Curveball(11)

After I pass Citizens Bank Park, I’m at Front and Oregon within minutes and pulling up at Tony Luke’s, a popular cheesesteak shop, where I meet my crew before races. Gearheads are nothing like my normal weekend group of degenerates. My fraternity brothers are more concerned with getting shitfaced and chasing pussy, whereas these guys care more about making money to buy new clutch kits. Most of them are pretty much nerds with cool cars.

From the outside, Tony Luke’s looks like an old metal diner, but it’s a takeout-style restaurant. A long, open window spans most of the space where people wait in line to have their orders taken. Passing them, I shuffle to the tables straight ahead and to the left of the kitchen where I find our crew, ranging from high school kids to grown men with families. Some of them have even brought their wives or girlfriends with them.

Putting aside the illegality of street racing, which is bad enough by itself, doing one hundred miles an hour down a city street where anything can happen is extremely dangerous. I can’t imagine allowing my sister to ride shotgun, yet some of the older men bring their kids with them. Even hanging around as a spectator can land you in jail.

Cops are familiar with the usual spots on weekends, forcing us to stagger the dates, times, and locations. We race in different parts of Philly—each week, a new track—even going to the suburbs to shake things up. It keeps my ass out of jail and the cash in my wallet—where it belongs.

“Mark’s here,” Fat Tony says, sliding off the bench. Half of a cheesesteak is in his hand, the grease dripping onto the ground in front of him. “Time to roll.” He glances at the tables around him and waits for a nod of approval.

Despite his nickname, Fat Tony—aka Tony Morelli—is a lanky Italian man in his late twenties with a receding hairline, thin goatee, and black-rimmed glasses. We grew up in the same neighborhood, dirt poor and looking for a way to make some cash on the side. He started the Broad Street Burnouts, a small crew who do this because of their love of cars and money.

His father owns an auto repair shop where everyone chills at during the week, but with school and baseball, I only have the time to race with them. Because, when it comes to cashing out, I always make time. We race against other crews, most of them from various parts of the city, but we do have a few who come from New Jersey and New York.

Fat Tony shoves the rest of his steak in his mouth, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then rubs his palms down the front of his jeans. “You’re late, man.”

He slaps me on the back so hard, I lurch forward.

For a lean dude, he sure has some hidden muscles somewhere beneath his black T-shirt emblazoned with the Morelli Motors logo. Some of the men have on similar shirts while a few wear the red-white-and-blue tees Tony had made for the Broad Street Burnouts. Our logo has the Liberty Bell in the center of a late ’60s Shelby Mustang steering wheel with Ford lettering for our name.

I lean into Tony and whisper, “Do you have my money?”

He moves back just enough so that our eyes meet before digging through his jacket pocket and stuffing a wad of cash into the pocket of my Strickland University hoodie. I refuse to wear anything that ties me to the crew. It’s more to cover my own ass and not because I’m not loyal. If I were to get pulled over, I’d rather the cops thought I was some asshole from the burbs who wanted to give Daddy’s ride a spin and not part of a crew.

“Is it all here this time?” I pat the front of my hoodie, feeling the thick bulge against my stomach.

Tony nods. “Two Gs. I told you we’d get paid.”

We walk outside the restaurant and down the sidewalk with the rest of the guys and their families following behind.

“We have some serious action a few weeks from now,” Tony says, excited. “Geno’s crew up in Long Island wants a piece of the action.”

“How much are we talking?”

His teeth chatter. “Fifty Gs split between us,” he says in his gruff South Philly accent.

We stop in front of my car, the chill in the air causing me to shake. The subzero temperatures during the winter months in Philly are killer. Racing when it’s this cold outside can be even more dangerous than other times of the year, but the cops pay less attention when it’s twenty degrees outside. They can’t be bothered to haul their asses out of their cars unless it’s to find their way into a Dunkin’ Donuts for free coffee.

Removing the keys from my pocket, I hit the button on the key fob to open the doors. “I’m in. Set it up.”

The money I used to make with Luca and Hunter involved a lot more risk, but the reward was worth it. Sometimes, I think I’m trading my future for scraps by taking bets on our crew. At least with cars though, I’m betting on myself to win and not a professional sports team.

“I’ll see you over at the spot,” Tony says.

I slip into the driver’s seat and stick the key into the ignition, mentally preparing myself for another wild night and praying that we don’t get caught.





Chapter Five





Olivia





“Come with us tonight. It will be so much fun.” Donna scoots her stool closer to mine, the metal legs scraping along the tiled floor. “You haven’t lived until you’ve ridden shotgun in a race car that’s going over a hundred miles per hour. Even standing on the street when they fly past gives you whiplash.”