7. Rookie Bookie

Chapter Seven

Mercedes, Number One

Roanoke City, Strike County

I can’t be as dangerous as a cannibal and a mob boss, Mercedes thought, puffing smoke through his lips as he sped through Roanoke City. He didn’t know much about Mullins and Marchesi but he did know that a New York mob boss and a cannibal had to have a much bigger death toll than himself. The thought made him shudder. The only bright spot in Pop’s news had to be the fact that they had listed him only by his street name. That had to mean that even the FBI didn’t know what his legal name was.

But still. It was hard news to swallow. And who did Ranger think he was? Thinking that Mercedes would care about a native Raymonder who was running for vice president. More than likely, Ranger had just been looking for an excuse to talk to him. The Locksley County Number one was just that pathetic sometimes.

It was rush hour as Mercedes expertly navigated the streets of Roanoke. He wasn’t quite at top speed but he was going fast enough that the other cars were standing still. A chorus of honks and swerves sounded in his wake. A siren blared somewhere, but Mercedes was around each successive turn fast enough that the cops of the street racing task force would never catch up to him.

The news was enough to make Mercedes forgo calling other Roanoke racers on his way to Still Street, one of the city’s underworld hubs. The sun was going down, so more than likely, interested racers would be gathering there already. The speakers on his police scanner crackled and fizzled as officers tried to track his path through the city. If they were smart, they would skip pursuit and go straight to busting up the Still Street crowd. But officers were hardly ever smart, and Mercedes had to bet that they were all chasing the glory that would come from his arrest all the more fervently now that his name was among the top ten most wanted.

As Mercedes swung his Corvette onto the end of Still Street, he shoved the headset jack into the scanner. Then he tapped the console screen to switch his mobile to roaming and hit send. The GPS screen was replaced by a list of street names and mobile numbers of those who were in the same area.

“I thought I heard some scanner jabber about you, Mercy,” the voice of Nerve said through the Corvette’s speakers.

“Where were you last night?” Raw asked.

“I had to deal with a czar challenge.” Mercedes snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “That’s all.”

“Charm said he’d be around,” Steel’s voice added.

“What do you boys have going tonight?” Mercedes asked. He pulled his Corvette into the parking garage underneath the Valet, Still Street’s premier hotel. The first level of the garage was packed with civilians, but Mercedes didn’t stop there. He drove down to the second level, which was below street level.

“Not much,” Nerve replied.

A few civilian cars floated around there, but the space was mostly occupied by a throng of people from the city’s underground. Drug deals were nearly as popular an attraction here as street racing. He squeezed his Corvette through the crowd, passing by a more shady cluster of people that often served as temporary employees to a shadow group known as the Kontractors, to park at the end of a line of shiny bright sports cars. Some people stood outside this row but mostly the drivers were sitting inside.

“I never get tired of seeing that ‘vette,” Steel said.

“Looks a lot better from behind, I bet,” Mercedes said.

“You racing tonight?” Raw asked.

“Not that I’m concerned about losing my title or anything,” Mercedes said, “but now would not be a good time to get rusty. Besides, I’m in the mood.”

“So are you going to give second place the real prize?” Steel asked.

“Always,” Mercedes said. “Five K buy in, no car swaps. Second will take home sixty percent of the winnings, third will get twenty-five percent, and I’m taking fifteen percent because I have to make a living too. Who’s in?”

“Yup,” Raw said.

The speakers beeped and Splinter’s name and mobile flashed across the screen before settling into its alphabetical place on the list.

“Me too,” said Steel.

“And me,” Nerve agreed.

“There a race going down?” Splinter asked. “Count me in.”

“Buy in’s seven K for out-of -owners,” Mercedes said. “No swaps.”

“Yeah, I’ll be in for seven K,” Splinter said. “Where you at?”

“The Valet on Still Street,” Mercedes said. “ETA?”

“Uh,” Splinter said. “Give me three minutes.”

Just enough time for Mercedes to plan a track. It was just after six PM so Mercedes knew that the business districts were still likely to be packed with commuters. Mercedes tried to avoid this kind of congestion if at all possible—not because he cared for the civilians, but because it was harder to avoid damaging his ride when the road was clogged with them.

Mercedes leaned over the console screen and clicked it into route planning mode. He drew red lines on the desired streets. The longer the track was, the more opportunity his opponents would have to trade places, and the further away he would be out front, like he wasn’t in the race at all. Mercedes liked it that way, if only to prove over and over that the past fourteen years of his life hadn’t been for naught, and that he had truly been striving for something.

His name on the FBI’s top ten most wanted list should’ve been proof enough.

He was the first street racer in history to be viewed as a real dangerous threat. And he was a Raymonder at that. Maybe it was about damn time that the mainland took Raymonders seriously.

After he was satisfied with the track, which ran from Still Street to the outskirts of the city and then in a near complete loop along Roanoke’s perimeter, Mercedes punched in the command to load up the other racers’ positions, a triangle colored for each of their cars.

Splinter’s purple Challenger pulled across the line of cars. Mercedes pulled out his cigarettes and grabbed one with his teeth, lighting it up before climbing out of the Corvette. The other racers stepped out as well.

“Anyone around to collect the earnings?” Mercedes asked with a puff.

“Is that really necessary?” Raw asked.

Mercedes fixed him with a hard stare. “This is the rule of the road,” he said. When Raw opened his mouth to protest, Mercedes added, “My rules for my road. Because without order, you guys would be chaos. Now, if you’re unable to agree to sacrifice two percent of your earning to the bookie, maybe you shouldn’t be in this race.”

Raw lifted up his hands as though in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he said.

“Tch,” Nerve said. He looked around the throng of people. “I’ll bet one of your bookies is around here somewhere. They’d be fools not to be.”

“Bookies are just guys who are too slow to make it as racers,” Raw whispered close to Steel’s ear.

Mercedes narrowed his eyes at the older racer but said nothing, choosing to puff on his cigarette instead. His gaze flicked to Nerve as the man moved away from his car and pushed through the crowd in search of a bookie.

Mercedes didn’t want to admit that he agreed with Raw, but there was some layer of truth to the man’s words. Bookies weren’t racers and many never would be. Just like not all racers would become czars and not all czars would become Numbers. It was just the way of things. Mercedes knew the same had to be true with the Suppliers’ Union and Stunt’s Psypher Network, though Mercedes wasn’t sure about that, since the Strike County Psypher, Stunt, was the only one allowed to interview him and prepare his fraudulent taxes.

Mercedes took the final drag on his cigarette and spat it onto the concrete, smothering the flame with his boot. “Let me load the track onto your rides,” he said just because he needed to get out of their range of sight. Mercedes ducked back into his car before any of them replied.

Voices were conversing over his speakers from other racers in roaming mode. Mercedes tapped the plus sign on the screen next to each of the competitors’ names, shifting them into a closed roaming circuit. Linking their mobiles in this manner allowed for him to transfer the map data from his car to theirs even though mobiles had no messaging service. Mercedes did so with a few more clicks.

Nerve was coming back with a guy in his early twenties when Mercedes climbed back out.

“I got a bookie,” Nerve said.

“Uh, name’s Buster,” the kid said. His gaze swept the group and he let out an audible squeak when his eyes found Mercedes. “You?”

“Good evening,” Mercedes said.

“You want me to be your bookie?” Buster asked.

“You’ll do great,” Mercedes said, only because it was polite. He explained the agreed-upon stakes to the kid as he opened the trunk to his car. As a habit, Mercedes always carried around ten grand. He removed five thousand dollars before shutting the trunk.

“Let me get my ride,” Buster said. He turned and hurried back the way he had come.

“You trust children as bookies in this city?” Splinter asked.

“Our mean population is of the younger generation,” Mercedes said. “Unlike Rockingham Falls.”

Splinter stuck his tongue out in response. He didn’t argue the point even though Mercedes knew that the majority of the Rockingham Falls population was under forty as well.

Mercedes quirked an eyebrow up at Splinter. “Pop’s in town,” he said.

Splinter’s skin visibly crawled. “Why’s he in town?”

Mercedes’ throat itched for another cigarette, but he refrained, choosing to ignore Splinter’s question. Buster pulled up in a Prius hatchback then.

“Bookies wouldn’t know good rides if they were rear-ended by one,” Raw whispered.

“Bookies are sensible,” Nerve said. “Seeing as how they couldn’t outrun the cops so why bother to draw attention to themselves with a fancy car?”

Buster hopped out of the Prius and opened the hatch. “Open and accepting buy-ins,” he said.

Splinter shot Mercedes a glance before moving to get his own cash. Mercedes brought his over to Buster.

“Right in there,” Buster said.

Mercedes set the briefcase into the Prius. Buster caught his wrist as he pulled his hand away. Mercedes tried to extract his hand but Buster’s grip tightened.

“I’ve seen you around the Keg,” Buster said.

“A lot of people have,” Mercedes said through clenched teeth.

“I never thought I was good enough to talk to you,” Buster said. “Now I’m your bookie.”

“So you grew a pair?” Mercedes asked.

“Catch up with me after the race,” Buster said. “We can go back to my place.”

Mercedes forced his hand free and turned his back on Buster. “I’m not looking to see anyone right now,” he said.

“Who said anything about seeing me?” Buster asked. “We can just spend the night together.”

“No.” Mercedes brushed past Nerve and Steel on his way back to his car.

He had to admit that he admired Buster’s guts. Mercedes had been asked out one hundred different ways. Usually he’d at least give a guy the chance to win his heart, but with the recent news he wasn’t willing to put that much trust into a rookie bookie.

Or maybe it was because Corey had come back into his life.

“I’ll be waiting in my car for the kickoff,” Mercedes said.