John Miller - The Last Day

The dining room was beginning to fill up with club members and their guests. Gene Duncan was already seated at a table in the lower level at one of the enormous windows that were canted to damper the vibration from the roaring engines, overlooking the one-and-a-half-mile oval track.

Ward walked down the wide carpeted stairs and made a beeline for his friend, who was charming a middle- aged waitress from Harrisburg. She had three children and two grandchildren, and was sometimes remiss in having her hair dyed blond. Her uniform accented her large breasts and wide hips but she was light on her sensible black shoes.

Gene Duncan, the end product of a marriage between a Scot and a German (both lawyers- one a superior court judge), and Ward McCarty had been friends since they were in kindergarten. Gene was over six feet tall, weighed two hundred and sixty pounds, and wore his brown hair swept back over the tops of his ears. He had a casual air that seemed in stark contrast to the two- thousand- dollar suits he wore. He looked up at Ward and smiled easily.

“Sweet tea, Mr. McCarty?” the waitress asked Ward. She poured his glass to the brim before jetting off in search of empty glasses on the nearby tables.

“Sweeter the better,” he said to her back.

“How was your trip out west?” Gene asked, opening his briefcase and taking out a notepad, which he studied with furrowed brows.

Ward knew he'd asked without really caring, so he said, “My plane went down in the Grand Canyon and I had to survive for three days on cactus and rattlesnakes. Luckily the rest of the passengers on board were showgirls. Well, there was Wayne Newton, but his wife was along.”

“Glad to hear it. Couple of things to go over,” Gene said.

Ward looked out the window to his right and spotted a film crew gathered near turn one, probably making a commercial. Ward recognized the car as being Jeff Gordon's. Gordon, recognizable by the race suit, stood against the car. He was a fearless, extremely talented driver, and also a clean, classy, and intelligent man with a sense of humor, possessing the handsome boyish looks of a male model. He was everything brusque billionaire Bruton Smith, the track's owner, could want for NASCAR's image. Recently Smith had threatened to move the track, lock, stock cars, and barrel, because he had started building a huge drag strip on the property and the Concord City Council had mentioned he'd need a building permit. Approval of the council was required since the constant noise of dragsters thundering down the quarter- mile asphalt might annoy homeowners near the raceway Having NASCAR races twice a year for a few days and nights was one thing, but this new drag strip?

Bruton Smith was not one to ask permission from any council. Once he had cut down one hundred old protected oak trees to add spaces to one of his parking lots. He'd had them cleared late at night and paid the fine instead of seeking permission.

The drag strip fight had been public and, after Smith threatened to move, the city ended up waging a very public and humiliating asskissing from the politicians to save the seventy million dollars the races put into the local economy annually. The campaign included small airplanes pulling WE LOVE YOU BRUTON and PLEASE DON T GO BRUTON banners, renaming a main street for him, offering tens of millions in infrastructure improvements to be paid for using tax dollars, and more.

Natasha had said, only half in jest, that they should watch the “ grovel- to- grovel” coverage of those city council meetings on cable TV

Ward leaned back in his chair, waiting.

“Flash Dibble has fattened his offer.”

“Why would he do that, or better still, why do you keep listening to them and bringing them to me?”

“Because everything is for sale.”

“I am familiar with the adage, but RGI is the sole exception in the known universe.”

“This whole NASCAR thing has been phenomenal for the past few years, but once the yuppies get bored with the smell of gas fumes and burned rubber, it will suffer the same fate as disco music. Jeff Gordon will rank right up there with the Bee Gees. As gas prices and ticket prices rise, profits will continue to go down for speedways. Smell the times, old buddy. Look, Flash says you can run the company just like now, if you want to, and he's offering a million five more as added incentive, plus the thirteen million he already offered for your stock, and he'll pay your uncle seven point five for his,” Gene said. “That's twenty- two million dollars cash!”

“Before taxes,” Ward said, smiling.

“So, it's still a frigging fortune. That's serious fuck- you money any way you look at it. You should seriously consider it. Fourteen and a half million dollars ain't a bad payday. You can retire at thirtyfive. And I think he might agree to pay you a percentage of profits for maybe five years. I know…” Gene raised his hands, palms out.“…He could stack expenses and lower the profits, but we can make that a percentage of gross before expenses. Hell, you could draw your pictures till your fingers bleed and put them in your own gallery and only let your friends in to see them, or just buxom blondes.”

The idea of selling his company and sitting around his house with nowhere to go filled Ward with anxiety. And the idea of selling to Flash Dibble-it would never happen. “And I don't want to throw money into the air and see how much of the floor I can cover. Or drive a Bentley Or play golf.” Leaning in, Ward said, “And what about the video game?”

“He doesn't know about that. We can negotiate that when the time comes. That's if it ever gets past the designing stage.”

“I saw the beta in Vegas. Paul assures me it will be finished, bugs out, within the next six months. It is so cool.”

“Christ, Ward. You just repay the money RGI put up for the development, and you'll have nothing to worry about.”

“That game should be part of RGI, and our employees should be rewarded. I still intend to do the profit- sharing thing, and after it's released would be the time to institute that.”

“Your father would spin in his grave,” Gene said, looking down as he said it. The mention of grave brought the same unpleasantness into both their minds. “Like I said. Just think it over.”

“What's to think over? You think Flash Dibble would share profits with our employees?”

“Aside from that. Talk to Natasha. Mark has been there from the start, and he'll sell if he can.”

“You've run the new offer by Unk?” Ward asked, blindsided and suddenly annoyed. “When?”

“We spoke Sunday afternoon at the country club. You were still out of town, and I didn't think you'd mind. Do you?”

“I guess not,” Ward lied.

“He'd be a fool not to consider it. Mark's not getting any younger, and his skin is going to get blue from the Viagra he's got to be taking to keep Bunny happy.”

Normally the friendly dig might have made Ward chuckle. “Well, I don't intend to sell the company. Unk can't sell his stock to anyone but me. What else?”

“But-”

“What else?” Ward locked his hands tightly together and frowned. His old friend knew when that was exactly that.

Gene flipped a page and looked at the sheet like whatever was written there was, before that moment, unknown to him. “Lander Electric's insurance company's attorneys want a meeting,” Gene said. “They want to settle. I think it's the smart move. Ward, you need to get this behind you. Natasha agrees.”

“Natasha told you she'd sign a confidentiality agreement? Jesus, Gene, how many meetings are you having behind my back?”

“She called me, Ward.”

“She said she'd sign?” he asked, not believing what he was hearing. She knew how strongly Ward felt about that. If Lander wanted to settle, they'd have to let the world know what they did.