Chapter 12

Mitchell’s Creek, Sunny Corner, New South Wales, Australia:12

Soaking up the sun, I was enjoying a hoppy beverage out on the patio ... contemplating the fineness of my navel and thinking that maybe ... just maybe ... I might go swimming.

Abbie stepped out on the patio ... she looked ... professional.

“There are meals for Friday and Saturday in the Fridge. Your beer cooler is full. Take the clothes out of the washer and swap with the clothes in the dryer, hang the dryer clothes in your closet. Wash the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Cut the fucking grass with YOUR fucking mower, the garden is weeded. Clean the pool. The contractor is coming by ... write him a check for the roof. Don’t forget your keys. You know how much trouble you get in when the Security people show up because you forgot the code ... or were too lazy to use the keypad.

“I’ll be back late Saturday or early Sunday ... unless I wreck again.”

“Where?”

“Blue Hell is having a local race so I have the Formula Ford ... and Dubbo for supermods.”

“Have fun ... the girls are crewing?”

“At Blue Hell ... the school boys at Dubbo.

“What are you doing while I’m gone?”

“Casting the new crankcase for the Pasco,” I said. “I might machine it too.”

“Don’t leave my shop a mess.”

Jim came through the gate.

“G’day mate,” she said.

“Day-ee.”

“I’m off.” She rolled away.

Jim watched her go. He sighed.

“I hate to see her leave ... but I love to watch her go.”

I grinned, “That extra wiggle? It’s just for you.”

“So ... what car did you buy her?” Jim asked.

“Which one?”

“More than one?”

I ticked off my fingers. “Three cars: full on restored rally 1973 Ford Escort ... with four wheel drive added. Dirt track Holden super mod, Formula Ford circuit car ... one dually Ford pickup ... gooseneck enclosed two car trailer ... tools ... rollaway tool box ... new tires every fucking week ... rally car usually uses three sets.” I ran out of fingers but kept going. “Firesuit, three helmets, shoes, gloves ... all that junk. Rented three bays in the old Gold Bug warehouse. Security for the shop.

“Speaking of tools ... remember Dean Wilson?”

“Yeah ... airplane mechanic ... he must be a hundred years old.”

“He’s dead ... Abby bought his entire shop of aircraft quality Snap-On and Blue Point tools ... all his jigs, machinery, and measuring equipment ... stands ... lifts rolling boxes ... from his widow for five thousand dollars.”

“Good God ... he must have had half a million tied up in those.”

“Or more ... she got his mills, bars, lathes and grinders.”

“How much?”

“All together? So far ... two years ... two million.”

“Where does she race?”

“Dubbo ... and Blue Hell.”

“You let her race at Mount Panorama?”

“It’s not a case of LET ... try and stop her.”

“Is she any good?”

“I dunno.”

“Don’t know?”

“Never watched her.”

“Why not?”

“I might be impressed,” I said. “I’m having a hard enough time just being around her. I might do something stupid.”

“How come I don’t know about this?”

“You work on weekends and we go prospecting during the week. You never see her. And I know you don’t read the newspaper.”

“I do so.”

“Ever read the sporting pages? Watch racing on the telly? Good God, man. Today interviewed her. She was on the whole weekend.”

“How do you know?”

“They called to see if I watched the show.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Just Abby bet the host 25 dollars I wouldn’t. He was pissed.”

“I started my two weeks annual today. Get in the car.”

“What?”

“We’re going to the races.”

“Fuck!”