*
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CHAPTER 7

The long, scorching-hot day slowly drew to its climax as the late afternoon became early evening. At eight o'clock, the floodlights were turned on - the countless lamps installed on the ten tall poles illuminated the red clay at Thunder Park Raceway and added a layer of magic to the facility. The clear blue sky gradually gave way to the approaching night, and the first stars had already begun to twinkle toward the east.

Up on the grandstand, the many spectators flowed back to their seats as the ambient temperature finally dropped down from the smelting-vat-peak it had been at earlier. An unmistakable buzz permeated the many rows as the hands of time drew nearer to the starting point of the main event they had all come to see.

The winged sprint cars had awed the crowds in their own races, the prize-giving ceremonies for all the smaller classes had been completed and the winner of the charity raffle had been found. Wynne's entire sheet of twenty-five lottery tickets had been blanks, but she was so used to that it didn't even warrant a shrug.

A round of applause rose from the spectators as the traditional beauty pageant crowned its Miss Thunder. A nice, young lady from Parson Flats stepped forward to receive her well-deserved, glittering tiara which was a good match to her princess-pink ball gown and decorated cowboy boots. The pageant's musical accompaniment kicked off again with the all-girl marching band - the Henshaw Hi-Liters from the Barton City Engineering College - parading along the front stretch in their typical brassy, high-kicking, baton-twirling style.

At present, Wynne and Ernie were in their seats on row fourteen shoveling healthy portions of fried chicken and coleslaw into their mouths like they hadn't eaten for most of the day - which in fact they hadn't. Beers were slurped, drumsticks were gnawed, coleslaw was champed on, jokes were shared and a good time was had by all.

Mandy soon returned from a brief but thorough patrol of the grandstand. She sat down on the other side of Blackie and Goldie who had been well taken care of with plenty of cool water and various foods. When Blackie let out a brief bark, she reached over to give the black fur a little rubbing.

On the row behind them, 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins and his camouflage-clad family soon returned as well holding cans of soda and wrapped packs of burgers and fries. Senior's impressive facial hair fluttered out as he noticed the sheriff, but he ignored her on purpose and concentrated on distributing the food and the beverages among his family members.

Wynne stuffed the last piece of white meat into her mouth and scooped up the last forkful of coleslaw before she wiped her fingers on a napkin - then, she dove into the nearest cooler box for a beer. "Aw… aw-shoot… Ernie!  We be in a heap-a trubbel, buddeh!"

"Whassup?"

"We only got one Dubbel-Zerah left!"

"What?  That can't be right?" Ernie said and leaned over so he could take a peek into Wynne's cooler. Shaking his head in disbelief, he put down the cardboard tray that held the last of his coleslaw to check his own coolers. "Holy smokes, that is right… I'm all out. Rock-paper-scissors for the last one?"

"Yuh!  Yuh, ya betcha," Wynne said and rolled up her sleeves to have her hands free for the ancient game. "Hold 'em hosses, pardner… I need-a do some practice swings first, yuh?" she continued as she made several passes at forming the familiar shapes with her fist.

Mandy shook her head while she let out a brief chuckle. "You know, I can't recall the last time you guys were down to your last can of beer…"

"Lawrdie, that would be bad, yes Ma'am!  But we sure ain't at that there stage jus' yet, Sheriff Mandeh," Wynne said and reached into the cooler to pull up a square object wrapped in plastic. "We be tawkin' 'bout the last six-pack o' them Dubbel-Zerahs."

A snort and a laugh escaped Mandy; she reached up to scratch an eyebrow at the unintentionally comical sight of the dripping-wet six-pack and the solemn, extremely earnest look upon Wynne's face. "Okay. That's a load off," she deadpanned.

Down on the track, several classic convertibles began to roll out of the pits to create a grand parade of the winners of the day's many events. The recently crowned Miss Thunder sat in the lead car - a red-and-white, late-1950s Corvette - clutching a huge bouquet of flowers in one gloved hand while waving at the people in the grandstand with the other. Her broad smile and her perfect pearly whites rivalled the dazzle of the floodlights that reflected off the panels of the classic Corvette.

The track announcer introduced the various classic cars and brand-new winners as they performed their slow tour of the track, but from one beat to the next, he interrupted himself to let out an amused: 'Whoa!  What in the world?  I guess Thanksgiving must have come early this year because we have a big, fat turkey on the track in turn four!'

"They got a whut?!" Wynne said right in the middle of a rock-paper-scissors swing. Jumping to her feet, she looked down at the fourth turn to get a picture of the fowl. "Lawwwwwr-die!  That ain't no gobblin' turkeh… that be… naw… ain't no way… but yuh!  Whah, it sure is… that be ol' Artie Rains down dere!  Good shittt almighteh!"

As the spectators responded by breaking out into a wild cheer, Mandy let out a long, pained groan at the news. She had already unclipped her portable radio from her belt when it crackled to life with a 'Senior Deputy Gonza-'

For once, she had no time to adhere to proper radio procedures. Instead of waiting for Rodolfo's update, she pressed the transmit button and let out a barked: "Sheriff Jalinski to all units in the vicinity of turn four… get that fellow off the track!  On the double!  I'm on my way… ETA four minutes. Jalinski out."

Blackie saw her chance to finally get involved in the action, so she jumped to her paws, let out a few impatient barks and tore around in a fast circle to tell her owners to unclip the darn leash at once or else she'd gnaw clean through it - the German Shepherd let out a bark of relief when Wynne did as requested.

Wynne and Mandy shared a brief look of disbelief before the sheriff and Blackie took off for the staircase; the situation didn't need any words so none were exchanged. A dark chuckle escaped the Last Original Cowpoke as she turned her attention back to the unmistakable shape down on the track.

Ernie didn't want to be left out, so he got to his feet - a little slower than usual after the heat, the chicken-coleslaw meal and the copious amount of beer he had consumed - and tried to crane his neck to see down at turn four. "Dammit, I can't see anythin'… where'd ya put those binoculars?"

"They be in da duffel bag…"

Once Ernie had retrieved them, he made a sweeping pass of turn four. "Oh yeah, that's Artie, all right… man, he must be drunk as a skunk!  Look how he's rantin' and ravin'…"

A dark, muffled "Sombitch… I hope he chokes on it," escaped Wynne's throat as she crossed her legs in a huff.

---

Mandy and Blackie flew down the stairs and raced across the open square in front of the grandstand. There, they met up with Beatrice Reilly who came running from the break room over in the cinderblock building. The small team soon made it through the access gate in turn four and entered the track itself.

While the classic convertibles continued to parade around the track, Artie Rains roared out his displeasure over something. Nobody could understand what the former sheriff shouted, but there was no mistaking his attitude and body language.

Mandy, Blackie and Beatrice soon joined forces with Rodolfo and Donnie Cummins who came running from pit road. Blackie let out a series of thunderous barks that only seemed to make Artie Rains madder.

The late-fifty-something former sheriff presented a far scruffier image than in his heyday as the undisputed ruler of Goldsboro's sheriff's office. The tall, broad, heavy-set frame with the boulder-shaped belly, the wobbling double-chins and the fleshy, ruddy face was still largely intact, but the unruly hair, the week-old stubble on his cheeks and chin, and the unmistakable smells of sweat, urine, cheap booze and stale beer that hung about him proved he had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

He wore what appeared to be his old work boots and a pair of faded blue-jeans that had seen better days. A striped, short-sleeved shirt that had been buttoned crooked hung loose over his large belly while a red-white-and-blue ball cap sporting the words Proud American had been twisted to the right so the peak only covered his right eye.

As he wobbled around to face the oncoming deputies, he pulled up his right hand where he held some kind of dark object that remained obscured even under the floodlights.

Beatrice lived up to the nickname Wynne had given her by whipping up her service pistol in world-record time and aiming it at the large man. She moved sideways to her left to get a better angle before she shouted: "Drop the gun!  Drop the gun now!  You have three seconds to-"

"Ain't no stinkin' gun!" Artie roared at the top of his lungs.

Mandy drew her own pistol and moved closer to her former chief. "Whatever it is, Mr. Rains, you need to drop it right now or we will open fire!"

Artie Rains blinked several times to penetrate the hazy conditions in his mind; once he had identified the person who had talked to him, he broke out in a nasty, drunken laugh. "Hell, if it ain't Manly!  Didn't I tell you it was a shitty job?  You want this piece of crap?  You can frickin' have it!" he shouted and threw the object onto the ground; it bounced several times and eventually rolled into a better light.

When it turned out to be a half-eaten frankfurter sausage, Mandy let out a deep sigh and signaled Beatrice and Rodolfo to back off a few feet. She lowered her weapon but kept it ready just in case. "Mr. Rains, you are being detained-"

"Finally someone showin' me the Goddamned respect that I deserve!" Artie roared at the top of his lungs. "And who is it but Manly… yeah, the same Goddamned deputy who wouldn't have amounted to a hill of Goddamned Mexi-beans if I hadn't taken her under my wings!"

Rodolfo and Beatrice squirmed at the former sheriff's words, but it was nothing Mandy hadn't heard before so she remained cool. "Sir, you've had your say," she said as she holstered her pistol. Moving in a fluid motion, she reached behind her, unbuttoned the pouch for the handcuffs and pulled them out. "You are being detained for entering the track without permission. Cuffs or no cuffs… that's up to you."

Rains let out another dark chuckle, but his volume had already come down from the mountain top it had been at. "Yeah, all right," he said as he began to shuffle off toward the turn four access gate the deputies had used. After a few paces, he broke out in a one-sided shrug. "Someone probably needs to go out and check up on that fella at the junk food stand… whatshisname… A.J. something."

"A.J. Lane?"

"Yeah. Slow Lane. Workin' for Moira. I guess I smacked him but good when the hot dog I bought turned out to be Goddamned raw inside," Rains continued in a voice that grew more slurred as the alcohol in his system took over from the fiery rage he had been in. Dragging his feet, it looked as if he was about to keel over, but he shoved Beatrice's hands off him when she tried to help.

Mandy sighed again and reached for her portable radio. "Sheriff Jalinski to Deputy Simms. Sheriff Jalinski to Deputy Simms. Over."

While she waited for Barry to reply, she glanced down at the gnarly, half-eaten frankfurter - it couldn't remain on the track, but she didn't have anything she could wrap around it so it could be carried over to a trash can. The mess was taken care of soon after when one of the track workers came over with a shovel and scooped up the errant sausage.

'Deputy Simms ready to receive. Over.'

"Deputy, I need you to go over to one of the fast food stands and check up on Mr. Anthony Joseph Lane. We have reason to believe he's been involved and possibly injured in a fistfight, over."

'Slow Lane?!  In a fight?  Even I can beat that wimp!  It couldn't have- uh, I mean… yes, Sheriff. I'll get right on it. Deputy Simms out.'

While Beatrice and Rodolfo guided the drunken Artie Rains off the track and through the access gate, Mandy turned around to look at the grandstand. She had only just realized the odd background noise didn't come from the pits or the classic cars parading the track, but the spectators who all clapped, cheered and whistled at the improvised stunt show.

Grunting, she turned around and followed the others off the track.

---

In the middle of the clapping and cheering, Ernie and Wynne both wore dark, gloomy expressions. Ernie let out a grunt and cracked open a Centennial Brew. "I don't care if he did disgrace himself that time… he may be a tough S.O.B., but he was the law in our town for years. Why?  'Cos people wanted him and voted for him. Okay, so he got drunk tonight and made a fool of himself… big deal. We've all done that. These folks here ought to show him some damned respect," he said - mostly to himself - before he took a long swig of the beer.

Wynne let out a sigh. She didn't want to argue with Ernie on something as trivial and utterly irrelevant as Artie Rains, especially not during Ernie's last weekend in Goldsboro, but it was no secret she was on the opposite side of the proverbial fence when it came to the former sheriff. Shrugging, she dug into the cooler box at her feet to scoop up some ice cubes for herself and fresh water for Goldie.

-*-*-*-

The sight of the visibly drunk Artie Rains being escorted to the detention center was reserved for the few as most people had returned to the grandstand by then. The scattered groups of spectators who were present all appeared to be stunned into silence, save for the inevitable exceptions here and there who never wasted an opportunity to yell various slurs at the upholders of the law.

Incapable of walking straight for more than two steps at a time, it took the former sheriff longer than expected to get to the holding cells. Everyone among the team of past and present law enforcement officers was silent save for the crackle and chatter from the radios and the rapid panting that emanated from Blackie - it had the look and feel of a funeral procession.

They finally reached the cinderblock buildings. While Beatrice Reilly unlocked the outer door to the holding cells and alerted the security guard on duty that he would soon get a VIP guest, Mandy kept an eye on her former chief.

A dark mask fell over her face as she took in the sorry sight of his five-day stubble, his watery, blood-shot eyes, his unwashed clothes and the unfortunate concoction of rancid smells that hovered around him.

Never among the best looking of men - even in his slimmest heyday - Artie Rains had deteriorated into a haggard, crude caricature of his former self. The last time she had had any business with him was in February; he'd still been his old, nasty, larger-than-life self then so it was obvious something major had happened in the meantime.

While under close scrutiny from the deputies and Blackie, Rains staggered over to the nearest wall and put his hand on the cinderblocks. He glanced at the other people there to try to establish eye contact, but the level of his intoxication meant he didn't see much.

The radio on Mandy's belt crackled to life with a 'Deputy Simms to Sheriff Jalinski. Deputy Simms to Sheriff Jalinski, over.'

Sighing, she unclipped it and pressed the button. "Sheriff Jalinski ready to receive. Go ahead, deputy. Over."

'I found and spoke to Slow- I mean, Mr. Lane. He was still at the hot dog stand. I can confirm he's been involved in a fight with none other than Artie Rains. A.J. has a bloody nose, a busted lip and a split eyebrow… I'll bet he'll be black and blue for days. Oh, and he's still being tended to by one of the track's first-aid guys, over.'

"Message received, Deputy. Please ask Mr. Lane if he wants to press charges against Mr. Rains, over."

'Stand by, Sheriff.'

"Sheriff Jalinski standing by."

Over by the wall, Artie let out a sigh and rubbed his fleshy face with the hand that had held the hot dog at the center of the whole mess - the gesture transferred all the typical elements like ketchup and greasy residue to his pock-marked forehead, ruddy cheeks and wobbling double-chins.

It was obvious he hadn't noticed, so Mandy let out another sigh. "Deputy Reilly, please give Mr. Rains a couple of napkins so he can wipe that crap off his face. He's been humiliated enough tonight."

"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said and hurried inside the crew quarters to carry out the sheriff's wishes - Blackie got up and followed the deputy though they weren't the best of friends.

'Deputy Simms to Sheriff Jalinski, over.'

"Go ahead, Deputy."

'A.J. has suffered some tooth damage as well, so he wants to press charges. Over.'

"Very well. Good work, Deputy. Sheriff Jalinski out," Mandy said and put the radio back on the belt.

Artie Rains let out a muffled "You dumbass sonovabitch," directed at himself rather than A.J. 'Slow' Lane. He capped off the profanity by thumping his forehead against the cinderblock wall like it would help - all it did was to transfer some of the sticky residue onto the surface.

Beatrice soon returned with a stack of napkins; Rains stared at them like he had no idea why that particular event had happened. "For your hands and face, Sir. You have ketchup and stuff all over."

A long sigh escaped Rains as he grabbed the napkins and wiped himself down as much as he could.

"All right," Mandy said, stepping forward, "let's get Mr. Rains inside so he can be logged."

---

Once the former sheriff had kicked off his boots, he sat down on the bunk in the sparsely furnished holding cell. Leaning forward, he briefly buried his face in his hands before he stared at the other items in there: a toilet, two rolls of toilet paper, a wash basin and a light fixture installed in the ceiling.

Some joker had doodled various lewd bits and pieces on the walls, the toilet's cistern leaked, and the smell from the sewer pipe that ran underneath the building was ever-present - all in all, it wasn't the world's coziest place. Shrugging, Artie Rains swung his legs up in the bunk and made himself comfortable.

Mandy stood in the doorway observing it all. Her boots were firmly planted on the floor, she had her arms crossed over her chest, and a dark, glum look tainted her face.

The former colleagues briefly locked eyes; it prompted Artie Rains to let out a bitter chuckle. "My wife left me. She wrote a letter and put it on my pillow… can you believe that crap?  Pathetic. One day I was in town, Velma just threw the kids into the station wagon and took off to God knows where."

"I'm sorry to hear-"

"The hell you are, Manly. You don't give a shit."

"No. But it does explain a lot."

Another bitter chuckle escaped the former sheriff. "Yeah, well… the first three days, I couldn't even find the Goddamned can opener. And when I did find it, the piece of shit didn't do me any good 'cos I can't cook worth a damn. When I ran out of TV dinners, I called Derrike to ask if he had a guest room or something I could crash in. He did, so that's where I've been staying ever since. He can cook, so… crap, it's so Goddamned pathetic."

Mandy knew she couldn't think of anything to counter that statement so she didn't even try. Instead, she moved her hands down onto her hips to present an even more imposing figure. "Mr. Rains, if you need anything, just call for the guard."

"Yeah, all right. Get lost, Manly. I hate somebody being around when I sleep."

Grunting, Mandy took a step back and closed the reinforced cell door. Once she and the guard on duty had secured the two locks, she left the detention center behind to go next door.

-*-*-*-

Stepping into the cinderblock building that housed the guards' break room, Mandy strode over to the coffee machine as the first thing she did even though no less than five pairs of eyes stared at her - Barry, Rodolfo, Beatrice, Donnie Cummins and Blackie.

The German Shepherd got to her paws and ran over to her owner. She sat down once more with a look of grand expectation on her doggy face that told a story of being ready for more action.

Someone had been by with a mixed tray of wrapped sandwiches, subs and similar bread products, so Mandy grabbed herself a tray and a couple of napkins before she took a plate and chose the largest remaining sandwich. "I hope you're not expecting any words of wisdom tonight. I'm all out," she said before she moved over to the break room's couch to put the tray on the seat next to where she intended to sit.

The din rose once more between the deputies who returned to the topics they had been discussing when the sheriff had entered. One name was repeated more than once - Artie Rains.

Sighing, Mandy returned to the coffee machine where she found a clean mug, poured plenty of the vital booster-beverage into it and returned to the couch. Her purposeful stride and glum look proved she wanted to be left alone and not get involved in any kind of discussion, debate or exchange of opinions.

Blackie shot everyone a puzzled look before she let out a muted bark that meant 'Now what?  Weren't we supposed to chase down and nibble on a few bad people?' When nobody responded to the bark or the question, the black dog shuffled over to lie down at her owner's feet.

Mandy had barely taken the first sip of the steaming-hot coffee when a loud and insistent "Oh, what the hell is this crap?" escaped her. She sent a withering glare down into the pitch-black liquid that was so strong it was nigh-on undrinkable - even the smell that rose from the mug could be used to strip old paint off any wall. "Who's the blockhead who made this?"

"Ah," Donnie said, "that would be one of my guys."

Mandy sniffed the high-grade rocket fuel one more time before she pushed it away for good. "Yeah?  Fire him."

"Ah… yes, Ma'am."

"I'll make a fresh pot, Sheriff," Beatrice said and quickly moved over to the coffee machine to start over.

Already annoyed after the recent events, having her hopes of getting some much-needed caffeine into her system ruined in such a fashion was the last straw - when the clingfilm that protected the sandwich took it upon itself to act contrary for no good reason, she merely tore it off with her teeth so she could get to the good stuff inside.

Down at Mandy's feet, Blackie broke out in an approving nod at the sight - she always used her teeth for everything, and she was pleased to see that one of her owners wasn't afraid of trying something new.

---

Mandy glanced at her deputies and the track's security guards while she ate. Beatrice had never served under Artie Rains, and Donnie Cummins only knew him from around town, but Barry and Rodolfo had both spent several years under Rains' yoke. Barry had always been a special case in everything he had ever done or attempted to do - like at present where he smoked like a chimney while his uniform had turned pale-gray from all the ash he had dropped on it - but Rodolfo had been a diamond in the rough even in his years as Goldsboro's junior deputy.

The Mexican-American with the movie-star looks and the suave personality had 'sheriff' written all over him, Mandy was certain of that. She predicted she could only hold onto him for two or three more years at the most which wasn't a happy prospect - she might even need to go up against him in one of the future elections for the post in Goldsboro. It would probably not be the one scheduled for the following year, but the next election after that was almost a dead cert.

Still, Artie Rains had nearly succeeded in leading the young Rodolfo astray around the time when Mandy had transferred into the supposedly peaceful Goldsboro office from the mean streets of San Cristobal. The uninhibited boozing on the job and the all-night high-stakes poker games around the table in the back of the sheriff's office were legendary, as was the blatant disregard of the letter of the law when it came to Sheriff Rains' pals - not to mention the frequent human rights violations for anyone who didn't belong to that select group.

Mandy sighed once more as she took another bite of the sandwich. It wasn't as fresh as it had looked, but at least it provided some nourishment for her empty stomach and her tired mind.

The advanced coffee machine sent out an electronic ding! that proved it was ready. Mandy was over there in nothing flat and poured herself a new mugful - this time, she sniffed the contents beforehand to make sure it wasn't the machine that ruined the product. Everything smelled like it should, so she took a long swig of the steaming-hot beverage to boost the level of caffeine in her bloodstream.

Though the ambient temperature had reached for the top of the thermometer all day, it was still a blessing to drink some hot coffee, and she allowed herself a brief smile of gratitude. "Thank you, Deputy Reilly. This is just right," she said before she grabbed an extra sandwich and brought that and the mug back to the couch.

"You're welcome, Sheriff," Beatrice said, already on her way back to the coffee machine to get herself a mugful.

After Mandy returned to the couch, she put the tray across her lap to make it easier to really get down to business - the rest of the half-eaten sandwich was soon wolfed down with perfect assistance by the coffee. Once that had disappeared, she tore the clingfilm off the second one and resumed her vigorous chewing.

---

"Senior Deputy Gonzalez?" she said five minutes later after using a napkin to wipe the last traces of the sour cream sauce off her fingers.

Rodolfo sat at the other table reading an old magazine and sipping a mug of coffee; he looked up at once when spoken to. "Yes, Sheriff?"

"I need a word regarding Mr. Rains."

"Very well," the senior deputy said and promptly pushed the chair back. After folding up the magazine, he put it back where he had found it, grabbed his nearly full mug and went over to the couch.

Mandy took the last swig of her coffee before she dabbed her lips on the napkin. The tray and all the other items were soon put down on the floor so they were out of the way - Blackie took an interest in it, but soon shied back from the bitter smell emanating from the mug.

"Deputy Simms, Deputy Reilly," Mandy continued. "It's time for a patrol. The main event must be underway now so concentrate on the main grandstand."

"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said and got up in a hurry. She donned her Mountie hat and stuck her arms down her uniform jacket. Once it had been zipped, she adjusted it twice to get everything lined up according to the uniform dress code.

Barry got up a little slower compared to his younger colleague. After hacking and coughing a couple of times, he lit a new cigarette with the embers of the old one and stubbed out the butt in an overfilled ashtray. Standing up straight, he brushed what had to be seven pounds of ash off his uniform shirt, adjusted his utility belt and yanked up his pants - the weight of the service sidearm insisted on pulling them down - before he shuffled off toward the exit.

"Hey, Barry," Donnie Cummins said and took the item left on the table where the messy deputy had been sitting, "didn't you forget something?" Once the chief of security was sure he had Barry's attention, he let the Mountie hat fly through the air like a Frisbee.

Barry did in fact try to catch the flying hat, but his athletic skills weren't up to snuff so it sailed straight past him and bumped against the room's far wall. "Watch it, Donnie!  I have to pay for that myself!" he said in an uncharacteristic growl as he bent over to grab the hat. It was given a close inspection before he put it on to at least look the part.

By now, Beatrice's eyes had already examined the ceiling several times. "Will you get a move on?  You heard the sheriff!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah… keep your damn shorts on, rookie," Barry mumbled as he and Beatrice Reilly left the crew room.

Mandy chuckled at the bickering; although it could be disruptive if taken too far, the level it was at meant it was harmless. Donnie Cummins chose to leave to talk some sense into the security guard who had made the horrible coffee, so the sheriff and the senior deputy were alone before long.

Rodolfo took a moment to say hello to Blackie, but soon leaned back on the couch and assumed an attentive expression.

The experienced members of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department looked at each other for a brief moment before Mandy let out a sigh. "Rodolfo, I don't know what the hell to do about Artie Rains. Neither of us have much sympathy for him, and justifiably so. We've both been on the receiving end of his bile often enough. But he's a former colleague… you might even say a brother in uniform though that scarcely applies here… who's headed for the gutter if he isn't there already. Part of me feels that we have an obligation to help him."

"He wouldn't raise a finger to help either one of us if we ever got in trouble."

"I'm aware of that. But does that mean we should stoop to his level?"

Rodolfo drew a deep breath and shook his head slightly. "I don't know, Sheriff. He was involved in too much tonight to let it slide."

"I'm not talking about letting him off the hook. No. The track invasion itself will only result in a fine for trespassing, but the assault on Mr. Lane is something else entirely. He'll have to go before the county judge for that one. Rains chose to let his fists do the talking… now he'll have to deal with the consequences."

"Okay…" Furrowing his brow, Rodolfo leaned back so he could cross his legs. "In that case, I'm not sure what you had in mind."

Mandy let out a deep sigh and ran her fingers through her hair in the hope it would speed up the thought process. "I'm going to call headquarters tomorrow… no, make that Monday… and talk to the union representative. I seem to recall hearing about some kind of support scheme or program to help law enforcement officers who end up in a situation of substance abuse."

"Mmmm… I believe it's only for deputies."

"Oh?  All right. If that's the case, I'll look at other options. I still feel we need to do something."

Rodolfo cocked his head while he looked at his sheriff. A few moments went by before he performed a non-committal shrug. "Maybe we do, but I'm willing to bet that Artie Rains is much too proud to accept help from anyone… much less us."

"That could certainly be true… however, when I spoke to him before, I sensed that he may be about to realize it can't go on like this."

The radios crackling to life made Blackie perk up; Mandy let out another sigh instead. Reaching behind her, she unclipped the portable unit and held it ready.

'Deputy Reilly to Sheriff Jalinski. Deputy Reilly to Sheriff Jalinski, over.'

"Sheriff Jalinski ready to receive. Go ahead, Deputy. Over."

'Sections two and three are calm. Proceeding to section four. Over.'

"Very well, Deputy. Sheriff Jalinski out."

The radio message had acted as a good break from the discussion. Taking and donning her Mountie hat, Mandy got up from the couch and put her hands on her hips - the gesture meant the senior deputy and Blackie both rose.

"I've made up my mind, Rodolfo. I'll go with my gut and try to help Artie Rains. If he turns out to be so pig-headed he refuses any kind of support, so be it. But we need to try. All right?"

"Of course, Sheriff. That's your call. Personally, I can't see him ever accepting help, but… well, who knows what's going on in his fat head."

Mandy let out a dark chuckle at the undeniable truth to Rodolfo's statement. "Very true. All right, I'll head out on patrol-"

Hearing the 'P'-word made Blackie jump to her paws, let out a happy bark and do a little shimmy-shake to get all the sleepiness out.

"-as well," Mandy continued as she moved over to the front door. "With Simms and Reilly taking care of the grandstand, Blackie and I will go over to the infield. The parties there tend to get out of hand. I'll be in touch."

"Yes, Sheriff," Rodolfo said and shuffled over to the coffee machine to pour himself a mugful. Once he was alone, he made a beeline for the table and the old magazine he had been reading earlier.

-*-*-*-

The colorful field of noisy, potent race cars followed the pace car along the back straight. The small accident that had brought out the caution flag on lap 27 had been cleaned up, and the remaining cars were in a neat two-by-two formation as they prepared to take the green flag for the next blast of the dirt stocker finals.

As the cars came around turn three and entered turn four, the pace car sped up and peeled off into pit road. The thousands of spectators in the grandstand all got to their feet in the hope of seeing some fireworks in turn one - when the flagman let the green cloth flutter, hundreds of flashes went off as everyone snapped photos of the cars racing onto the front straight.

A long sequence of 'Comin' thru!  Comin' thru!  Haw, I sure be sorreh, Ma'am… I didden know them drah docks wus yer feet an' all… comin' thru!  Wynne Donnah-hew comin' thru!  Y'all bettah watch that there ih-ce cream coah-ne, son, 'cos I'mma-gonn' be plenteh upset if aneh o' that stickeh stuff gonn' get on mah jeans!  Comin' thru!  Comin' thru!' was heard from further down the row.

Wynne made it back to her seat just in time to see the cars fly across the start/finish line after the first lap under green. "Haw!  I done made it!  I sure got a li'l worried there fer a mo' when I done heard them engines roarin', but it wussen too bad all in all. Anehthin' excitin' happen while I wus down at the johns?"

"Not really," Ernie said, holding the ubiquitous can of H.E. Fenwyck's finest. "The twelve-car called it quits… it had the hood up for a few minutes or so before they pushed it behind the wall. The fifty-four had a flat and lost a lap or two gettin' it fixed. The yellow we've just come back from lasted a handful of laps."

"Fer a wreck or som'tin?"

"Yeah, but only a little one. Car number… uh… something looped it going into turn three. The fender got knocked in but it wasn't a big deal."

"Okeh… howdy, Goldie!  Y'all miss me?" Wynne said and pulled the Golden Retriever in for a good hug - the dog responded by licking Wynne's hand and arm. "Y'all thi'steh or som'tin?  I sure is," she continued as she dug into the cooler for the bottle of water she had brought for the dogs.

An "Ooooooh!" that rose from the spectators made Wynne look away just as she poured the water into the drinking bowl. As a result, it splashed over the edges which made Goldie let out a strong Yap-Yap-Yap! that meant 'You really need to concentrate a little harder when you're feeding me, thankyouvverymuch!'

"Whut I miss?  Whut I miss?!" Wynne said and whipped her head back and forth to find any kind of action on the track that could have produced the outburst.

"Nothin'. Just a little fender-bangin' down the field," Ernie said and pointed at two cars that were still nose-to-tail coming onto the front straight.

An old-style Buick Regal carrying number 47 and a Ford Taurus with number 16 on the side continued their tussle going into turn one, but the Ford soon pulled away from the other vehicle - Ernie responded by letting out a whoop and whipping off his Built Ford Tough baseball cap so he could wave it around.

A couple of green-flag laps went by before the next drama struck on lap 35: the number 22 Pontiac Grand Prix caught a rut in turn two and jerked out of the racing groove. The driver spun the wheel in every direction to stay away from the outside retaining wall, but the wall won that particular contest by pulling the Pontiac into it with a side-swiping bang-rattle-rattle-crunch that overpowered the racing engines. The impact snapped the toe-link on the right front which sent the car skidding back into the traffic despite the driver's best efforts to keep it up against the wall.

The spectators all responded by uttering another "Oooooooooooooh!" and jumping to their feet - Ernie and Wynne did so as well. Two seconds later, the little fellow on the row behind them broke out in a wild wail at the exact same moment as the track official at the start/finish line waved the yellow caution flag.

Wynne groaned out loud as she looked over her shoulder. 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins in all his facial-haired and camouflaged glory was already on its way up to complain about the fact that his kid's view had been blocked all over again, but she decided to beat him to the punch: "Whah'dahell ain't li'l Juniah sittin' on yer lap or som'tin, Mistah?  Wudden he be able ta see bettah from theah?"

"Butt out and siddown!" 'Tommy-Gun' barked.

"Yuh, yuh, yuh… Merceh Sakes, Mistah," Wynne said as she sat down once more. "Ain't nuttin' ta see now, anyhows. Them wreckers gonn' pick up that there Pontiac perdeh dog-gone soon. Or I hope so, anyhows… we need-a get back ta some o' that there propah racin'," she continued as she dug into the cooler to get a beer. She groaned out loud for the second time in as many minutes when she realized she was all out of nectar.

The relief came a second later when Ernie handed her a can of Dark Lager. She looked at the can, licked her lips, looked at the can again, checked the time on her telephone, licked her lips, looked at the can for a third time - and handed it back to her friend. "Much obliged, Ernie, ol' buddeh… but it ain't gonn' be long befo' we gonn' be drivin' hoah-me, so I bettah stick ta them easeh ones from now on. I know that mean, ol' Quick Draw Bea too dog-gone well bah now. She gonn' be waitin' fer mah truck down bah them exit gates fer sure. Hell, I can taste that there breathalyzah-wotsit on mah lips alreddeh."

"Suit yourself," Ernie said and cracked open the Dark Lager at once.

"Yuh… so… we got aneh Dubbel Zerahs left?"

"Nope."

"Aw-shoot. Well… a principle iz a principle, yuh?  Even if they be painful an' all, a dah-me gotta stick ta her principles. Yuh," she said and slapped her palms together to underscore her words. A few moments went by before she let out a deep sigh at the unfairness of it all. "I guess I'mma-gonn' have some ice cubes, then," she continued as she dug into her own cooler for a handful of the cool treats.

As Wynne had predicted, it wasn't long before the wrecker team had dragged the buckled 22-car off the track and into the garages. The pace car brought the field down to a safe speed on the back straight to prepare for yet another restart.

"Annnnnnnnnnn' he' we go ag'in!  Let'em roah!" Wynne cried - she waved her battered, old cowboy hat for all it was worth as the remaining field took the green flag and blasted into turn one.

Her eyes darted from one race car to the next until she found Phyllis' number 84 Lumina. The EverFresh machine was sitting pretty in fifth place with a full set of straight sheet metal; Phyllis had deliberately stayed out of close-quarters action during the first 38 laps to be sure to be near - or at - the front for when the important points and prizes would be handed out.

"Yeeeee-haaawwww!  Go'ah, goa'h, go'ah, eighty-foah!  Hey, dat rhymes!" Wynne said and let out a loud belly laugh that sent the little kid behind her into a wailing frenzy. This time, she couldn't even be bothered to look.

"Forty-two laps to go… and it's a Ford one-two-four," Ernie said with a grin as he emptied the Dark Lager and a cracked open a Midnight Velvet stout in a single, fluid motion.

The pssshhhht! made Wynne scrunch up her face and cast a longing look at the black can. A principle was a principle, however, so she took another ice cube instead and pretended it was a brand-new type of beer she hadn't tried yet.

---

The lap counter continued to click down toward zero and the subsequent fluttering of the checkered flag. Wynne - who only had eyes for the car numbers on the huge, electronic scoreboard opposite the grandstand - had yet to compute that the smaller number on the left of the scoreboard did in fact show how many laps remained.

She tried to keep track of where they were in the race using her fingers, but she was lost without the aid of Ernie who was away on a pit stop of his own. "Aw, dang-blasted… it don't mattah, anyhows," she mumbled as she lost count for the umpteenth time.

Goldie had moved onto the bench next to Wynne, and the dog tried to make her owner notice the ever-decreasing number on the left of the scoreboard by pointing a paw at it - Wynne kept sucking on an ice cube and didn't notice a thing, much to the Golden Retriever's frustration.

Down on the track, Phyllis O'Connell seemed to know exactly how many laps were left. Her number 84 EverFresh Fighting Spirit Chevrolet Lumina had moved up into a solid second place ten car-lengths or so behind the leading racer which happened to be the number 24 Quint Corp. Oils & Lubricants Ford Thunderbird.

The laps continued to click off; Wynne was unable to wrest her eyes away from the colorful spectacle on the track. Phyllis drew ever closer to the Ford in front until she was within striking distance going into turn three. She backed out of it to allow the 24-car a clean run through the corner and onto the front straight.

Commotion to Wynne's left proved to be Ernie who hurried back to the seat. As he sat down with a heavy bump, he let out a groan and a: "How the hell did that happen?  Went I went down to the john, the twenty-four-car was a full straightaway ahead!"

"Aw, ol' Phyl jus' putta hammah down. She be in fih-ne form tani'te 's all," Wynne said without taking her eyes off the action. "Anyhows, I need yer help, buddeh… I ain't got a dang-blasted clue how maneh laps be left an' it be drivin' me ca-razeh, I'm tellin'-"

"Seventeen."

"Whut?!  Howindahell can ya-"

"It's showing right there on the scoreboard, Wynne. I told you that already," Ernie said and took a long swig.

"I be perdeh dog-gone sure y'all didden tell me nuttin' o' the kind!"

"Sure I did."

Wynne scratched her neck a couple of times as she looked at the scoreboard. "Yuh?  Okeh… well… whe' that there li'l buggah at, then?  I don't see nuttin' but them racin' posi-shuns an 'all…"

"It's the number on the far left," Ernie said and pointed at the smaller set of digits on the left of the huge electronic wall opposite where they sat.

While a long, annoyed groan escaped Wynne's throat, Goldie let out a few equally annoyed yaps to let the world know the fact that she had said the exact same thing ages ago.

---

The seventeen remaining laps soon became fifteen, then twelve, then ten. Phyllis hadn't let up in her dogged pursuit of the 24-car, but the driver of the Quint Corp. T-bird was no slouch as he resisted her every move lap in and lap out.

As was so often the case at the end of the longer races, the top drivers had left the rest of the field behind; although the other competitors were still racing hard - including a three-car melee for fourth place - everyone's eyes were on the Lumina and the T-bird as they battled all around the track.

"Haw, this he' racin' is som'tin awesum', lemme tell ya!" Wynne cried as the two closely-matched cars thundered past the start/finish-line once more.

One of the cars at the lower end of the top ten began to send out puffs of pale-gray oil smoke with eight laps to go, but the driver noticed at once and peeled off into the pits to avoid messing up the track for everyone else.

"When ya reckon ol' Phyl gonn' honk da chrome horn?" Wynne said without taking her eyes off the action.

"Two to go."

"Yuh, prolleh."

"That twenty-four car is goin' great, though… I don't think she can do it. Man, I can't believe I'm cheerin' for someone with a twenty-four on the side!" Ernie said and shook his head.

Wynne snickered and dove her hand into the cooler box to get a beer to wet her whistle - the snicker turned into a groan when she remembered she was all out. There were plenty of ice left, but it had lost its luster given the excitement down on the track.

---

"Two ta go'ah!" Wynne cried as the flagman held up two fingers to the leading cars racing past him. "Hawwwww, is she gonn' trah?  Is she gonn'- yuh, he' she comes!  He' she comes!  Jerkin' left an' movin' up da insihhhhh-de… quartah panel!  We gonn' see a bump 'n ruhhhh-n ain't we?  Oooooooh, he' it comes…"

The right front of Phyllis' Lumina leaned hard against the left-rear quarter panel of the number 24 T-Bird, but the other driver kept squeezing her further and further toward the loose on the inside of the corner. Driving smart, Phyllis bailed out of the mess and fell back behind the Ford's rear bumper all the way down the back straight.

Going into turn three, she didn't brake as hard as the driver in front which caused her bumper to thump into the other car's rear. It caused the Ford to wiggle-waggle for a few yards until the driver had it back under control - but by then, Phyllis had drawn alongside her opposition moving into turn four.

"Chroah-me hoooooooah-rn!  Tole ya she wus gonn' do it!" Wynne cried and waved her hat.

All around Wynne and Ernie, the spectators jumped to on their feet hooting and hollering at the classic stock-car showdown. When Phyllis inched ahead coming to the stripe, everyone let out a loud "Oooooooooh!" that nearly drowned out the race cars.

Wynne didn't want to miss a beat so she jumped up as well. "Haw-yuh!  White flag!  One lap ta go'ah sponsahr'd bah da Foot-Onda-Floah Comp'neh!  She be glued ta da insih-de offa track there… watch that there loose dirt there… yuh, she done lissened ta me!  Haw!  Sihhh-de-by-sihhh-de thru' turn one… an' two… an' onta da back straightaway-"

"We already have one track announcer, Wynne," Ernie said and let out a loud laugh at his friend's unbridled enthusiasm.

"Awwww!  They be bumpin' an' bangin' an' pushin' an' shovin' goin' thru' three theah… good shittt almighteh, them folks be sihhhhh-deways around that cornah there… go'ah, go'ah, go'ah, Chevrolet!"

"Go Foooooooooord!" Ernie yelled; he whipped off his Built Ford Tough cap and waved it just as vigorously as Wynne's cowboy hat.

Behind them, the son of 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins wailed his lungs out all over again, but his father paid attention for once and hoisted the little one onto his shoulders so he'd be able to see.

Wynne drew a deep breath to let out a hollered "Comin' ta da checkah'd… an'- an'- an'- an' ol' Phyl done won it!  Yessirree!  Bah half a cah-r!  Awri'te, awri'te, awrihhhhhh'te… Chevrolet wins!" at the top of her lungs while she jumped up and down, kicked out and pumped her fist two dozen times in a very short timespan.

Ernie let out a sigh, plonked his cap back onto his dark locks and sat down with a bump. To console himself, he reached into the cooler box to find a beer. A wide grin spread over his face when he found a Centennial Brew at the first time of asking.

On the bench, Goldie - ever the scaredy-dog - had rolled herself up into a golden furball just to be on the safe side given that she was surrounded by rampant human madness.

Even the Atkins family whooped, cheered and danced around as the result they had come to see was delivered with a neat, EverFresh-colored bow tie. The littlest Atkins was soon put back on the bench so 'Tommy-Gun' could hug his fierce-looking wife and give her butt cheeks a huge, double-handed squeeze.

Phyllis celebrated her victory by making a slow lap of the track. After pulling down the safety net on the driver's side window, she waved at the cheering crowd all the way around Thunder Park. A couple of opponents gave her Lumina slight bumps as they went past her like a vehicular thumbs-up, but it was all surprisingly well-behaved considering the rock-hard racing that had taken place.

Wynne's hooting and hollering eventually ran out of steam, and she bumped back onto the cushion. "Lawwwwwwr-die, wussen dat som'tin?  Holeh shittt, that wus theeeee best racin' ac-shun I done seen in real lih-fe since I ain't sure when. Yessir, that wus nuttin' short o' awesum'," she said as she slapped her palms onto her thighs. Grinning like a maniac, she picked up the binoculars to take in as much as she could of the post-race activity down on pit road.

Track officials guided the cars that had finished down the order, or perhaps even been lapped, through an access gate and into the paddock itself. When Phyllis' number 84 Lumina arrived, she was led over to victory lane and the winner's circle where the interviews with the track announcer and the radio people would be conducted.

Wynne rubbed her bone-dry lips several times. "Shoot, I could chug a beah som'tin fierce," she mumbled before she turned to look at her dear friend. "Say, Ernie, ol' buddeh… ya sure ya ain't got none o' them there Dubbel Zerahs left?"

"Yup. I'm all out."

"Dang."

"I have plenty of other beers."

"Naw. Them principles, yuh?  Them principles… aw, but I s'pose I could… naw. Quick Draw gonn' bust mah bee-hind. An' then Sheriff Mandeh realleh gonn' bust mah bee-hind. Naw. That ain't gonn' happen, nosirree. Naw. But hot-dang, I could chug down a wet som'tin-or-othah in nuttin' flat!  Y'all got aneh soda pops in that thing?"

Ernie drew a deep, horrified gasp before he broke out in a loud laugh. "After all these years, you're askin' me if I got any soda pops?!  Why, that's an insult!"

Wynne blinked a couple of times before she planted an elbow on her thigh and propped her head up on her arm. "Yuh, Ah dunno whaddahell Ah wus thinking…"

Sometimes, salvation comes in the unlikeliest of shapes. For Wynne Donohue, the saving grace turned out to be the camouflage-wearing, boulder-bellied, facial-haired and short-tempered 'Tommy-Gun' Atkins, Sr. who leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder. "Sorry for buttin' in, but ya said y'all wanted a soda pop?"

" 's right, Mistah. Got aneh I could bah or som'tin?" Wynne said as she turned around.

"I have a Frizzie's Cherry Cola you can have for free," 'Tommy-Gun' said and produced a black-and-red can that was still dripping wet after having spent the entire day buried in crushed ice in their cooler box.

"Whah, much obliged, Mistah!  A-yup, this he' evenin' gonn' have a nih-ce endin' aftah all!" Wynne said and took the can. It was soon opened with the usual fanfare and chugged down in no time flat. A Frizzie's soda pop is, was and will always be a Frizzie's soda pop, so five seconds later, a lengthy, near-symphonic and certainly resounding belch burst out of her that rolled around the concrete grandstand until it dissipated into the night-time sky. "Lawwwwwwwwwr-die… 'beg pardon!  Them Freeh-zeehs brewereh folks gotta own a bubble fact'reh or som'tin 'cos they sure put plentah off'em inta them there soda pops o' theirs!  Holeh smokes…" Wynne said as she stared at the can.

Given that the Frizzie's Cherry Cola was in fact a quality product, Wynne soon chugged down the rest of it - with inevitable results.

-*-*-*-

A few minutes later, Phyllis' familiar voice rang out over the track's tinny public address system as she was being interviewed by the track announcer. The happy noises that rose from her mechanics in the background nearly drowned her out at first, but the announcer stuck the microphone closer to her mouth so everyone could hear from the popular winner.

'Hey, Champ, congratulations on winning the EverFresh Two-Fifty.'

'Yeah, thanks… thank you. Hello everyone out there!' Phyllis said; her voice was met by a loud cheer from the grandstand. 'Yeah, the EverFresh Fighting Spirit Chevrolet Lumina ran like a moon rocket all evening… well, except for that little hiccup you all saw, but my guys and gals took care of that in record time. No problem.'

'Phyl, that's three victories in the six races so far this year. Looks like you're on the fast track for a repeat.'

'Yeah… yeah. Keep talkin',' Phyllis said and let out a grin that made the spectators cheer again.

'You had a pushing and shoving match with the twenty-four car-'

'No, that was racin', man!' - Phyllis' comment sent the spectators into a wild cheer.

'But will he see it differently?'

'No. I can't imagine he will. He's been around long enough. If the situation had been the other way around, he'd have done the exact same thing to me.'

Phyllis and the track announcer fell silent for a short moment while the official photographer snapped a series of pictures of the winner wearing different caps to satisfy all the sponsors.

'Champ, at this point last year, you got stuck in a rut for a string of races… the results just didn't come until the final third of the season started at Johnstown Speedway-'

'Thanks for reminding me!  Maybe so, but we haven't looked back since. That rut was caused by a couple of things that are all in the past. We're not running too far ahead of ourselves this year, and with the help of our partners EverFresh Fighting Spirit and Winning Formula, R.D. Samson Oils & Lubricants, StockPro Shocks, Tuff Krew Streetwear and of course Hoosier who makes the awesomest tires ever, I'm pretty sure we won't stray off the winning path.'

'So there's more to come from you?'

'Heck yeah… plenty more.' - Another cheer rose from the grandstand.

'Sounds like your competitors need to pull the belts even tighter. All right, Champ… thank you. Phyllis O'Connell, Ladies and Gentlemen, the winner of the EverFresh Two-Fifty at Thunder Park Raceway.'

"Awwwwww-ri'te!" Wynne shouted and waved her cowboy hat high in the air.

Once the victory celebrations and the winner's interview were over and done with, the spectators all gathered their things and began to shuffle off toward the staircases at either end of the concrete grandstand. As expected, it didn't take long before huge clumps of people developed at the upper landings; the lines backed up almost at once which made descending a time-consuming affair.

Goldie got on her paws, arched her back and shook herself so the golden fur stood out in all directions. A happy yap escaped her as she went around in a little circle to get the blood back into her extremities - her tail was already back in fine fettle as proved by the vigorous wagging.

Yawning, Wynne scooped up a handful of ice cubes to get some water. Another yawn cracked her face wide open as she got up and put the duffel bag onto the bench where she had spent so much time over the course of the afternoon and evening.

For once, one of her actions didn't make the little kid on the row behind her break out in a howling wail - instead, the youngest member of the Atkins family giggled out loud and pointed at Wynne's huge yawn. "Look at the ugly lady, Daddy!" he said in a crystal clear voice.

Wynne shot him a sideways glare that didn't seem to connect at all. Shrugging, she put the cushion and the binoculars into the duffel bag to be ready for whenever the clumps of humanity at the staircase would dissipate long enough for anyone to get down to the parking lots.

On Wynne's left, Ernie did much the same except that he had fewer things to pack up. His cooler boxes were mostly empty save for a few cans containing one of his favorite Fenwyck beers, the 1910 Special Brew, that he had saved for last on purpose - the dark-amber nectar had a few special herbs added to it that made it the perfect beer to end the night on. The sight of the dark-golden can made him stop packing and reach for it at once.

Wynne had just slipped the telephone into her rear pocket when it rang; she had put it on silent so the familiar buzzing caressed her cheek and made her snicker. "Wa-hey!" she said with a grin as she read the caller-ID that said Mandy. "Howdy, darlin'!  Haw, whut a frickin' awesum' race it wus!  Didya getta see aneh off'it?"

'Hi, hon. I only caught a little of it… a few drunken revelers kept me busy in the infield.'

"Yuh?  Nuttin' majah, I hope?"

'No. Just a little youthful exuberance. A couple of beer baths and some topless dancing. That kind of thing.'

"Lawwwwwwwwr-die," Wynne said with a cheesy grin.

'I called to tell you that Blackie and I won't have time to catch up with you tonight… we'll be too busy with spot checks of the vehicles as people leave. Wynne, you did remember our talk-'

"Haw, count on it, Sheriff Mandeh!  Yes Ma'am, I onleh had them Dubbel-Zerahs fer most o' the evenin'. Once they wus goh-ne, I done had plentah o' watah an' even a cherreh coah-ke. Ovah the past six hou'ahs, I done had two reg'lar beahs, but none fer a good, long whih-le."

'Good. Thank you. Oh, I need to go. See you tomorrow, honey… sweet dreams. Love you.'

"I sure do luv ya too, there, Sheriff Mandeh!  Yes, Ma'am!  He be a goodni'te kiss from me ta y'all… mmmua!  Didya catch it?"

'I did!  Bye, Wynne.'

"Bah-bah, there, Sheriff!" Wynne said and closed the connection. "Haw, Ernie, that wus mah sweet, li'l Mandeh in case y'all wus wonderin' who dat wus."

Ernie let out a chuckle as he pulled the carrier strap for one of the cooler boxes over his shoulder. "No, I had a pretty good idea of who it might be," he said and laughed again. "Damn, look at that line of people. I hope you don't need to go on the can, Wynne, 'cos… yeah. That might pose a problem."

"Naw, I'm good… I reckon… yuh, I'm good… but I bettah make a pit stop befo' we done leave fer hoah-me. Ya nevah know how long it mi'te take. Yuh?  C'mon, Goldie… les'trah ta find them stairs that lead down."

Yap-yap-yap!

---

Wynne's skills of prediction proved uncanny. Forty minutes later, her mat-black Silverado remained stuck at the halfway point of an endless line at the main gates of Thunder Park Raceway. Although all the lanes going to and from the track had been converted into exits that led to the State Route, the congestion was massive.

The main reason for the logjam were the spot checks carried out by the sheriff and all the deputies from the Goldsboro office as well as Donnie Cummins and his entire security team. Portable floodlights had been set up at the gates so the uniformed officers could get a good look at the vehicles - they stopped every second or third one to perform breathalyzer tests of the driver and, in case of a positive test, one or more of the passengers as well to find someone who could drive them home.

Several trucks had already been ordered to break out of the line and drive off to the side - one of those belonged to the Atkins family, and 'Tommy-Gun' wasn't shy in letting the world at large know what he felt about that particular decision. The camouflage-wearing fellow had been told to get out of the truck for a second breathalyzer test, so he leaned against the bedside while he blew into the small tool.

Wynne had the infotainment system going, but not even the crisp tones of The Wide Open Spaces' acoustic interpretation of the old classic Our Grand Country playing on the online version of the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack could lift the funk she found herself in. She kept looking at Ernie who sat with his eyes closed while they waited. The thought that it was likely to have been the last time she and her dear friend would ever do anything like that together was a somber one that she hadn't seen coming.

Goldie took up the space between the humans; the Golden Retriever sensed her owner's funk but found there was little she could do to lift it. She put her golden head in the denim-clad lap, but even though she received a pat or two for it, they weren't as enthusiastic as normal.

The vehicular logjam moved slower and slower until it came to a complete standstill - it seemed that another vehicle had been ordered to break out of the line and drive over to the designated testing area.

A long, deep sigh escaped Wynne. Having the music on suddenly annoyed her, so she unhooked her telephone from the truck's infotainment system and put it back in her pocket. The relative silence that followed was a good reflection of her mood. After a few moments, she reached down to caress Goldie's warm skin and give her golden fur a little tousle. The dog responded by snuggling up even closer which made the tiniest of smiles creep onto Wynne's lips.

---

When it was their turn to move through the gate, Wynne's legendary rotten luck caused them to be selected for a spot check by one of the deputies. She had already let out another of those deep-soul sighs to prepare herself for dealing with Beatrice Reilly when Rodolfo Gonzalez stepped into the light instead.

It gave Wynne a little boost, and the driver's side window was soon rolled down. "Howdy there, Rodolfoh," she said as she put her elbow on the windowsill.

"Oh… hi, Wynne. Okay, I should have recognized the truck. Never mind, you can move on-"

"Naw, tell ya whut, there, seniah de-per-teh… I ain't fishin' fer no spe-shul favahrs or nuttin' so I wantcha ta gimme one o' them there breathalyzah tests so y'all can see I be in da cleah. Yuh?"

Rodolfo scratched his neck and looked around for the sheriff. When it became obvious she was too busy elsewhere to come to his assistance, he shrugged and reached into a plastic bag for a breathalyzer tool for Wynne - the protective cover was soon off and the reed inserted into the tip of the electronic gadget. "Well, okay… if you insist. I don't think I've ever had anyone demanding to be breathalyzed before, but I guess there's a first for everything. You know the drill, right?"

"I sure do, seniah de-per-teh," Wynne said and took the tool. While Ernie continued to snore next to her, she took a deep breath and blew into the apparatus until she turned cross-eyed and her cheeks had gained unhealthy, blue lines. When beeping proved it was ready, she took the reed out of her mouth, wiped off the inevitable residue and handed the breathalyzer back to Rodolfo.

"Three green lights, Wynne," the senior deputy said with a grin. He looked over his shoulder before he leaned closer to the Chevrolet. "It's too bad Deputy Reilly is over in the other lane. I'd have loved to see her face right about now. I've been thinking about what you said earlier tonight… she really does turn into a royal Bee every time you're near, doesn't she?"

"Haw, that sure ain't no lie, Rodolfoh. Lawrdie, I wish I got jus' a li'l clue whah, but I don't. I ain't got nuttin'. I wish I done had, but… naw."

"I guess it's one of life's little mysteries," Rodolfo said before he looked past Wynne to take in the humorous sight of Ernie fast asleep with his Built Ford Tough baseball cap pulled way down to cover his eyes. "Say… what do you think would happen if we tested Ernie right about now?"

"Haw… I reckon y'all could use that there ol' sayin'… the durn thing done blowed up on me!  'Cos it would!"

Rodolfo chuckled as he reached into the Silverado's cab to give Wynne's arm a little thump. "Probably. Anyway, you're cleared to go. Have a safe drive home, Ma'am!"

"Whah, much obliged!  Ah sure be thankful, there, Seniah De-per-teh Gonzah-lez!" Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat. A gap had opened up in front of the mat-black Silverado in the meantime, so she was able to trickle away from the endless line, go through the gates and head for the State Route.

---

Ernie briefly woke up when the truck made the left-turn onto the two-lane blacktop at the far end of Thunder Park Raceway's main entrance, but his moment of clarity only lasted for a few minutes before the brewery running in his veins took control once more.

Chuckling at her friend's predictable sleepiness, Wynne followed the many red taillights ahead of them. The sheer number of vehicles that moved through the late evening made it appear that at least half of MacLean County had been at the track for the big event. Impatient souls in souped-up muscle cars or sporty trucks would occasionally cross over into the opposite lane where they would make plenty of racket but only gain one or two spots at the most.

The gloomy prospects of not having daily and practically unlimited access to the best friend she'd had since leaving Shallow Pond, Texas all those years ago returned to sink her brief high after the breathalyzer test.

The months she and Ernest 'Ernie' Bradberry had lived in different places in the State - Ernie had moved to Cavanaugh Creek to be with his wife, the Reverend Bernadine Russell of the Church Of The Holy Crusader - had already been bad enough, but now it would be permanent. Once Ernie sold his trailer, there was really no reason for him to take the 75-mile drive north apart from being invited to the odd birthday, anniversary or retirement bash. Even those occasions would fizzle out as they invariably did, and that would be the end of the road for Ernie B. in Goldsboro, the trailer park and ultimately in Wynne's life.

Wynne sighed and reached down to caress Goldie's head and warm body. The Golden Retriever responded by snuggling down even firmer and letting out a muted, but certainly happy, yap.

The mat-black Silverado seemed to share the golden-furred dog's sentiments: a merry burble continuously escaped its exhaust pipes as the many taillights ahead created a shining path in the darkness that showed them the way home.

*
*
EPILOGUE

Most mornings after such a large-scale, top-quality event would inevitably lose out in a direct comparison; the first eleven hours of Sunday, May 29th couldn't buck the trend no matter how hard they tried.

Once Wynne, Ernie and Goldie had made it home to the trailer park, Wynne had helped her semi-sleepwalking friend over to his trailer and into his LazyBoy chair - he didn't want to sleep in the bed without his wife present. She had stayed for a few moments to make sure he was all right until the loud snoring that burst out of him proved without a doubt that he was.

She had needed to engage her proverbial autopilot as she shuffled back to her own mobile home, and the next segment of her late evening - shedding her day clothes, donning her sleeping gear and brushing her teeth - had all been carried out with her eyes closed. Sleep had claimed her nine seconds after she had put her head on the pillow.

Mandy and Blackie had returned at twenty minutes past two in the pitch-black night after wrapping up the assignment at Thunder Park and visiting the sheriff's office in Goldsboro to see if it was still standing. Just like her partner, once she had climbed into bed, she didn't move a muscle until eight in the morning where the dogs started scratching and clawing on the inner door to be let out.

Eight o'clock was far too early for Mandy to even contemplate getting up, so a drowsy Wynne had needed to take care of business on her own. Once the dogs were playing in the desert, she had stumbled back into bed to catch a few more winks.

---

The rest of the Sunday morning moved ahead like an overweight, underpowered eighteen-wheeler climbing Haddersfield Pass in its super-low gear - i.e. not particularly fast or energetic.

It took Mandy and Wynne until a quarter to ten before they could claim being back to their regular levels of mental fitness. The 'morning' coffee and the multiple slices of toast with plenty of butter and strawberry jam had been a welcome treat, as had the news round-up on Wynne's telephone that offered in-depth articles on Phyllis' victory in the EverFresh Two-Fifty and what it might mean for the remainder of the dirt-stock season.

While Mandy took a long, hot shower, Wynne was distracted by a slight commotion outside on the lawn between the trailers. As she shuffled over to the window in her terrycloth bathrobe to see what was going on, her brow gained a somber furrow.

The commotion had been caused by young Renee Tooley who played mini-soccer like she always did on Sunday mornings, but the sight of a seemingly sprightly Ernie who loaded cardboard packing cases up onto the bed of his Ford F350 made her heart plummet into her boots. "Dang, ol' buddeh…" she said in a mumble, "Mah soul ain't mah-de fer this… Ah hate sayin' goodbah…"

A deep sigh escaped her. She was about to go over there to help - and chew the fat one last time - when she realized she had better put on some real clothes.

---

Six minutes later, she exited her trailer wearing her legendary Last Original Cowpoke outfit: the decorated cowboy boots, the faded blue-jeans with the red bandanna peeking out of the left rear pocket, the black In GM We Trust sweatshirt, and finally the battered, old, sweat-stained cowboy hat that had served her so well over the years.

She had wanted to wear the lined denim jacket - with the sheepskin gloves stuck into the left-hand side pocket - as well, but the rising ambient temperature meant it was simply too warm. Instead, she hooked an index finger into the loop at the jacket's collar and carried it over her shoulder to present the perfect Cowpoke image.

Just as she was halfway there, Ernie opened the screen door with his boot and stepped out onto his front porch carrying another packing case. He stopped with a jerk and took in the sight of the impressive figure walking toward him. "Damn, Wynne… ya really got that look down pat, ya know that?"

"Yuh, I do. Much obliged, buddeh. I been practicin'."

Chuckling, Ernie continued onto his Ford and shoved the case up next to the others. Like always, he wore work boots, sturdy jeans, a flannel shirt and his indispensable hunting vest. The cap that sat atop his mullet wasn't the black one with the Built Ford Tough logo, but a brand-new, dark-red one he had bought the day before at the Retro Repros vendor: it was a reproduction of the one used by the Roush Ford team in 1990 when they were sponsored by Folgers Coffee.

"Y'all need-a hand or som'tin'?  'Cos I got two that ain't doin' nuttin' ri'te now… naw, scratch that… I got one that ain't doin' nuttin' ri'te now," she said, holding up her free hand while the other kept holding the denim jacket. Although she smiled at her friend, it never made it up to her eyes that carried a distinct shade of melancholy.

"Yeah, I could use a hand. I have another ten packing cases ready to go. Some of 'em are kinda heavy… pots and pans and stuff… so I could actually use your one hand," Ernie said with a grin.

"Haw, y'all got a deal, there, pardner. Yessirree. Naw, tell ya whut… y'all done seen mah Cowpoke jacket now, yuh?  I mi'te as well put it on that there couch o' yers so I ain't gonn' be droppin' nuttin'."

---

After the fourth case of cookware and miscellaneous other kitchen utensils had been stowed onto the rear of the Ford, Mandy exited their trailer and strode across the lawn in her usual gait. Dressed in full uniform - her spare; the one she had worn the day before had turned rather funky - she tousled Renee Tooley's hair when she moved past her.

Wynne stepped out onto Ernie's porch holding yet another packing case at the exact same time that Mandy approached from the other direction. "Whah, if it ain't Sheriff Mandeh!" she exclaimed with a grin - then it faded rapidly as she realized something was amiss about the whole scene. "Dang… y'all need-a go ta town alreddeh?  Wussen this Sund'eh saposed ta be yer half-day off or som'tin?"

"Yes I am…. and yes it was," Mandy said and let out a sigh. "I'm sorry, hon. Councilwoman Skinner just called me. She's summoned the Town Council for an emergency meeting to discuss Artie Rains' arrest. It's going to be at her house and we're going to be treated to brunch."

"Lawrdie, y'all know what that means, dontcha?  Bittah tea an' them there Gawd-awful cookie-cracker-whutevahs that done taste lack fifteh-year-ol' hardtack. Y'all bettah watch 'em teef o' yours, Sheriff Mandeh!"

"Yeah, no kidding. Do you know where Mr. Bradberry is at?"

"Haw, ol' Ernie be insih-de that there pantreh o' theirs stowin' them las'things an' stuff inta cases an' all," Wynne said and pointed over her shoulder.

"No, he ain't," Ernie said as he stepped over the threshold and joined his neighbors on the porch. " 'Mornin', Sheriff. Goin' to work on a Sunday?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I don't know how long it'll take, so… Mr. Bradberry… Ernie," - Mandy put out her hand - "in case you've already left once I get back, let's say a proper goodbye now. It's been a privilege knowing you."

"And you, Sheriff. Man, when I think of all the things we've done out here… it's been an incredible time," Ernie said and offered Mandy a strong handshake.

Wynne looked on in somber silence. Even if she had wanted to add one of her typical quips, her throat had tied itself into such a knot that no words could get past.

Once the handshake had been taken care of, Mandy moved over to Wynne, got up on tip-toes and placed a fair-sized kiss on Wynne's lips. "I'll call once the emergency meeting's over. I hope it won't be too long, but you know the members of the Town Council. Bonnie Saunders loves to hear herself talk."

"Yuh… that sure ain't no lie. Okeh-dokeh, Sheriff Mandeh. Y'all know where ta find me," Wynne said with a smile that soon faded away.

Mandy cocked her head before she reached up to paint a smile on Wynne's lips. "I don't like to see you this down, honey. Wouldn't it be possible for you and Mr. Bradberry to get in touch through one of those video chat services?"

"Mebbe," Wynne said and broke out in a shrug. "I dunno jack-squat 'bout them things."

"I'll bet Brenda Travers could set it up for you and then show you how to use it…"

Wynne shrugged again. "Ol' Brendah prolleh luv ta help, but I got a feelin' I be too dumb ta figger it out on mah own aftahwurds. I ain't aboudda ask her how ta run them there things on a daileh basis 'cos askin' ovah an' ovah onleh gonn' make me look lack a dang-blasted moron."

"No, it wouldn't," Mandy said and tickled Wynne's cheek. "I need to go, but I'll call as soon as I know more. Okay?"

"Okeh, Sheriff Mandeh," Wynne said and returned the kissing favor by placing another one on Mandy's lips.

While Ernie cracked open a beer as his reward for dragging ten packing cases out to the truck, Wynne watched Mandy stride over to the white-and-gold Dodge Durango from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department that she had used to get home the previous night.

The Sheriff of Goldsboro soon reversed out onto the outer section of the lawn. As she moved ahead, she turned on all the emergency lights and waved out of the window at her partner and Ernie Bradberry.

Wynne and Ernie waved back before they went inside to continue the packing process - and maybe have a beer or two to finish off in style.

-*-*-*-

Forty-five minutes later, Ernie closed the tail gate of his Ford F350 and secured the two latches. The nature of the cargo meant that he and Wynne added an extra level of protection against losing some of it by spreading a tarp over the open bed - the sturdy canvas was stretched out tight and tied to the appropriate knobs on the inner fenders.

Twelve square packing cases lined up on the bed with an additional three in the back of the crew cab and one on the passenger-side seat up front - all in all, they had managed to get sixteen, heavily-laden cases crammed into the Ford. An old US Army-surplus backpack had been recommissioned into being a temporary home for various oblong things that didn't fit in the boxes; the backpack had been squeezed into the footwell up front as the seventeenth item.

"Ernie, ain't that there ol' suh-n gonn' stir-frah them cases undah that there canvas covah there?" Wynne said after she had glanced up at the clear-blue sky - as had been the case over the past couple of days, the big ball of fire in the middle of the endless sea of blue did its worst to scorch the surface of the Earth with its murderous rays.

"Probably, but all the sensitive items are in the cab," Ernie said and wiped his glistening brow on his sleeve. "Like our music CDs, my old vinyl records, Bernadine's knick-knacks and all those things. I'll have the A-C on when I drive. It'll be nice and cool."

"Oh… okeh. Makes sense 'cos it sure gonn' get hawt taday, yessir."

As Wynne walked back inside Ernie's trailer, she came to a halt at the threshold and put her hands on her hips. The somber, melancholic look in her eye returned with a vengeance as she saw Ernie get down on his knees at his video racks and begin to remove stacks of old VHS tapes and newer, home-burned DVDs.

She took off her cowboy hat and wiped her damp brow and neck on a crumpled-up wad of toilet paper. A sigh escaped her as she shuffled over to get a better view of the tapes and discs that Ernie pulled out. "Wussen them ol' Nascah-r races saposed ta ha' been in one o' them there packin' cases, Ernie?"

"No," Ernie said over his shoulder; he stretched out as far as his arm would go to reach a few titles that had been pushed up against the back wall of the rack. Once he had grabbed them, he blew several years' worth of dust off them and put them on top of the pile. " 'Cos I'm gonna give 'em to you as a goodbye-present."

Wynne had already opened her mouth to reply by the time Ernie reached the end of his sentence. From one millisecond to the next, her throat tied itself into a knot all over again which rendered her unable to get as much as a syllable past her lips. To avoid breaking out in an embarrassing sob-sob-wail, she put her hands on her hips again while she studied the pointy tips of her decorated cowboy boots. The pulse point on the side of her neck proved that her heart thumped along with the speed of a Cup-level stock car trying to set a new lap record at Daytona or Talladega.

Chuckling, Ernie picked up as many tapes and discs as he could and transferred them into an empty packing case he had assembled for the purpose. Once the case was full, he clambered to his feet and moved over to the coffee table that had already been liberated from its tablecloth, the bowl of dried flower buds and all the other feminine knick-knacks that Bernadine had added to it.

Another two armfuls of tapes and discs followed before the rack was empty and the table way past overflowing. A slight detour to the refrigerator later, a six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zeros joined the many classic races on the table. "C'mon, Wynne… ya can't stand there all day. Let's go through them over a beer or two. I believe you already have a couple of 'em."

"Yuh… okeh," Wynne croaked and shuffled over to the couch. She had barely lowered her backside onto the cushions before Ernie put a can of beer in her hand. A pair of identical pssshhhhts! and the age-old gesture of head-back-can-up were soon witnessed in the trailer.

---

"Daytona 'eighty-five… Daytona 'eighty-seven… Talladega 'eighty-seven… Darlin'ton 'eighty-five… the million dollar race. Remember that one?" Ernie said while he stacked the old VHS tapes in front of Wynne.

"O-yuh, o' course. I didden watch all them races then, but I do 'member them big ones. The Southern fih-ve-hundred from 'ninety-seven wus one o' the first races I done taped on mah own. Lawrdie, that sure wus theeeee weirdest start I evah done seen anehwhere, but that there bumpin' an' bangin' finish there wus perdeh good an' sortah-kindah made up fer da start," Wynne said, looking up from the inventory list she kept to be able to cross-check with her own collection later on.

"Riverside 'eighty-eight… that was the last race at the track before the made it into a shopping mall or condominiums or some shit like that," Ernie continued as he waded through the stack of old tapes. "Okay, now we're getting back to the real old stuff… these are some of those I got from my swappin' buddy over in Tennessee. Highlights of the Firecracker four-hundred from 'eighty-four… the King's last win. Baker's Daytona 'eighty win… I believe that's still the fastest ever five-hundred?"

"Ain't sure 'bout dat… mebbe… haw, I ain't watched that in a decade or som'tin," Wynne said as she craned her neck to look at all the exciting tapes.

"What else we got here… okay, the 'seventy-nine five-hundred. Everybody knows about that one. Daytona five-hundreds from 'eighty-one, 'eighty-four, 'eighty-six… hey, here's something for ya, Wynne… a half-hour Wrangler promo video from 'eighty-one about you-know-who-"

"Ooooooooooh!" Wynne said and flew over to the opposite end of the couch to see for herself. "Lemme see!  Lemme see!  Lawwwwwwr-die!  Holeh shittt, dat be da One Tuff Customah promo!  Ernie Bradberreh, whereindawohhhhhhh-rld ya been keepin' this he' tape all them ye'ahs?"

"I dunno. At the back of the rack somewhere," Ernie said, sporting a cheesy grin.

"Haw!  I'mma-gonn' let that slih-de, son, but dontcha be puttin' on that kinda attah-toode too often, yuh?" Wynne said and matched the cheesy grin with one of her own - to underscore her words, she nudged an elbow into Ernie's side. "Lawrdie, the One Tuff Customah Wranglah promo… haw."

Ernie grinned and made a big show of rubbing his side. "Movin' on, here's Handsome Harry's Southern five-hundred win from 'ninety-one. Oldsmobile… not sure why I kept that, but never mind now. Bud At The Glen from 'ninety. Who won that?  Was it the forty-two?  Can't remember. 'Ninety-two Atlanta Hooters five-hundred. We both have that, right?"

"Yuh. Jus' 'bout the onleh Foh-rd win I done have in mah collec-shun. That an' the 'nineteh-six Daytoh'n fih-ve-hundred."

"Daytona 'ninety-two… the twin one-twenty-fives and the five-hundred itself. 'Ninety-two Richmond night race… that was an awesome race for sure. The 'ninety-two Winston One Hot Night from Charlotte. Remember when the twenty-eight and the forty-two wrecked crossing the finish line?"

"Yeah. I wus rootin' fer Kyle in da Pontiac!"

"Of course you were… I wasn't!" Ernie said with a grin as he stacked up more old VHS tapes. There were a few more of the near-ancient recordings that he had received from his friend back east, but the quality had been so poor he had only kept them for sentimental reasons. Once they had been shaped into orderly stacks, he pushed them aside to make room for the DVDs.

Wynne craned her neck all over again to keep up with the goodie bag. "Aw, he' comes the newah stuff."

"Not to begin with… first up, we have the Atlanta spring race of 'ninety-three. That was the one that was postponed 'cos of the snow storm. That was a Wood Brothers victory. Bristol spring race 'ninety-three. Not so much for the race itself but for the Kulwicki tribute in the intro. The second Talladega race of 'ninety-three. Damn, I'll never forget that. Remember the camera trick where the twenty-eight Texaco Ford is racin' down the Talla superstretch?  The one where the car fades out but the track remains?  Man, that still gives me goosebumps to this day."

"Lawrdie, I know exactleh wotcha talkin' 'bout, buddeh… yuh, that wus spe-shul even fer a General Motahs fanatic lack me. There wus so maneh impahrtant an' spe-shul races back then… I wondah whah them modern races don't feel impahrtant an' spe-shul no mo'?  I ain't got no clue but I sure wish I did. Yuh."  Nodding to herself, Wynne took her latest Double-Zero and drained it in no time flat.

A ding-ding-dong! that came from Ernie's telephone made him dig into one of the countless pockets of his hunting vest to find it. The text message was soon read and responded to with a grin. Once he had read it a couple of times, he went online to visit a private corner of the Internet. He soon found a new video that had just been uploaded. "Hey, Wynne, check this out… it's from Bernadine," he said and held up the telephone.

"Yuh?  Ain't nuttin' embarrassin', I hope?" Wynne said and scooted over to look at the small display where the Reverend Bernadine soon appeared with their daughter Christine Frances Russell.

Now five months old, little Christine appeared to be in a good mood, or at least what would qualify as a good mood for a toddler. The youngest member of the Bradberry/Russell family had been born prematurely by a full month back in February, but the traumatic start to her life hadn't seemed to affect her save for still being on the scrawny side of things.

Bernadine held the little one close as she sang a bedtime lullaby; they were both wrapped in hot-pink bathrobes like they had just stepped out of a bubble bath. The video ended with a wave and a kissy thrown at the camera.

"Hot-dang, Ernie…" Wynne said and scooted back to her original part of the couch. "Ain't no way in Sam Hill even the combih-ned effahrts o' stock cah-r racin', beah, pork rinds an' li'l, ol' me evah gonn' compete with that, nosirree. Sure ain't no wondah y'all wanna be close ta them bundles o' joy there. Haw…"

Ernie chuckled as he put the telephone away. "Yeah, well… it's not like I'm gonna live on the moon, Wynne."

"Y'all mi'te as well be, buddeh… Cavvah-naw Creek's a million mih-les away. It be a whooooole 'nother world down dere. Whenevah I done been there, I ain't nevah once felt welcome or nuttin'. Them big cities prolleh be good fer a lotta folks, but sure ain't fer me. Naw. I be a one-hundred-proof small town gal. Lack Goldsborah, yuh?  In Goldsborah, ev'rehboddah knows yer nah-me. In Cavvah-naw Creek, noboddah knows yer nah-me an' noboddah gives a shit, neithah."

"That's probably true. I guess it's the same everywhere. Didn't your Mandy work and live in San Cristobal before she moved here?"

"That's ri'te, she sure did. I hate that dang-blasted plah-ce even worse than Cavvah-naw Creek, lemme tell ya," Wynne said and leaned back on the couch. "Yuh, San See done gimme me da creeps whenevah I get neah. All them glittereh lights an' shallah folks ev'rehwheah. Lawrdie. Painted hookahs waitin' on them street cornahs… mobstah bruisahs walkin' 'round packin' heat an' beatin' da browns outta reg'lar folks fer no good reason… suckah bets left an' ri'te. Cheap booze an' desperate gamblahs bettin' their shirts an' hoah-mes on them roo-lette tables or that there wheel o' fohr-toone crap. Naw. An' the whole dang place wus built on blood. Hate San See with a pas-shun."

Ernie nodded a couple of times and broke out in a quiet chuckle. "Man, I'm the one with the hangover, but you definitely got the post-race blues, all right."

"It ain't got nuttin' ta do with post-race blues, ol' buddeh. Naw. Shoot, I didden wanna stink up the conversa-shun…" Wynne said and reached for the next can of Double Zero. Before she could crack it open, she slapped a palm onto her thigh and broke out in a: "Whadda-y'all-know, I got one helluva fih-ne ideah!  Yessir!  How's 'bout we done called them Chickeh Kingz up in Goldsborah an' ordah'd a cuppel-a them there awesum' mystereh boxes?  Haw?  Frah'd chicken an' fries sure wudden be bad fer lunch taday, yuh?  That there sooper-fih-ne white meat an' the barbecue'd skin an' them drumsticks an' a whoooooole buncha salteh fries… yessirree!  Whaddayasay ta that?"

"It's a great idea-"

"Haw-yuh, sure ain't no lie!" Wynne said and reached for her telephone, but before she could even make it come alive, Ernie had put a hand on her arm to still her actions.

"But I don't have time for it, Wynne. I'm sorry. I promised to get home early today… and with the load I'll be haulin', I can't race along like usual. I need to leave within the next ten-fifteen minutes to be home at one, half past one."

Wynne tried all she could to maintain a brave face, but she was unable to keep the put-upon mask of happiness in place for long. "Aw… shoot… but… okeh. Ah heah ya, buddeh," she said and put away the telephone.

An awkward silence spread between them. Ernie used the break to scoop up the home-made DVDs and store them in the cardboard packing case next to the old VHS tapes. Wynne continued to sit there like a mannequin that someone had forgot to put back into storage after use, so Ernie shuffled out to the bathroom to deal with the beers he had consumed over the course of the day.

Wynne got up from the couch, donned her beloved cowboy hat and shoved her hands into her rear pockets. She looked at the many items and pieces of furniture that still took up a lot of space in the living area. A long sigh escaped her. As the toilet flushed and the bathroom faucet was used, she stood up straight so it wouldn't harm the image of The Last Original Cowpoke who never wavered from Standin' Tall & Proud regardless of the circumstances.

Her Lone Star act lasted until the door to the bathroom opened and Ernie came back into the living area. "Aw, ya ol' sombitch," she said in a thick voice; moving forward, she wrapped her arms around the slimmer but still rotund Ernie Bradberry and pulled him into a strong, back-slapping hug.

They stood like that for a short while before Wynne moved back with a sniffle. "Dang, Ah got shit in mah eye," she said and wiped something resembling a tear off her left cheek.

"I think I caught some of that as well," Ernie said in a somber voice. "Anyway. Like I said… it's not like I'm moving to another planet. I'm always just a phone call away."

"Yuh, mebbe… but it ain't gonn' be the sah-me. Whadda-y'all gonn' do with all this he' stuff, anyhows?" Wynne said and waved at the remaining items.

"I've already booked some professional packers and movers. They'll be by early next week to take care of the rest."

"Okeh," Wynne said and shoved her hands into her rear pockets all over again.

Ernie nodded as he looked at the dozens of things that still needed to be moved to the house he shared with Bernadine in a quiet, upscale suburb of Cavanaugh Creek. "Yeah… the fridge and the freezer are empty so I'll turn off the power before I leave. The septic tank's gonna be emptied tomorrow-"

"Bah Septic Sammi, the sewah gal?"

"Exactly," Ernie said with a grin that soon faded. Digging into another of the vest's many pockets, he retrieved a large bundle of keys that were attached to a chain promoting the H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Company. "Okay, these are all the house keys. Front door, pantry door, a buncha other keys, the roof hatch, the strong box… won't do ya any good 'cos it's empty!  Wouldya mind checkin' out the place from time to time until the movers have been here?"

"Haw!  O' course not!  Sure thing, buddeh," Wynne said and took the heavy bundle of keys. She admired the chain for a moment before she slipped it around her neck so she could have her hands free. "Yuh… befo' Ah ferget… Ah ain't nevah tole ya this befo', but Ah need-a thank ya fer always respectin' who an' whut Ah am. Yuh?  Ah sure be grateful y'all ain't nevah trah'd nuttin' stoo-pid lack makin' a pass at me or som'tin…"

"No, I figured that out pretty quickly. And you're not my type, so…"

"D'awwwww!" - Wynne leaned her head back to let out a laugh that turned out to be a little more choked-up than anticipated.

"Anyway. You can move the tapes and the DVDs over to your place later, so… I guess this wraps up things here. Walk with me to the truck?"

Wynne's laugh faded so quickly it was almost like someone had flipped a switch. She stared at her friend for a moment before she broke out in a nod. "Aw… yuh… okeh."

Ernie left the inner door open but closed the screen door as they moved out of the mobile home where he had lived for a decade. They were soon at the blue-and-silver-metallic custom Ford F350, but before he could open his mouth to say goodbye, Wynne had jumped up onto the passenger-side seat.

"Y'all ain't gonn' get rid o' me that easileh, son!  Ah'mma-gonn' sit ri'te he' until we reach that there ol' roah-d out yondah," she said in a voice that was meant to be cheery, but turned out anything but.

"Let's ride," Ernie said with a grin. Getting behind the wheel, he started the Ford and drove slowly off the lawn and onto the gravel road that led to the State Route. Once they were there, he crossed over the two lanes and pulled over onto the apron.

Wynne sighed. Opening the door, she climbed down from the custom Ford and shuffled around the front to lean against the driver's side door. She stared at the truck, her dear friend and the open road that would take him away from her. The knot in her throat returned, and it even brought a pal along that tied her guts into a bow tie. "Dang, Ernie… y'all bettah leave now or else Ah'mma-gonn' get real girleh on ya. Trust me, it ain't no perdeh si'te," she said in a voice so thick it didn't even sound like hers at all.

"Yeah. I know what you mean," Ernie said and stuck a hand out of the open window. "Bye, Wynne. We've had one helluva fine time together, haven't we?  Win some, lose some, wreck some-"

"Wreck some," Wynne said at the exact same time as her friend. She gave the hand a proper, strong handshake before she took a step back and shoved her balled-up fists into her rear pockets. "Yuh. This he' be one o' them wrecks, lemme tell ya…"

"Yeah. Well…"

"Haw, y'all bettah be on yer way an' all. Stay outta trubbel in da big, bad citeh, Ernie… Ah wish y'all an' Berna-deeh-ne an' li'l Chris-teeh-ne all the best."

"Thanks, Wynne. I'll try. You too."

"Yuh…"

Nothing more needed to be said, so Ernie selected a gear and drove out into the southbound lane of the State Route. Wynne kept standing at the side of the road, staring at the blue-and-silver-metallic Ford as it grew smaller and smaller - then it disappeared altogether in the regular desert haze.

Her face was set in stone as she crossed the two lanes and shuffled back along the gravel road. "Sombitch, Ah miss ol' Ernie alreddeh… crap," she mumbled to herself. "An' Mandeh ain't even he' fer a li'l huggin' an' comfortin'… dubbel crap. Ah got a no-shun ta dig up a buncha them there Extra Strongs an' get mahself snot-flyin' drunk taday… naw, that ain't gonn' solve nuttin'."

An innocent pebble was forcefully relocated from its home when it received a strong kick across the bows - the pebble flew twenty feet further up the gravel road where it settled down in a new location.

"Naw… but a cuppel-a Centennials would be jus' ri'te… an' nuke some pork rinds… an' watch one o' them ol' Daytoh-n's… oh-foah?  Foah'teen?  Or mebbe da big-daddeh 'nineteh-eight?  Or mebbe all dang three off'em… yuh. That's whut Ah'mma-gonn' do until mah sweet, li'l Mandeh gonn' come hoah-me. Yuh. Dang… it ain't nevah gonn' be the same without mah buddeh Ernie…"

The constant mumbling and grumbling was eventually carried away on the desert breeze as The Last Original Cowpoke shuffled along the rocky road. To the east, two Air Force helicopters flew at low altitude on a training mission; out on the State Route, a small convoy of support trucks and vans drove past on their way to the next stop on the racing calendar, and in the background, Blackie and Goldie let out excited barks and happy yaps as they played in the desert free of any human interference - it all proved that life would go on after all for the good folks living in the small trailer park eight miles south of Goldsboro, Nevada…

*
*
THE END

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