Blacktop Wasteland(3)

“That bad valve fucked him up. Look at that exhaust. He’s burning oil,” Beauregard said. A plume of black smoke was trailing from the exhaust of the Olds. Sherm came over and handed Beauregard two wads of money. His original thousand and Warren’s roll.

“What you got under the hood on that thing?” Sherm asked.

“Two rockets and a comet,” Kelvin said. Sherm chuckled.

Warren finally got out of the Oldsmobile. He stood by the car with his arms crossed. His face was twisted into a snarl. “You giving him my money after he jumped off the line?” he asked.

The boisterous crowd became deathly quiet. Beauregard didn’t move off the hood, didn’t look at Warren. His voice cut through the night like a razor.

“You saying I cheated?”

Warren uncrossed his arms, then crossed them again. He swiveled his large head on his thin neck.

“I’m just saying you was two lengths ahead before he got to three. That’s all I’m saying,” Warren said. He put his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. Then he took them out again. He didn’t seem to know where to put them. His initial bravado was evaporating.

“I ain’t gotta cheat to beat you. By the sound of that leaky valve, your motor gonna seize up tighter than virgin pussy any day now. Your driveshaft and rear end too heavy. That’s why you pop up when you take off,” Beauregard said. He pushed off the hood and turned to face Warren. Warren was peering at the night sky. He was studying his feet. He was doing everything except looking at Beauregard.

“Yo, man, you lost. Just take the L and admit the Olds ain’t as legendary as you thought,” Kelvin said. This elicited a few guffaws from the crowd. Warren shifted on the balls of his feet. Beauregard closed the distance between them in three strides.

“So why don’t you tell me how I cheated again,” he said.

Warren licked his lips. Beauregard wasn’t as tall as he was, but he was twice as wide. All broad shoulders and wiry muscle. Warren took a step back. “I’m just saying,” he said. His voice was as thin as crepe paper.

“You just saying. You just saying but you ain’t saying shit,” Beauregard said. Kelvin got between them.

“Come on, Bug, let’s go. We got our money,” he said.

“Not until he takes it back,” Beauregard said. A few other drivers had crowded around them. Kelvin thought they were two seconds away from chanting “Fight! Fight!” like they were back in school.

“Yo, man, take it back,” Kelvin said.

Warren twisted his head left and right. He wouldn’t look directly at Beauregard or the crowd gathering around them. “Look, maybe I was wrong. I’m just saying—” he started to say but Beauregard held up his hand. Warren’s mouth closed with an audible plop.

“Don’t say ‘you just saying’ again. And don’t say you was wrong. Take. It. Back,” Beauregard said.

“Don’t let him punk you, man!” someone yelled from the crowd.

Kelvin turned and faced Warren. He spoke in low tones. “Don’t let these boys get your face fucked up. My cousin takes this shit seriously. Take it back and you can go home with all your teeth.”

Beauregard had his hands down by his sides. He clenched and unclenched them at steady intervals. He watched Warren’s eyes. They kept peering around like he was looking for a way out that didn’t entail taking back what he said. Beauregard knew he wasn’t going to take it back. He couldn’t. Guys like Warren fed off their own arrogance. It was like oxygen for them. They couldn’t back down any more than they could stop breathing.

Headlights lit up the parking lot. Then blue lights flashed off the weathered exterior of the SpeeDee Mart.

“Ah shit, it’s the sex lights,” Kelvin said. Beauregard saw a red unmarked cop car parking diagonally across the SpeeDee Mart exit. A few guys were walking slowly toward their cars. Most of them were just standing still.

“Sex lights?” the sweaty brother said.

“Yeah, cuz when you see them, you’re fucked,” Kelvin said. Two deputies got out of the car and pulled out their flashlights. Beauregard held up his hand to shield his eyes.

“So, what we got here, fellas? A little night racing? But I don’t see no NASCAR signs. You see any NASCAR signs, Deputy Hall?” the deputy that wasn’t Hall said. He was a blondish white guy with a chin so square he probably had to study geometry to learn how to shave.

“Nah, Deputy Jones, I don’t see no NASCAR signs. Why don’t you boys get out your IDs and have a seat on the pavement here?” Deputy Hall said.

“We ain’t doing nothing but parking here, officer,” the sweaty brother said. Deputy Jones whirled around. He dropped his hand to his gun.

“Did I ask you a goddamn thing? Get your ass on the ground. All of you get out your IDs and get on the ground.” There were about twenty of them in the crowd and about fifteen cars. But they were all black and the two cops were white, and had guns. Everyone pulled out their wallets and sat down on the pavement. Beauregard sat on a sprig of scrub grass that had broken through the concrete. He grabbed his driver’s license out of his wallet. The cops started at opposite ends and worked their way to the middle of the group.

“Anybody got any warrants? Child support, assault, shoplifting?” Deputy Hall asked. Beauregard tried to see what county they were from, but they kept the light in his eyes. Deputy Jones stopped in front of him.