Chapter 6

“My teacher is going to love my “What I did this Summer” monograph,” Abby said.

Uhhuh... “Monograph” Smart kid. (Note to self: discover whether or not she can test out of elementary. Don’t deal with the local board.)

“What are you going to do with your gold?”

“My gold? Why is it MY gold?”

“Your dream, your direction, your gold.”

“You did most of the work.”

“Your dream, your direction, your gold,” I repeated. “Besides, It’s still in the Rover.”

My phone played that distinctive sound that signified, Myndee calling. I hated it but I couldn’t figure out how to change it. Myndee, however, can program a satellite receiver without the book. She programed my ancient American (Japanese) Video Recorder/Player with absolutely no help or book. She made the damn thing do things I didn’t know it could do. (I am willing to bet good money that the engineers who designed it couldn’t make it do the things she made it do.)(Even with the book.)

“Hello.”

“The airport.”

“Yes, ma’am. When does your flight ... I see.”

“Abby ... wanna go to the airport to pick up Myndee?”

She squealed and headed for the Shelby.

We jumped on to the A32 and off again at the PJ Moodie Memorial ... PJ Moodie (OBE) Alderman 1922-1962 ... and straight to Bathurst Regional. Myndee was waiting at the terminal.

I stepped out and gathered her luggage, stuffed it in the boot, stuffed Abby in the backseat, seated Myndee and shut her door. I swung around to the drivers door seated myself and said, “Seat belts ... this car doesn’t start without them on.”

The warning light went out and I pulled away, U turned and back out the PJM. I looked at Myndee.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” she barked.

“Right,” I said. I shucked my cell and made a quiet call.

“Right,” said Abby.

The silence ... as silent as a throaty Borla exhaust, belt driven supercharger plumbing a 5.0 V8 turning a six speed paddle shift transmission can be ... not very silent ... was lengthy. Myndee jerked the straps on her five point seat belts tighter.

“This isn’t the way home,” she said.

Silence ... a little faster silence.

I pulled up to the gate at the track. The gate guard said, “30 minutes,” and looked at his watch. I reached for the set lever on the dash rally clock and thumbed it when he said, “Starting NOW.”

The gate went up, my foot went down and we were off.

“Sure you don’t want to talk about it?” I asked as I powered right onto the Pit Straight. Instead of turning left at Mountain I powered down Hinton road through the secondary gate and left at Barry Gurdon Drive.

Barry Gurdon is a residential street when the track is closed ... just so you know ... I took the bus stop to add a little terror to the mix and accelerated onto Brocks Skyline. I hit the second bus stop on Brocks and into the esses, made a left onto Conrod and floored it. Two thirds of the way down Conrod I cut the left and headed for the parking lot. Straight through the lot and past the Bathurst 12 hour headquarters building. Circling through the transport parking I turned right at Pit Straight and right again at Conrod ... now I was going in the opposite direction.

“Wanna tell all?”

“David ... Thank you! I needed some excitement. Sheep are boring!”

I was sliding sideways up to the gate when the alarm beeped on my dash rally clock. The gate went up and the guard asked, “How many laps, David?”

“Maybe ten,” I said.

“When are you going to compete?”

“Not a chance, Alan, not a chance.”

“You’ve been paying rent on No. 13 garage for what?”

“Fourteen years.”

“There’s been some serious inquiries on those cars.”

“Not for sale, Alan. Never for sale ... those were her cars.”

Abby in the backseat said, “You have cars stored out here?”

“They were your mom’s.”

“Mom drove racecars?”

Alan said, “She was really good, too. Who are you?”