Motor Mouth

purse.”
    “Do you want me to go back and get it?”
    “No! I want you to go far away from here.”
    “How do you feel about North Carolina?”
    “North Carolina would be good.”
    “Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”
    I had a mental head-slap moment. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. I’d completely forgotten.
    “No,” I said. “I usually go home to my parents’ for Thanksgiving, but they’re going on a cruise this year. My dad won it in a raffle at his lodge. How about you?”
    “My parents are divorced and holidays are always a tug of war. I avoid them when I can. I was planning on defrosting a Thanksgiving pizza and watching a ball game with Beans. You’re welcome to join me.”
    “I can’t believe I forgot Thanksgiving.”
    “When I went back to get our stuff from Felicia, her kitchen was filled with women making pies. She invited us to stay, but Gobbles needs to get home. He gets to see his kids on Thanksgiving. It’s a big deal for him.”
    “It must be hard to be separated from your kids.”
    “Like losing Beans,” Hooker said.
     
    Traveling by private jet is painless. No waiting in line. No security hassles. No kids kicking the back of your chair. Hooker’s Citation is white with a narrow black-and-gold stripe running the length of the plane, and HOOKER written on the tail. Very sleek. The interior is cream leather and beige carpeting, with a small refreshment center in the front, by the door, and a small but comfortable lavatory in the rear. There are three captain’s chairs on one side of the aisle and two captain’s chairs plus a custom-made dog bed on the other. I was sitting across the aisle from Hooker. He had a movie up on the screen but my mind was elsewhere. It was early evening, and we were flying into Concord, North Carolina. We dropped below the cloud cover, and familiar neighborhoods popped into view. Houses were sprinkled across the countryside and clustered around lakes. We flew over Kannapolis. That was Earnhardt country. Lots of open space and a rickety little town. A big strip mall toward one end. Lake Norman sprawled to the west. Mooresville attached to the northeast end of the lake and Huntersville attached to the southeast end. A lot of the drivers and crew chiefs lived in Huntersville and Mooresville. There were condo complexes, high-end houses and golf-course communities, redneck bars, pretty shopping centers, and some fried-food restaurants.
    The Citation touched down and skimmed over the asphalt runway. Five thousand five hundred feet long. It was a small airport used only by private planes. Hangars lined up on one side, with a terminal building in the middle. The NASCAR hangar sat at the far end. The sign on the terminal stated that this was NASCAR country. And it was accurate. NASCAR fans are all over the place, in every state, but you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting one in greater Charlotte. NASCAR was on bumper stickers, personalized license plates, shirts, hats, flags, dog collars, jackets, lamps, clocks, boxer shorts, bobble-head dolls, and pajamas.
    Hooker’s black Blazer was parked by the Stiller Racing hangar. We loaded Beans into the back and watched Gobbles walk to a rusted-out Jeep.
    “What happened to your ’vette?” Hooker asked him.
    “Wife got it in the settlement. She painted it pink.”
    “Ow,” Hooker said.
    “I appreciate all you did for me,” Gobbles said. “I’m sorry I got you into this shit. I didn’t think it would turn into such a cluster fuck.” He searched through the duffel hanging on his shoulder and came up with the remote. “I still have this. Maybe it’d be better if you keep it…in case something happens to me.”
    Hooker pocketed the remote; we got into the Blazer and followed Gobbles out of the lot.
    “Do you think he’ll be okay?” I asked Hooker.
    “No. I have one of those Felicia feelings about Gobbles. I don’t think his problems are over.”
    Corporate headquarters for many of the race teams are adjacent to the airfield. Hendrick, Penske, Roush, Huevo, and Stiller had campuses that housed engine shops and fabrication buildings, R amp; D centers, transporter bays, museums, corporate offices, and the main assembly buildings where the race cars are put together.
    Stiller runs three full-time Cup cars and two Busch cars. At any one time, there are sixty race cars in the shop with two hundred new engines ready to race. The lighting is brighter than daylight, the floors are spotless, the inventory