Need for Speed Read Free

barking, fast-talking as always. “Did you just call me the Oracle of Delphi? The De Leon is my race and it’s beautiful! And you can bet that crack in your ass that I
am
the Oracle of Delphi when it comes to who gets invited to race De Leon and who doesn’t! So sew that crack cuz you’re talking out of your ass and I’m not listening.”
    The four members of the Marshall team laughed. Monarch was the Howard Stern of the underground racing world. And he was one seriously funny dude.
    â€œBy the way, I have some local results,” Monarch’s voice crackled again. “The Flyin’ Hawaiian just took down Steve Heavy Chevy in the Arizona desert. And the word is, it wasn’t very pretty. Now remember that rivalry isn’t over yet, you cretins. But the Flyin’ Hawaiian
did
just get closer to an invitation to this year’s De Leon as the wildcard. What’s a cretin, you ask? If you weren’t such cretins you’d know what a cretin is! De Leon is in one week, motorheads, so keep the need. Keep the motherfucking need for speed!”
    The De Leon was the Super Bowl of underground racing. While the entrants were always hand-picked by Monarch himself, the participating cars were never less than the multimillion-dollar Lamborghinis, Bugattis, McLarens, and Saleens. The race was held in a different place every year, the location kept a closely guarded secret until shortly before it began. It was almost always a brutal, cutthroat competition whose winner, if there was one left standing, got to keep all of the expensive cars that managed to cross the finish line. The highly illegal race was always the bane of whatever law enforcement agency whose jurisdiction it happened to fall under, and street racing fans counted the days before the next De Leon would be run.
    * * *
    The Marshall Motors mechanics stayed entranced by the show even as they continued to work. All except Joe Peck. As he looked through the glass doors of the garage, something caught his attention outside.
    A sixtyish-year-old man in a business suit was talking to the garage’s young owner, Tobey Marshall, the boy depicted in the photographs. Tobey was in his mid-twenties now, tough-looking but handsome and in good shape. He could’ve been a dead ringer for actor Steve McQueen.
    But right now, Joe Peck sensed he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Joe moved closer to the open bay doorway and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation.
    â€œI loved your dad,” he heard the older man telling Tobey. “He was a customer of our bank for thirty years, so this is very hard for me. But you’re six months behind on the mortgage for this place and there’s nothing more I can do to help you out. We’ll have to foreclose on you if you can’t come up with the payment next week.”
    Tobey didn’t reply. He just nodded and awkwardly shook hands with the man. Then he watched in silence as the man got in his car and drove away.
    As soon as Tobey walked back into the garage, he realized Joe had been watching the conversation—and maybe listening in as well.
    â€œWho was that guy?” Joe asked him.
    â€œJust an old customer of my dad’s,” Tobey replied quietly.
    â€œI didn’t recognize him,” Joe said.
    â€œHe may bring his car in next week,” Tobey added.
    â€œOh yeah? What’s wrong with it?” Joe asked.
    Tobey took a moment, and then replied a little testily, “It’s our job to find out, right?”
    Joe studied his friend for a moment. Tobey’s father was the reason Joe was in this business. He was the one who’d hired him as a kid to sweep the garage, and in the process, taught him just about everything there was to know about what made cars run—and run fast.
    â€œIs your mind on tonight’s race?” Joe asked Tobey.
    Tobey just shrugged.
    â€œWell, I want to get there early,” Joe continued.