Isle of Dogs

  “Shit!” Andy exclaimed as he slammed down the phone.

  He explained what was going on, and it pained him to see the anguish flicker across Hammer’s face as she realized that Popeye might not be saved and their entire plan had just crashed and burned. Smoke and the road dogs were still at large unless she could think of a way to lure them into a trap. Now it was unlikely they’d show up at the race.

  “If they wait for the helicopter and it doesn’t come, they’re going to figure out that something’s up,” Hammer said, dejected. “They’ll figure out that Cat has probably been grabbed by us and we’ve got half the state police force waiting for them at the racetrack. All because of a goddamn minihorse!”

  Andy was silent. Both of them knew that it was Andy who had planted the minihorse in the governor’s mind by suggesting it on the Trooper Truth website.

  “I don’t know what to say, I’m . . .” Andy started to say.

  “It’s too late for apologies,” a crestfallen Hammer replied. “And you don’t need to apologize anyway, Andy. It’s not your fault. I was the one who went along with this Trooper Truth charade, never realizing the repercussions it might have. I just hope Popeye . . . Well,” she said, her voice breaking. “I just hope she doesn’t suffer . . .” she blurted out in grief as tears welled in her eyes. “Damn it all!”

  “Wait a minute,” Andy said as an incredible but simple idea occurred to him. “Donny Brett flies a four-thirty!”

  “Who?” Hammer asked as she dug in her Harley bag for a tissue and handcuffs clanked against a pistol.

  “You know, number eleven! He’s got six wins so far this year, including Martinsville and Bristol, and the reason I know about his bird is Bell has used it in a lot of ads. It’s painted with Brett’s colors and he always arrives at the races in it, so it’s probably sitting at the racetrack helipad even as we speak. Yes!” Andy’s thoughts flew so fast he was scarcely making sense. “Family of one of the drivers. That’s it! And we’ll just show up at MCV in Brett’s helicopter and fly that son of a bitch Smoke and his road dogs ourselves!”

  “But how the hell are we going to get whatever-his-name-is-Brett to let us use his helicopter at this late hour?” Hammer said. “It’s impossible.”

  “Simple,” Andy replied. “We walk into the fantasy and turn fiction into fact.”

  “Now is not the time to talk like a writer!” Hammer warned as she blew her nose.

  “You can be up front with me in the left seat and pretend to be my girlfriend,” Andy relayed his plan as it unfolded inside his head.

  “And who will you be?”

  “I’ll go as Donny Brett’s brother,” Andy said. “What we’ve got to do is let Smoke and his road dogs think Macovich couldn’t make it to pick up the so-called Jolly Goodwrench pit crew and got Brett to help out. We’ll pick up the assholes, have undercover guys everywhere, and the minute we land, we’ll nail them. Now come on. We’ve got to get to the racetrack.”

  The only way that was going to be possible, in light of traffic jams that spanned virtually the entire Commonwealth as a hundred and fifty thousand NASCAR fans fought their way to the racetrack, was for Andy to overfly the gridlock in a state police helicopter. Then he and Hammer would hurry to find Donny Brett, who had always been described as an all-American boy and family man who collected police badges and guns. Brett also believed in security, and when Hammer and Andy pushed through the crowds and showed up at Brett’s luxurious trailer on the racetrack grounds, big men blocked the door and looked as if they didn’t mind hurting overly enthusiastic fans and stalkers.

  “We must have a word with Mr. Brett,” Hammer announced.

  “He’s resting, so please go away,” one of the bouncers said in an unfriendly way.

  Hammer’s wallet was in the back pocket of her leather pants, attached to a chain, and she flashed her badge as she said in a low voice, “We’re state police involved in a huge undercover operation. Lives are at stake!”

  Andy dug into his jeans and flashed his badge, too.

  “We don’t want to disturb Mr. Brett and realize he needs peace and quiet before he gets into his car and hopefully wins the race, but we must see him,” Andy explained.

  “I sure as hell hope he wins, too,” the second bouncer said. “He gets pretty upset when he don’t win, and he always likes to get a little shuteye and meditate before he races. But let me tell him what’s going on and we’ll see what he wants to do.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Donny Brett said moments later when the motorcycle mama and her redneck younger boyfriend were escorted inside the plush trailer. “I’m not doubting you’re cops, but you must think I’m pretty stupid to let you or anybody else just fly off in my chopper. And how would I get out of here after the race?”

  “We can get you the state police four-thirty,” Andy said to the handsome, famous driver, who looked rather sleepy and unassuming when he wasn’t wearing his colors. “As soon as the governor is safely returned to the mansion in his motorcade, an EPU trooper named Macovich will fly here and pick you up. I promise.”

  Brett considered this for a moment as he popped open a Pepsi.

  “Oh yeah?” he said. “So what does the state police bird look like? What kind of paint job does it have?”

  “The state police paint job,” Hammer replied.

  “So if I win the race, it will look like I’m getting a police escort out of here?” Brett rather liked the idea.

  “Even if you don’t win, you will,” Hammer said.

  “But you will win,” Andy added.

  Brett sat at a table and blew out a big sigh. He suddenly looked small and uncertain and not at all like his heavily endorsed, highly exploited self.

  “Truth is, I’m not so sure,” he confessed, hanging his head in shame. “Everybody says I’m the favorite, which only puts more pressure on me, and truth is, Labonte’s taken a whole lot better advantage of the season than I have. You know, he took over the points race from Jarrett in the third race in Vegas, and that ol’ boy’s held a real strong position since. See, my problem is, I like trophies. Like ’em way too much. And that means I don’t rely on consistency like Labonte does. And if I’m honest about it, Richmond’s not my favorite track. Hell, I finished eighteenth in the Pontiac Excitement Four Hundred last spring, can you believe it?

  “That really shattered my confidence, even if the general public don’t know it. I think that’s one of the reasons I had to go out and get me that big chopper. You know, the crowds go wild when I fly in and out in that thing, and it helps my confidence and maybe makes the fans think I’m the Big Guy even if the way I’m heading, I’m not gonna be big for much longer.”

  Hammer was getting impatient as she glanced at her watch and Andy pulled out a chair, listening intensely to what Brett was saying.

  “Look,” Andy said, “There are twenty or twenty-five cars out there and every one of them, including number eleven, has the capability of running up front.”

  “Yeah, now you are right about that,” Brett said, sipping his Pepsi and looking pretty miserable. “Anybody could win. The competition’s about as tight as it can get, and that’s why my confidence just cracked when I came in eighteenth last time I was on this damn racetrack.”

  “On any given race weekend,” Andy went on, “any driver can make a big move and win, and I think you’re the one to make that big move tonight. You can do it, Donny. You’re a Bud Pole winner just like Rudd, Labonte, Skinner, Wallace, and Earnhardt, Junior, are. You sat on the pole for the Daytona Five Hundred and had a starting position in the Bud Shootout, right? And don’t forget, you still lead in the Raybestos Rookie of the Year standings and you grabbed the checkered flag at The Winston in Charlotte.”

  “But I came in eighteenth, man . . .” Brett obsessed. “That’s the only thing I’m thinking about as I get ready to go out there tonight, and when you start choking, that’s when you start beatin’ and bangin’ off the corners or get nudged into a spin ’cause you aren
’t really focused and are misjudging which way someone’s going.”

  “You’ve always been known for your instinct and judgment,” Andy reminded him. “Remember the Busch Series in ninety-nine?”

  “We’ve got to go,” Hammer said as her tension mounted to a screaming pitch. “If we don’t go now, it’s going to be too late!”

  “How could I forget?” Brett replied with a shake of his head. “That was one of my best.”

  “Exactly,” Andy encouraged him. “And why? You had to work for every piece of the track you got, and there were wrecks and door-banging tussles going on everywhere. And what did you do? Right after an accident in Turn Four took out number forty and caused a seven-lap caution, and Hamilton spun off Turn Two and took out Burton and Fuller, you were smart enough to get off the gas and get on the brakes, and then you shot out ahead on the back straightaway and just stayed in it.”

  “Yeah,” Brett said, looking up and greatly fortified, “I sure as hell did.”

  “And that happened right here,” Andy concluded, measuring his words by tapping the table with his finger. “That was right here at the Richmond racetrack.”

  “I know, I know. I guess it’s my nature to dwell on poor performances,” Brett said with a grin. “And guess what? I’m just not going to do that tonight, and if you want to use my bird, you go right ahead as long as someone knows how to fly the damn thing.”

  “You bet I do,” Andy said. “And when you’re out there tonight, remember what I said. Make your Big Move. You’ll know when.”

  “What in the world was that all about?” Hammer asked Andy as they flew toward downtown Richmond in Brett’s glorious 430, which was painted black and emblazoned with his car number and endorsements in brilliant yellow, purple, and red. “I thought you didn’t go to races.”

  “I don’t, but I watch them on TV occasionally and study strategies, whether it’s of race-car drivers or tennis players or Navy SEAL snipers,” Andy replied through his mike as he pushed ahead at a hundred and fifty knots and overflew I-95, which was a solid line of barely creeping cars for as far as he could see. “Glad we’re up here and not down there,” he added.

  BARBIE Fogg had so far avoided the backed-up traffic caused by the masses headed to the racetrack. It wasn’t that Barbie was wise in the ways of shortcuts and alleyways, but after she had picked up Hooter at the tollbooth, the unexpected had occurred. Barbie’s cell phone had rung, and she had been surprised and relieved to hear Reverend Justice’s voice on the line.

  “Where on earth have you been?” Barbie said as Hooter flashed her nails in the passenger’s seat, admiring her little acrylic flags.

  “Been busy with the prison ministry,” the reverend replied. “And my car’s broke down, so I need you to come over and pick me up quick as you can. I’m gonna have a few brethren with me, so you need to have room for, let me see, six of us, including me.”

  “Oh my, that’s a tight squeeze,” Barbie said while Hooter ripped open the velcro straps on her astronaut boots and readjusted them, admiring her stylish outfit and imagining herself in the governor’s special box at the racetrack.

  Hooter wondered if that big, bad Trooper Macovich would show up and figured he would. He sure did brag a lot about how dangerous and important his job was. Everything was the guv this and the guv that when Hooter and Macovich had been drinking beer the other night, and Hooter felt a twinge of regret. It was true that Macovich was fresh and had one thing on his mind, even when he was going on and on about the governor and what it was like to work in that big mansion in Capitol Square while beating everybody in pool, but Hooter was lonely.

  “I tell you, girlfriend, maybe I been too rough on him,” Hooter said with a sigh as Barbie pulled into a boarded-up gas station and turned around. “I kinda hope he’ll be there tonight. You think he’ll admirate my style?”

  “I think you look fabulous,” Barbie assured her as she worried about getting to the race on time, if at all.

  The reverend’s phone call was out of the blue and very peculiar, Barbie thought as she headed toward a rundown part of the city, just northwest of downtown, where the reverend had instructed her to wait across the street from the city jail, in the back parking lot of the juvenile courts building. He and his brethren would be hiding in a small wooded area and would jump in the minivan the minute she showed up, and then she was to speed away and not ask any questions.

  “Maybe you should ring up that trooper and tell him we might be a little late,” Barbie suggested with growing anxiety, “and ask him to make sure they don’t give away our seats in the governor’s box.”

  “What’chu mean, late?” Hooter exclaimed, because she had not paid much attention to whatever Barbie had been saying on the cell phone a few minutes ago. “Girlfriend, we can’t be late! Uh-uh, we’re late, you gonna totally miss seeing all them race drivers come outta their trailers and get into their cars! You won’t get your picture took with none of ’em! This is the opportunity of a life, and we can’t be late!”

  As Barbie drove faster, Hooter noticed a big, colorful helicopter hovering in the area of the Medical College.

  “Why, look at that helichopper!” Hooter leaned forward to get a better look. “Now, that would hang the moon, wouldn’t it, girlfriend? To ride on a helichopper? Must be some poor person they’s rushing to the emergency room, but I ain’t never seen a med-chopper that look like that.”

  “Oh my Lord,” Barbie exclaimed and almost ran off the road. “That’s Donny Brett’s colors! And look, his number eleven’s painted on the door. Oh dear Lord, he must’ve been in a wreck already!”

  “But the race ain’t even started yet,” Hooter pointed out. “Maybe he had a heart attack or something. You know he must be feeling a lot of stress after comin’ in eighteenth last spring when he was here.”

  Thirty-one

  Andy and Hammer were feeling far more stress than Donny Brett was.

  Despite Andy’s apparent confidence when he promised Hammer he knew exactly how to handle Smoke and the road dogs, the truth was, he had no idea what to expect, and the headset kept rearranging his ponytail wig, and pretty soon it would be too dark to wear the Ray-Bans. He held the helicopter in a rock-hard hover and turned the nose into the wind as he spotted Smoke, a fragile-looking woman with short platinum hair, and two road dogs climbing out of a black SUV parked in the lot on the other side of the fenced-in helipad. The thugs were dressed in NASCAR colors, and the smallest one was holding a small bundle wrapped in what looked like a folded black flag.

  “That must be Possum,” Andy said to Hammer over the mike. “And it looks like he might have Popeye.”

  Hammer did her best not to react. She knew it would be unwise to show that she had any interest in whatever was in the folded flag, because she was supposed to be Donny Brett’s brother’s girlfriend and had no reason to know who Popeye was or care.

  “Stay tight,” Andy said as he set down the helicopter on the concrete surface and cut both engines’ throttles to flight idle. “I’ll go talk to them. If something happens, just cut the throttles all the way off and start shooting through your window. It slides open.”

  The road dogs and the woman were gathered at the fence, staring in awe at the glorious helicopter and looking a bit perplexed as they watched the redneck with a ponytail headed their way.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Smoke asked as the little bundle moved in Possum’s arms.

  “My brother sent me to pick you up,” Andy said, rewriting his script yet again.

  “Your brother’s Donny Brett?” Cuda asked with wide eyes. “Whoa, man, he’s phat! I sure hope he pulls it off tonight, ’cause I know he sucked last spring, coming in eighteenth.”

  “Shut up!” Smoke ordered. “We’re supposed to be picked up by the state police,” he said to Andy. “Why the shit would your brother send his chopper after us?”

  Andy detected Smoke’s twitching fingers over a pocket on his bright red Winston Cup jacket, where he probably had
concealed a high-caliber gun. Andy eyed what he assumed was Smoke’s trailer-park-looking girlfriend and something about her eyes gave him a creepy feeling. She seemed familiar.

  “All I can tell ya,” Andy said, “is me and my girlfriend-copilot was just with Donny in his trailer, giving him a pep talk, when this big black trooper shows up in a panic. He starts telling this story about the governor’s helicopter getting a chip light and the thing’s grounded, and he’s got a pit crew he’s supposed to pick up downtown, and he don’t know what to do, but maybe Donny could help out because his helicopter’s just sitting there. I assumed you’re the Jolly Goodwrench pit crew,” Andy added, feigning sudden doubt and suspicion to buffalo them a bit.

  “Yeah,” Possum shouted above the thud-thudding of the helicopter blades, and he managed to unfold the flag enough for Andy to make out part of a skull smoking a cigarette, and the word Jolly and part of Goodwrench. “Come on, let’s go!” Possum exclaimed.

  “Wait a minute,” Smoke said, staring menacingly at Andy. “How the fuck do you know about Jolly Goodwrench?”

  “Yeah!” Cuda agreed.

  “Because it’s on your flag,” Andy replied, pointing at it and grateful Possum had been sharp enough to unfold it just in time.

  “And I put something about Jolly Goodwrench on the NASCAR web,” Possum added an untruth to firm up the story.

  “Right,” Andy said, sending a secret signal to Possum. “I saw it.”

  Possum caught on and hid his shock. The blond guy with the ponytail wasn’t Donny Brett’s brother but Trooper Truth undercover! Trooper Truth had changed the plan! Possum had been suffering from a bad feeling that something was going to screw up at the last minute, and he was right. Otherwise, Trooper Truth wouldn’t have shown up in Donny Brett’s helicopter!

  “Listen, we can’t stand here all day talking,” Andy said loudly. “We’ve got to get off this helipad before Medflight shows up to drop off a heart for transplant surgery. So either get in, or I gotta get out of here and back to the racetrack.”