DEADLY DRIVER Page 4

  He’d always heard a racer’s biggest fear was fire and he’d just experienced most drivers’ second biggest fear - something coming into the car. That was enough for him. He’d learned things there in the woods that day. He wanted to be a race car driver. He knew he was good, really good, behind the wheel. And wanted to do it on the oval tracks, not through the forest.

  “Anyone can go around and around, boy,” Werner told him. “Strippers have been doing that with poles for centuries. How hard can it be?”

  Bryce took offense at the remark and Werner must have seen it. “Don’t get me wrong. I know it’s not something just anyone can do. What I meant to say is making lefts and rights in open-wheeled cars and traffic has to be more of a challenge, and I would think more fulfilling.”

  Bryce took his words in. He’d been prepared to challenge Werner to take some laps at Thunder Road in Vermont or Stafford in Connecticut. Heck, the guy had enough money to buy not just the cars but the tracks, too. But he opted not to. This guy could be the ticket to the big show, Bryce thought. Go along for the ride.

  “Besides, if you want to go NASCAR racing you can count on what—twenty million people watching the Daytona 500 on TV? Formula One – open wheeled cars on circuits – grabs over a four hundred million people from a global audience. That’s bigger than the entire population of your country. Think of the potential. Think of the money!”

  Bryce considered the cost of racing NASCAR versus Formula One, but that didn’t concern him. His plan was to become a driver for hire. In addition to winning races and championships, it was the sponsorship money and lucrative driving contracts he’d be looking for if he ever got the shot.

  “Is your company involved in racing?” Bryce asked. “What brought you here today?”

  Werner shook his head no. Then he related how he’d been invited to the luncheon, it turned out, by someone who was trying to get Werner to buy his company.

  “Must be tiresome, people always asking for money, always trying to get into your pants,” Bryce suggested.

  Werner shook his head yes and laughed.

  “Well, don’t worry, I’m not going to. I just appreciate the drinks,” Bryce said as he downed his second beer and began to reach for his backpack.

  “No need to rush,” Werner suggested. “We’re not finished here. No, I’m not in racing – not yet. Someday, when all the stars align, I want to win the German GP and the Formula One World Championship,” he said. “But only when all the pieces fit together like a fine Swiss watch.”

  Werner ordered another round and excused himself to make a call and returned ten minutes later. He was smiling and Bryce had to ask why.

  “I checked you out, Bryce Winters,” he began, “you’re a pretty good driver. A lot of race wins and a few track championships in New England. Congratulations. Now tell me,” he asked, “do you know where Lime Rock Park is? And can you be there in the morning?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A week later, the Bombardier private jet landed at Burlington International Airport at just past three o’clock on Friday afternoon. There might have been room for 18 on board but there was only one passenger and he’d been on the phone nearly the entire time since the plane left Munich seven hours prior.

  Bryce had been told to pack for a week and be waiting at the Heritage Aviation hangar for a fast turnaround. He parked his Dodge pickup and checked in a half hour early. The same uncle who had taught him how to fight also taught him to be early.

  Bryce watched as a U.S. Customs official boarded the plane to check flight docs and the passports of the cockpit crew, flight attendant, and the plane’s owner, Max Werner. Then he watched as a half-dozen ground workers, acting much like a racing pit crew, serviced the plane. Fuel and catering in, trash and waste out. Once they had finished, a woman wearing jeans and a red sweater walked down the steps and waved for him to come aboard. Five hours later, after having only shaken hands with his host and dining on what had to be the best filet mignon he’d ever had, Bryce fell asleep somewhere during the second film he watched since they took off. Saving Private Ryan was his first choice followed by The Hunt for Red October. The pilot’s landing was so soft and quiet that Bryce awoke only at the polite prodding Werner gave his shoulder.

  “Let’s get moving. There are some people I want you to meet.”

  Soon they were in a chauffeured Mercedes and headed for a cocktail party taking place in the suites overlooking the track at Laguna Seca Raceway in Monterey, California. The Indy Car series was in town and the rolling vistas, elevation changes, tight turns, and the famous downhill “corkscrew” made the event one that fans, racers, media, and industry types all looked forward to.

  Max apologized that he hadn’t been able to visit with his guest more but wasted no time in getting down to business. “My contacts at the Skip Barber School told me you were a natural,” Max began. “They said you listened to their instructions, were fearless once you got used to the car and the track, and said you had a great deal of potential. Equally as important, at least in my mind, is that you listened and learned. That will save me time and money.”

  Bryce nodded with a curious smile while taking in the positive feedback. He took a moment to think about how fast things had moved over the last week. He’d killed a man at the Valley, saved one woman and then intervened to help another, met this billionaire who’d taken a liking to him, and now he’d been on his first private jet ride and first trip to California.

  “I’m really appreciative of all of this,” Bryce began, “I really do Max. But where’s this all headed? I have an idea but I’m also a realist, so….”

  Max interrupted him. “Bryce, sit back and enjoy the day. I’m going to introduce you to some big shots, some Hollywood types, and then over dinner I’ll tell you what I am thinking. Okay?”

  Bryce nodded his head ‘yes’ and then turned his attention to the scenery that led up to the track. After meeting a handful of CEO’s, two A-list movie stars who had a passion for motorsports, and a few media types, Max and Bryce were back in the Mercedes and headed for dinner at a restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf on the Monterey Bay. There, over dinner, Max explained things in very simple terms.

  “Bryce, you have everything but one to become a superstar in auto racing,” he began. “Looks, talent, balls, brains, a decent amount of track experience, and after watching how you behaved in New York and on the jet and tonight at the cocktail party I think you are the complete package. All you need is one more thing. Money. And that’s where I come in.”

  Bryce felt a bit embarrassed at the high praise he’d just received. Growing up in the woods of Vermont, praise was something saved for the Lord. At least, as far as a set of identical twin brothers, his uncle and his father, were concerned. Bryce knew it was the way they were raised. His grandfather was a rural minister and had named them Peter and Paul on arrival. Luckily, at least in Bryce’s mind, once the fire and brimstone minister died life up there in the hills, including the naming of what would have been the sole grandchild, relaxed quite a bit.

  “So, if you are interested in working with me, and you’d be crazy not to be, here’s what I propose.”

  Over the next thirty minutes, having waved off the servers after their first round of drinks had been delivered, Max outlined his plan, step by step.

  First, Bryce would spend the next week there at Laguna Seca working with Skip Barber’s West Coast team to get some seat time in a different car every day; each one offering much more horsepower and challenges than the previous. Then, the following week, if Bryce were given the green light to proceed, he’d fly to Las Vegas Motor Speedway where he’d spend two days in a NASCAR stock car under the tutelage of a retired crew chief who specialized in developing young drivers.

  “It’s October. If all continues to go as planned, you’ll attempt to qualify for the Daytona 500 in February. I’ve already sent a $1,000,000 deposit to GNR in Charlotte. That team has won off-road, the 500, a series title, and also fielded a
road-race team that has won the endurance races at Daytona and Sebring. We’ll run the entire season, you will win the Rookie of the Year title and some races, I expect.”

  Bryce was flabbergasted, and his expression must have shown it. Max laughed and waved for the server to come take their orders for dinner.

  “My intention is to put the very best cars under you and the best team around you - the best of everything. All you need to do in return is continue to learn, to develop – to give me your best – and to win.”

  The men sat quietly for a moment. At last, Max broke the tense silence. “We only have two questions to answer at this point, Bryce. Which of my companies will be the primary sponsor on the team and—” Max stopped and looked at Bryce.

  “If the second one is if I’m in—then hell, yes, Max. Where do I sign?”

  Max waved for a bottle of champagne, which seemed to have been standing by on ice, as if he’d known what Bryce’s answer would be. He gestured for Bryce to follow him outside to the terrace where Max shook the bottle and then popped the cork out into the bay. They took turns drinking from the $400 bottle of bubbly. When they re-entered the restaurant, Bryce noticed the racing faces that had been watching the celebration. Most were curious; some offered congratulations even though they weren’t sure for what. At least one – an angel with the face of a cover girl and the red hair of a super hero—smiled in the way only an interested woman can.

  Once back at the table, Bryce thanked Max again and again and then excused himself and headed for the men’s room. As he stood there staring into the mirror over the sink, he couldn’t believe this was all happening. He turned on the faucet to wash his hands and found himself thinking back to that night at the dirt track, the dead guy lying on the bathroom floor.

  A man walked out of one of the stalls, and Bryce jumped. If anyone ever finds out about the Valley this will end faster than it began. He tried to calm himself as he rinsed off his hands. Breathe.

  As soon as he stepped out of the men’s room, Bryce ran straight into the red head. Whether she’d followed him there, interested in a phone number, an introduction, or a ride inside one of the stalls, Bryce would never find out. The woman’s date had followed her, and the expression he saw on the man’s face showed he was a threat, and not just to this encounter. Bryce thought about all he had ahead of him and this was Tony Bishop – a rising star on the Indy Car circuit. It was an awkward moment, Bryce standing there with a woman who’d just been caught by her jealous boyfriend. Before words could be exchanged, Bishop’s PR woman appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and introduced herself to Bryce while stepping between the two drivers.

  Bishop turned and left the restaurant. His date may have been on his arm but her interests were clearly elsewhere.

  “Steer clear of Tony, at least for the rest of the weekend,” the woman suggested. “He’s got a temper. And he’s politically connected with the officials and many of the sponsors. This racing world can be a bit incestuous, if you catch my drift.”

  Bryce smiled.“Thanks for the advice, but I’m going NASCAR racing next year. Maybe the next time we meet will be out on the track. Then it’ll be just us.”

  The following week at Laguna Seca, Bryce spent an average of five hours each day out on the track, progressing from one fast ride to a faster one. By Friday morning he was asking, “What else you got?”

  Satisfied with what he’d seen and heard, before he flew back to Germany, Werner executed a contract with Bryce and set him up as an employee with a company credit card, a $2,000 per week salary, health insurance, and a rental car. He also arranged for a private charter flight from Monterey to Vegas, for the following Monday’s indoctrination and evaluation with a stock car racing legend.

  Lefty Lozano, the owner of a vicious left hook, had been an up-and-coming boxer years before he became involved in big-league auto racing. Having worked at his father’s Dallas garage during the day, he’d trained for fights at night and then traveled across Texas and the Southwest to race with his buddies on weekends. They were doing so well on the track, and he was doing so well in the ring, that at some point a decision had to be made – racing or the ring. Soon, a detached retina and a doctor’s warning of pending blindness forced Lozano to hang up his gloves and go back to wrenching full time.

  As NASCAR racing grew in popularity and became a national sport, rather than one based solely in the Southeast, the best of the best found work in the top stock car racing platform on the planet. Lozano helped many rookie drivers and owners to victory lane faster than most others. Many, if not all, of the racing fraternity thought Lozano’s nickname came from oval track racers’ propensity to turn left, unaware of his boxing prowess. Now retired, he kept busy at the speedway in Vegas, evaluating talent as a favor for a racing friend or charging $10,000 per day if he touched a wrench.

  After the first day of Bryce’s practice, Lozano called Max Werner and jokingly told him, “If you haven’t signed this kid yet, don’t – I’ll sign him myself. He’s a natural.”

  That night, Bryce thanked Lozano for all the help he had given him that day by taking him out for a surf-and-turf dinner at the Mirage on the strip. But the two were delayed when they came across a young woman holding a baby, stopped on the shoulder of the interstate with a flat tire.

  As Bryce pulled his rent car up behind her vehicle and flipped on his flashers, he looked at Lozano and smiled. “Bet we can pit stop that ride in two minutes tops—what do you say?”

  Lozano just smiled. In no time, the two men had the woman’s trunk open, spare out, car jacked up, tires swapped, car dropped, trunk closed, and thanks exchanged. They were headed back to their car when a Nevada Highway Patrol vehicle, roof-mounted light bar lit blue and red, pulled up behind their rental.

  The trooper was out of the car, clapping his hands with approval. “I was headed in the other direction when I saw you two pulling up and by the time I was able to hang a ubie you boys were done. It was less than three minutes,” he said. He shook their hands and thanked them for taking care of the woman and her child.

  Later that night, as Bryce watched Lozano savor the last forkful of his New York style cheesecake, he was surprised by the question the Texan offered.

  “So, tell me, Bryce, what’s wrong with you?” he asked.

  Bryce’s expression forced Lozano to ask it a different way.

  “What I meant to ask is this – you’re good looking, can drive the wheels off a race car, you handle yourself really well around people and you seem to be a genuinely nice guy. Once you get going the media’s going to call you a phenom, a prodigy, and you’ll turn into a star. So, what’s your Achilles – what’s your weakness? If there was one thing you could change about yourself, what would it be?” He paused. “What don’t we know about you?”

  Bryce sat back and considered the volley of questions hurled his way. “Hmmm,” Bryce began but just as he started to answer, the waiter brought the check. “Your timing couldn’t have been better,” Bryce told the man.

  With the check paid, the two headed back to the parking garage.

  “Lefty,” Bryce began as he drove back to the track, “maybe we haven’t found it out yet. Maybe if I do become successful I’ll screw up dealing with fame and fortune and all the stuff that comes along with it. But I hope not. Guess time will tell.”

  The food and drink took its toll on Lozano and that left Bryce alone with his thoughts. He hadn’t mentioned trees through windshields or Christy. Maybe he would some other time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Formula One race at Suzuka in Japan had been a wet one. A distant monsoon had worked up the sea and sky and drenched the entire weekend. Nevertheless, the event started on time. While the pace was slower, the competition was as intense as ever.

  Bryce had grown up driving the slippery and slick roads throughout mountainous Vermont and New Hampshire. He had a natural feel for racing in the rain. Tony Bishop, Bryce’s closest competitor in championship points, struggl
ed the entire weekend and finished fifth to Bryce’s win, his first in Japan. Despite the weather, a win would normally make a driver’s day. But his meeting with Max Werner the night before at the hotel had nearly destroyed him.

  They’d had dinner in Werner’s suite and remained at the dining room table after it was cleared. With coffee served and the staff excused, Werner cut right to the chase. “Here’s the situation,” he began.

  Bryce clenched his teeth. He knew Max well enough to know something was going to be said that Bryce would prefer not to hear.

  “As you can imagine, after a certain number of years most racing sponsorships level off. The return on investment, the ROI as we say, subsides. And that’s when companies leave to invest their marketing money elsewhere. That is the case with Werner Industries.”

  “We’re still racing the rest of this year?” Bryce asked, feeling even more concerned.

  “Of course. I want to take the Werner brand to a second F1 championship.”

  “So, after Abu Dhabi are you selling the team or what? Max, what are you trying to say?”

  Werner got up from the table and retrieved a folder from his briefcase in the next room. When he dropped it on the table in front of Bryce, it landed – at least to Bryce’s ears – with an ominous thud.

  Werner retook his seat and continued. “The good news is I am not selling the team. The other good news is that we have a folder full of companies, big companies, wanting to use F1 to grow their brand awareness and develop sales around the world.”

  Bryce began to tap his fingers on the table impatiently. Waiting for the real news.

  “I can sign a one-hundred-million-dollar deal tomorrow morning if I want. And two associate deals worth another one hundred million. But here’s the most important part - what you’ve been waiting to hear. In order to sign on the dotted line, they want you, Bryce Winters. They want you to drive their brand name on my cars in F1 for the next three years.”