in the business. What do you need and when?”
“Publicity shots of Rick Castles. I’m Liz Mallory, PR rep for his new sponsor—Big Boy’s Pizza. And I’d like them done this afternoon and possibly delivered tomorrow.” She held her breath hoping he wouldn’t laugh in her face for such a quick deadline.
She was relieved when he said, “Not a problem. I’m going to do a shoot right now. Where will you be in about an hour?”
“Space fifty-five in the garage. That’s where his car is.”
He laughed. “Not with the hot dogs, eh? Ah, the curse of being a rookie.”
Again Liz wondered about that and continued on her way.
The garage was noisy, crowded and chaotic. Race cars drove in and out on the way to and from the track for practice. Air wrenches roared and engines revved as the track loudspeakers tried to break through the din.
Spotting numbers on the concrete, she began to count. When she reached number fifty-five, she was relieved to see a car with the logo for Big Boy’s Pizza on the hood, top and sides. Painted blue and yellow, the Monte Carlo had dozens of little decals around the fenders, and a big 6-0 on the doors.
No one was around, and Liz thought that odd when everywhere else crews were working like mad on their cars. Maybe Rick and his crew had gone to eat.
Then
