Need for Speed Read Free Page B

No one likes a snitch! Am I right?”
    The Gran Torino erupted in cheers.
    â€œAnd, by the way,” Monarch continued. “The results from Austin just came in. Texas Mike has posted a win.”
    Monarch took another caller. This one asked, “Why does Texas Mike have a shot at the De Leon and I don’t?”
    Monarch erupted. “Because Texas Mike’s McLaren F1 is worth one point two million, can do 240 miles per hour, and he can drive!” he shouted. “And you and your rolling bucket of bolts can’t. The Oracle has spoken!”
    More cheers from the Marshall crew.
    Monarch paused a moment, then went on.
    â€œBut, you know,” he said, his voice unusually subdued. “Tonight I’ve got my nose open on Mount Kisco, New York.”
    This perked up the ears of everyone in the Gran Torino.
    â€œYou’re shitting me,” Benny breathed. “Did he just say Mount Kisco?”
    The others shushed him as Monarch continued.
    â€œI’m interested in that one-horse town tonight because Tobey Marshall and Jimmy McIntosh are gonna duke it out in a field of five cars,” Monarch declared. “That’s a real scrappy circuit up there, and from what I hear, Tobey Marshall is a hell of a driver. Just another Cinderella looking for a dress for the ball. But I’m serious. If Tobey ever gets a car worthy of his talents . . . he just might get an invite to the De Leon someday.”
    â€œWell, ain’t that a bitch?” Finn said to Tobey. “First Monarch gives you a shout-out. Then he shits all over your car.”
    â€œYou mean
our
car!” Peck reminded everyone.
    Tobey shrugged. “That’s just the way he is,” he said.
    * * *
    He finally found a place to park the Gran Torino, and the Marshall team climbed out.
    Suddenly Little Pete stopped in his tracks, closed his eyes, and acted as if he was receiving some kind of message from the Great Beyond.
    He turned to Tobey. “While Monarch was talking about you just then, I had a vision.”
    â€œHere we go,” Finn murmured.
    â€œQuiet,” Benny said with a laugh. “I love hearing the kid’s visions.”
    Little Pete began: “I saw water and the sun and—”
    â€œ. . . and your sister in a hot bikini?” Finn interjected with a laugh.
    â€œShut it!” Little Pete scolded him. “This is serious.”
    He composed himself and continued.
    â€œI saw Tobey in this vision,” he said. “And you know what? He’s gonna win the De Leon.”
    â€œNo shit?” Finn said with good-natured sarcasm. “Tobey Marshall is gonna win the crown jewel of underground racing? Against McLarens and Bugattis and . . . Wait—is this going to happen this year?”
    Finn was right. Small illegal street races happened all the time, and they almost exclusively involved cars that were customized stock cars anyone could buy, such as Camaros, Mustangs, or Gran Torinos. But again, the De Leon was at the other end of the rainbow, involving high-end foreign-built cars like Lambos and Buggs. If any American-built cars were involved, they were usually sonically priced Mustang GTs and maybe, on an odd-moon Monday, a Chevy Corvette. But that happened very rarely.
    As was usually the case, it was a question of the haves and the have-nots. If Tobey had been able to recoup the sweat equity he and the others had put into his Gran Torino, its price tag might reach twenty grand or so. The cars that raced in the De Leon—their tires cost that much.
    Still, Tobey appreciated Little Pete’s enthusiasm.
    â€œThanks for your vote of confidence, Pete,” Tobey said. He’d just spotted his main competitor for the night: the driver named Jimmy McIntosh. “But I’ll have my hands full just trying to beat Jimmy.”
    Tobey nodded to McIntosh’s tricked-out 1966 Pontiac GTO, just pulling into the lot.
    It was a