RC7: The Beginning
by Wyndewalker

Judge Orrin Travis paused just inside the doorway of the seedy little bar. The lights were dim and the smoke hung heavy in the air making it difficult to see. In the background the jukebox was belting out Charlie Daniels’ ‘The Devil Went Down To Georgia’. Travis smiled at the irony of it. Though he did have to wonder if he was the devil or the man he was looking for. Spotting that man, he made his way over to the bar.

"Judge," greeted the man he’d come to see when he was still a foot away.

"Chris Larabee."

"Yeah, what do you want, Judge?" Chris asked, his gaze never wandering from the TV screen.

"I’d like to talk to you. Think we could find a booth and sit down?"

Chris glanced at him, his eyes narrowed. With a grunt he grabbed the bottle of whiskey and his shot glass before making his way towards a booth in the back. It was already occupied but a dark glare and a growl from Chris had the two couples sliding out and away. Judge Travis just shook his head at the display of Chris’ legendary glares as he took a seat.

"So talk," Chris growled, tossing back another shot. The Judge took the whiskey bottle and put it aside, ignoring the glare now aimed at him.

"You were a good driver once, Chris. One of the very best. I know why you left the circuit, and I am sorry for your loss, but I would like you to come back. I want you to race for me."

"Why me? You can have the pick of the litter so why’re you coming to a washed up old drunk?"

"I will admit you are a drunk," the Judge frowned at Chris’ wolfish grin, "but you are neither washed up nor old. I’m starting a new team and I want you to lead it."

"And what makes your team so special that I should be willing to come ride herd for you on a bunch of rookies?"

"For starters the only rookies of this team will be the ones you allow. I don’t want this to be your average everyday team. I want a team that is going to win and win consistently. But more importantly I want a team whose *only* concern is racing. None of the sponsor bullshit. This team will not be subject to the whim of some pencil-nosed snot who bought a racing team because it’s the *thing* to do. Will you give it a try?"

Chris glanced around the bar not answering the Judge’s question. It really was a dive but the people here left him alone. They didn’t know him, didn’t know about his racing career. He liked that just fine. Did he really want to go back to racing?

As if on cue the TV over the bar went to a commercial. A stock car was zipping around the track as text appeared near the bottom. Chris didn’t notice it, just the car. He could feel the adrenaline-pumping roar of the engine, could feel the sway of the car as it took the turn, the pedals beneath his feet. The steering wheel in his hands.

Racing was in his blood. There was no denying it. He turned his attention back to the Judge. "No sponsors? No bullshit?"

"There are sponsors but you’ll never deal with them. This team races on my rules, not the sponsors. So as far as you’re concerned you’ll have almost total autonomy."

"I get to pick the drivers and the crew?"

"Yes."

"Where’re we setting up camp?"

"South Carolina. Darlington. You have a ranch outside the city, don’t you?"

"I’m gonna need some traveling money," Chris said, ignoring the question. "Two of the men I’m thinking of I’m gonna have to travel to."

The Judge pulled an envelope out of his inner suit pocket and laid it on the table. "I thought so. There’s money and a credit card for expenses within reason. When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow. Got some business to take care of first," Chris replied, standing up. He folded the envelope and shoved it in his pocket. "I’ll see you in a couple of days, Judge."

He placed his Stetson on his head and strode from the bar. Judge Travis smiled as he drank the rest of his bourbon. The hardest part was over. Now he just had to sit back and watch as Chris built a team that was sure to become legendary.

*******

Fort Worth, TX

Chris parked his rented Jeep in front of Corelli’s Garage. There were a number of cars and trucks parked in the front lot, some under tarps and others with their hoods up. Getting out, he nodded to the three men who’d looked up from the pickup truck they’d been working on. One of them gestured for the other two to continue, while he walked over to Chris wiping his greasy hands on an already stained towel.

He knew without asking that the man coming towards him wasn’t Vin Tanner. Nor were the other two men. They were all mid-height, stocky build, and had the dark looks of the Italian. From the pictures Chris had seen on various racing magazines Tanner was slim, had longish brown hair and relatively fair skin.

"Can I help you?" the man asked when he was closer.

"Hope so. Name’s Chris Larabee," Chris said holding out his hand.

"Tony Corelli. I own the place. Problem with the Jeep?" He asked, shaking Chris’ hand.

"Nope. Looking for Vin Tanner. I was told he works here."

"Maybe. You a cop or something?"

"No, not a cop. I’m here to talk to him about some of the engines he’s been designing."

Tony chuckled. "Hope you’ve got a couple of hours to spare. That boy can sure go on about his engines. Just head straight through the main bay and follow the sound of Alan Jackson. You’ll find him."

"Thanks," Chris touched the brim of his Stetson before turning and heading in the direction Tony pointed. Entering the main bay, he heard the usual sounds of cars being worked on. The high-pitched whirr-whirr of a power screw-driver, the clanking of metal and metal, a car trying to start and then shouts to cut it when it made a grinding noise. Beneath it all he heard the faint strains of an Alan Jackson song coming from behind a closed door marked ‘Employees Only’.

The guy working on the car closest to Chris looked up when he approached. He could see the family resemblance to Tony. Chris idly wondered if they were all related except Tanner.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah. Tony said I could find Tanner back here somewhere?"

"Uh-huh. Just follow the music through that door." The man pointed to the Employees Only door then bent back to the engine in front of him.

"Thanks," Chris said and continued to the door. Opening it, he paused as he was hit with a wave of sound. The radio sitting on a shelf on the far side of the bay was cranked up and all Chris could hear for a moment was;

'Cause where I come from

It's cornbread and chicken

Where I come from a lotta front porch pickin'

Where I come from tryin' to make a livin'

Workin' hard to get to heaven

Where I come from.

Once his ears adjusted to the noise level he could the noise of someone working on the underside of the car. In front of him was a black 1967 GTO with orange and yellow flames painted on the front and sides. It was a sweet looking car and could probably fly like the wind on a straightaway. Walking around to the other side, he found a pair of booted feet, one bobbing to the beat of the music, attached to a pair of jean encased legs sticking out from beneath the car.

This had to be Tanner as all the other men were wearing coveralls. He squatted down next to the legs and shouted, "Tanner?"

There was no response. The boot didn’t even pause. Chris nudged one leg with his hand and shouted again, "Vin Tanner?"

The boot stopped moving and suddenly the body attached to the legs appeared.

"Yeah?" Vin started to shout but then recognition flared in his eyes. "Larabee?"

"Yep," Chris replied with a nod. He rose to his feet as Vin also stood up, watching the lanky Texan move to the radio and turn it off. The sudden silence was deafening for a moment, making Chris shake his head. He held out his hand, "Chris Larabee."

"I know who you are," Vin answered shaking the hand. "Vin Tanner."

"I know who you are too. Got a minute?"

"Sure. Today’s my day off. I was just making some modifications on Mike’s engine. Why don’t we go into the office?" Vin gestured for Chris to precede him. They walked back through the main bay and through a side door into a room that looked like it was half office, half lounge. Vin headed straight for a small fridge in the corner.

"Beer?"

"Sure."

Vin pulled out two bottles and an apple. He handed one bottle to Chris, gesturing for him to sit, while he leaned back against the fridge. A quick twist of the cap opened the beer and he took a long swallow, sighing with satisfaction when he finished.

"So what can I do for ya?"

Chris gazed shrewdly at the lean young man in front of him, a young man who’d once had a promising career as a race car driver. "How’d you like to get back into racing?"

"I don’t race anymore," Vin answered with a glare. He pulled out a pocketknife and began quartering his apple.

"I know," Chris said easily, "and I know why." He paused, letting his words sink in as he took a sip of beer. When Vin remained quiet, he continued. "Accident like that isn’t something a man is likely to forget."

"No, it ain’t," Vin replied shortly, gesturing towards him with the knife. "If that’s all ya want ta talk about I got better things ta do."

Chris held up a hand stopping him from walking away. "No, that’s not what I want to talk about. Yeah, I’d love to see you racing again, but a man’s gotta do what feels right for him. Reason I’m here is I’ve heard about engines breaking records on the amateur tracks. Engines designed by you."

"Yeah, so?" Vin shrugged. "I tinker with engines now and then. Just a few mods any grease monkey could do." Vin waved the hand with the pocketknife for emphasis, his tone becoming bitter. He started savagely cutting into the apple. "It ain’t anythin’ special. I ain’t anythin’ special. Just a coulda been driver who can’t drive on a tracj no more cause I freak the second there’s another car on the track. An’ we all know drivers don’t know shit ‘bout engines so nobody’s gonna hire one as a mechanic. I don’t know why you’re here, Larabee, but why don’t you…OWWW!! God dammit!"

Vin started to stick his bleeding hand in his mouth but a voice from the doorway stopped him.

Don’t you dare put that hand in your mouth, Vin Tanner."

They turned to find a well-built black man standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he glared sternly at Vin.

"Aww, Doc, I was just gonna…"

"Stick your hand that’s covered with dirt, grease, oil, blood, and who knows what else in your mouth running the risk of serious infection. Let me see your hand." He didn’t wait for Vin’s agreement before he crossed the office and took Vin’s hand in his so he could inspect it. He ignored Vin’s hisses of pain as he prodded at it a bit. "Hmph. I don’t think you’re gonna need stitches but you need to go wash that hand now so I can take a better look at it and bandage it. Go on. I know where the first aid kit is."

Vin left the office mumbling about pushy doctors. The black man just smiled and ignored him, grabbing some paper towels from the top of the refrigerator and wiped off his hands.

"Nathan Jackson," he said, introducing himself to Chris.

"Chris…"

"Larabee. Yeah, I know you," Nathan said with an easy smile as they shook hands. "I worked for a time on the professional circuit. We met once in Talladega, about six or seven years back now."

Chris nodded his head. "I remember now. You had some trouble with the Nichols boys. You’re a doctor now?"

"No. Vin just insists on calling me that. I’m an EMT. The Nichols made sure I lost my med school scholarship."

Chris wasn’t surprised by the trace of bitterness in Nathan’s voice. The Nichols had always been bad news.

"So what brings you down this way?" Nathan asked before Chris could say anything. "I thought you’d retired?"

"Something like that. Judge Travis is starting up a new team. Asked me to head it."

"He’s not going to race you know."

"I know," Chris agreed. "Wish he would but I won’t ask it of him. No, I came to see him about those engines he’s designing."

"That he’ll do for you," Nathan said with a grin. "He’s real good with’em. Ain’t that right, Vin?"

"What’s right?" Vin asked coming back in the office, a towel wrapped around his hand.

"You’re good with engines," Nathan replied as he inspected Vin’s hand.

"I’m alright. There’s better’n me," Vin shrugged, wincing when Nathan pressed a little hard around the wound.

"Maybe, but you’re the one I’m asking," Chris said. "Judge Travis is backing. We deal with just him. None of the usual bullshit with sponsors that don’t know squat about racing but think they do."

"An’ I’ll just be working on the cars?" Vin asked.

"Yep. No pressure to race."

"Guess I’m in. Gotta talk ta Tony first. His family’s been real good to me. Hate ta just leave’em in the lurch."

"If you can’t leave right away I understand. Why don’t you go talk to him now, see what he says?"

"Kay. Nate?"

"You’re all set, Vin. Just a deep slice. I put some butterflies on it underneath the gauze. Try not to use it too much for the next couple of days or it’ll reopen." Nathan closed up the First Aid kit. "You know, if you don’t have a Pit Chief yet I know someone who might be interested. Used to be chief for MacKenzie but he had a little trouble turning the other way when some sponsors wanted the car sabotaged. Name of Josiah Sanchez."

"Might be interested. When can we meet him?"

"Well, that’s the hard part. He’s in Nevada right now, out on an Indian reservation on some sort of spiritual retreat. He won’t be back for a couple of months, so short of traveling to him you can’t get a hold of him."

"Appears we’re in luck then. My next stop is Vegas." Chris glanced at Nathan. "Given any thought to getting back into racing? Half the Nichols boys are either in jail or banned for life from the track. We could use a man with your skills on the team."

"Why not. The company I work for is getting ready to switch contractors any way so I’ll probably be out of a job in a week. Count me in," he agreed shaking Chris’ hand.

"Hey, Vin, how’s the hand?" Tony asked as he came into the office.

"It’s okay. Didn’t need stitches. Uh, can I talk to you, Tony?"

"It’s alright, kid."

"Huh?"

"I know what you’re gonna ask, and it’s alright. I hate losing you, you’re a damn fine mechanic, but racing’s in your blood. I’ve seen you at the track, Vin," Tony said gently. "You gotta do what’s gonna make you happy. And don’t worry about leaving me short-handed. Teresa’s boy is graduating vocational school next month. She’d wanted me to give him a job anyway. But don’t be a stranger. I still expect you to come by for Sunday dinner when you’re in town. You know Mama’ll never forgive you if you don’t."

"Yeah, I know," Vin said with a grin. "Thanks, Tony, For everything."

"Eh, no problem, kid."

Vin held out his hand and Tony took it, using it to pull Vin into a quick hug. Smiling, Vin pulled away.

"Now go on, kid, before I change my mind about letting you quit. And, hey, we expect postcards. Even if it's just chickenscratch on the back." Tony smiled at Vin's nod watching them leave. He moved to stand in the office doorway and called out, "Hey, Larabee!"

"Yeah?" Chris turned to look at him, Nathan and Vin stopping too.

"You take care of him, you hear? We consider Vin family and the Corelli's protect family."

"I hear," Chris touched the brim of his Stetson and continued on. "Let's go to Vegas, boys."

TBC in Part 2