Chapter 37: The Reward Was Sweet
Chapter 37: The Reward Was Sweet
“Yes!”
Jack had done it.
He managed to get the Rambler across the finish line exactly half a car length ahead of the Charger.
The difference was probably less than half a second, but in the world of racing, it was an enormous gulf separating winner from loser.
“Wait, what? That Rambler beat the Charger?”
“That beat-up old thing is incredible!”
“Does that mean Cyrus’s winning streak is over too?”
The spectators near the finish line shouted excitedly, all wearing expressions of disbelief.
However, none of their noisy yelling entered my head.
That was unbelievably close.
Standing directly along the extended finish line, I had watched the exact moment the Rambler crossed it.
The instant its front bumper touched the line seemed to unfold in slow motion.
Adrenaline poured from my brain and raced through my entire body, making my heart pound wildly.
That fleeting instant continued to shimmer before my eyes.
It was as though it had been permanently burned into my retinas.
I had never imagined I could experience this kind of exhilaration from a drag race, much less an underground one.
“We did it!”
“We won!”
Cole and Steven came sprinting toward me at full speed, punching wildly at the air.
“Jason. Did I win? Did I really win? Is this actually real…?”
Someone placed a hand on my shoulder from behind, breathing heavily with excitement.
It was Jack, who had returned after stopping the Rambler.
“Yeah. You won.”
I gave a brief answer and nodded.
“……”
Without warning, Jack grabbed me in a hug.
Cole and Steven immediately piled on as well.
“Ghk… I-I can’t breathe….”
Three large grown men charged at me like oversized dogs, instantly knocking the breath from my lungs.
A group hug?
What were we, a college football team?
Thump, thump, thump—
Without caring whether I suffocated to death, they pounded one another’s backs hard enough to break bones.
“Ooooooh!”
“Woo-woo-woo-woo!”
“Aow-aow-aow!”
Each of them rounded his lips and howled like an animal.
They truly were a pack of orangutans.
“Well then, Cyrus! Thanks for the car! Tell us anytime you want to race again with another one!”
Steven shouted as he loaded the Dodge Charger that had once belonged to Cyrus onto the trailer he had prepared in advance.
“Ghk, damn it….”
Unable to bear watching his car leave, Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away.
Tonight was undoubtedly a terrible nightmare for him.
Yet even for us, the winners, everything still felt like a dream.
We had gained an entire car from a race lasting barely more than ten seconds.
I still could not believe it.
A used 2009 Dodge Charger R/T was worth approximately seven thousand dollars.
Its age and performance placed it in an awkward middle ground, so it was not particularly valuable in stock form.
However, a car modified to this extent was a different matter.
Steven had asked a dealer he knew who specialized in drag cars, and the estimated value was between twenty thousand and twenty-five thousand dollars.
Cyrus had probably spent at least that much on the modifications alone, but money invested in tuning was rarely recovered in full when selling a used car.
“I’m never going to forget tonight.”
Back at the warehouse for our victory celebration, Jack spoke quietly.
“I’ve drag-raced more times than I can count, but I’ve never felt my heart pound like that before.”
“Hehehe, that’s true.”
Cole nodded vigorously at Jack’s words.
“This was all because of you guys. I never could have beaten Cyrus alone. I’d probably still be contributing to that bastard’s gas money this week…. Seriously, thank you, everyone.”
“What are you thanking us for? We’re making money too! Even split four ways, that’s still a lot! Bwahahaha! Cheers!”
Steven raised the Coors bottle in his hand.
“Cheers!”
Clink, clink—
The clear sound of beer bottles striking one another echoed through the warehouse.
Perhaps victory was serving as seasoning, because the beer tasted especially good tonight.
“Ahh….”
“Whew….”
As though they had agreed beforehand, the three of them drained their beers in one go.
Then they silently stared for a while at the Charger resting on the trailer—their victory trophy and prize money.
“…Should we bring out ‘that’ now?”
Cole was the first to break the brief silence.
“Good. It’s heavy, so Jack and Cole, you two help.”
Steven stood up and brushed himself off.
“That? What is ‘that’?”
I rose and called after them as they headed toward Steven’s Ford F-150, but no one answered.
A short while later—
“Here, Jason. This is our opening gift to you.”
What they placed in front of me was a wide, elongated steel plate.
The words {Second Life Motors} had been cut clean through the center of the smooth, gleaming silver metal.
“When did you…? How did you…?”
Second Life Motors.
In other words, Motors for a Second Life.
It was the name I had chosen when registering the restoration business, conveying my desire to give automobiles a new life.
“You officially registered your restoration business, right? But you still didn’t have a sign. Hehe. Cole picked the design, by the way. If you don’t like it, complain to him.”
Steven slapped Cole’s back as he spoke.
When they visited the warehouse before, they had looked around everywhere.
They must have seen the business license I was legally required to display.
“No. I like it. Thank you… all of you.”
The thick, crude steel plate, with its laser-cut lettering, was far from polished.
That was precisely why I liked it.
Once it was hung outside, the bright silver surface would gradually rust over the years until it became covered in rough brown.
I almost looked forward to watching it happen.
“Live long enough and you really do see everything. We even got to hear Jason say thank you.”
“His glare is still vicious, though.”
“And that stiff expression! Hahaha!”
The three of them laughed teasingly at my awkward face.
“Woof! Woof!”
Hearing their laughter, Dusty wagged his tail wildly and jumped up and down as though demanding to be included.
“All right. Since we’re celebrating our victory tonight, you get something too, Dusty!”
I took out the enormous dog chew I had purchased during my last trip into town.
The moment Dusty saw it, he spun in circles dozens of times, unable to contain his excitement.
“All right, settle down. Here.”
When I placed it in his mouth—
Scamper—
He carried it to his designated cushion, pinned it between his front paws, and began chewing enthusiastically.
Everyone burst into laughter at the sight.
Judging by how easily they were laughing, the alcohol had clearly gone to their heads.
The next morning, I woke up slightly later than usual and began cleaning up the remains of last night’s celebration.
I emptied the cooler, whose ice had completely melted into water, and collected the empty beer bottles scattered everywhere.
“I don’t think I’ve drunk like this with anyone except my teammates in the SEALs.”
I had not noticed while drinking, but counting the bottles as I cleaned revealed that there were quite a lot of them.
Two large plastic waste bins stood outside the warehouse.
One was black, and the other was blue.
The blue one was for recycling. Paper, plastic, and glass bottles could all be placed into the same recycling bin without sorting them separately.
The remaining ordinary rubbish and food waste went into the black bin.
Still, this Rambler was certainly an unusual experience.
The Rambler project was closer to tuning than restoration, but I received a similar completion reward.
My proficiency was steadily increasing, and most importantly, I had earned a respectable 660 coins.
“Cleaning’s done. Dusty, come here. Let’s go for a walk.”
I had spent the past two weeks completely absorbed in tuning the Rambler, so Dusty and I had only taken short walks.
“Woof! Woof!”
Hearing me, Dusty sprang up from his cushion, grabbed the leash from the low shelf with his mouth, and hurried toward me.
He was growing larger by the day and had also become quite good at understanding what I said.
Sometimes, I genuinely wondered whether a person was hiding inside him.
“Let’s take a long walk today. It’s been a while.”
Dusty had established what he considered his own territory around the area.
If he went too long without inspecting it, he would whine and complain.
He may look like a fluffy puppy, but I suppose he is still descended from wolves.
Watching him wag his tail hard enough to lift off the ground made that difficult to believe.
The moment we stepped outside, fresh air filled my lungs.
Now that it was the middle of September, the mornings and evenings were beginning to feel cool.
Of course, midday was still as hot as summer.
Sniff, sniff—
Dusty had excellent walking manners.
He had completely adjusted to his harness and matched his pace to mine while carefully watching me.
We had traveled quite far from the warehouse.
The barren land offered nothing worth seeing, but looking across the vast horizon made my chest feel as though it had opened wide.
It was a peaceful walk, the first in a long time.
At least, until Dusty, who had been half a step ahead of me, suddenly stopped moving.
“Grrrr.”
He lowered his body and ears toward something and bared his teeth.
His tension traveled through the leash pulled taut between us.
“What is it? A kangaroo rat?”
Nine times out of ten, Dusty behaved like this during walks because there was a small animal nearby.
This time, however, his reaction was slightly different.
It was closer to vigilance than curiosity.
Following the direction of his nose and tracing the wind backward, I saw a coyote standing near the distant horizon.
Its form shimmered within the heat haze like a mirage.
The coyote appeared to have noticed us as well.
It pricked up its ears and slowly turned its body toward us.
At that moment, Dusty could no longer restrain himself and began barking.
“Woof! Woof!”
“Shh…. There’s no need. At times like this, we just pass by slowly.”
I gently pulled on his leash as I spoke.
Coyotes were common wild animals for anyone living in Arizona.
At first glance, they resembled feral dogs, but every part of a coyote’s face was slightly sharper.
Its ears, its nose—everything.
Unlike wolves, they did not form large packs and usually traveled alone or in pairs.
They also rarely attacked people, so they were not a major threat.
For Dusty, however, it was an entirely different matter.
Small dogs and cats were extremely appetizing prey to coyotes.
“You should keep a gun around. Coyotes might appear in the area.”
The words of the warehouse owner when I first rented the place crossed my mind.
A gun….
I did not like guns.
Guns always made problems worse.
Moreover, the cold sensation of metal whenever I touched one brought back unpleasant memories I had buried.
Damn it….
Merely thinking about it made me feel as though the acrid smell of gunpowder was already filling my nose.
“Whine, whimper.”
Dusty had come close without my noticing and rubbed his face against my calf.
“…It’s all right. Let’s finish checking this area and head back.”
I gently stroked the back of his neck.
The gesture was intended to reassure him, but it often calmed me slightly as well.
The coyote that had stood on the horizon had already disappeared.
I’ll think about the gun slowly. It’s true that I need one.
Living alone with a dog in a remote warehouse in the United States made it practically essential for security.
Still, I needed a little more time to prepare myself mentally.
After soothing Dusty, who remained unusually alert to his surroundings, I returned to the warehouse.
A red Mercedes convertible I had never seen before was parked out front.
Who is that? Does anyone around here drive a car like that?
A Mercedes-Benz SL 320 R129.
(Translator’s Note: Mercedes-Benz R129 SL — The fourth-generation Mercedes-Benz SL-Class luxury roadster, produced from 1989 to 2001. It combined sports-car performance with long-distance comfort and was notable for its automatic rollover bar and removable hardtop.)
It was a Mercedes-Benz convertible from the 1990s, back when the company’s body designs still retained their sharp, angular lines.
The SL was Mercedes-Benz’s most luxurious roadster grand tourer—a high-end sports car designed to travel fast, far, and comfortably.
(Translator’s Note: Grand tourer / GT — A high-performance car designed for sustained, comfortable long-distance travel rather than only short-distance racing. The term derives from the European tradition of the “grand tour.”)
It’s also a car that lets you experience Mercedes before the era of aggressive cost-cutting.
I did not particularly like convertibles, but this model did not feel excessively showy.
The understated elegance created by its thoroughly functional design was impressive as well.
Click—
“Excuse me, hello. Do you happen to know a man named Jason who restores automobiles here?”
At that moment, the car door opened, and a woman with a stylish black bob stepped out.
“Woof!”
…You were a step too late, idiot.
Leaving Dusty’s delayed warning behind, I approached the woman and introduced myself.
“I’m Jason. Who are you?”
The woman’s eyes widened when she heard me.
“You’re Jason? Hehe. I didn’t expect you to be so young, so I failed to recognize you even when you were standing right in front of me. This is who I am.”
With a refined voice and restrained movements, she removed a business card from her handbag and handed it to me.
{Heritage Classic}
Senior Editor
—Elena Monroe—