JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
23 July
5:30 a.m.
Buffalo, New York
The drive to Buffalo yesterday was interesting. Scenery was fairly rural. We stopped to help Paulie and her team. Kell screamed about that for an hour afterward. No time infractions. Car ran fine.
I’m not sure I’m cut out for travel journaling. I can’t think of anything more to say about the trip out.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
23 July
5:36 a.m.
Buffalo, New York
I can think of a lot of things to say about Paulie, though.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
23 July
11:18 p.m.
Sandusky, Ohio
Privacy warning notice. The next couple of paragraphs are not to be included in travel journal and are just for my own reference. And insight—not that it’s done anything but make me feel horrible.
How can I let Paulie go on believing what she believes? That’s the big question that was giving me hell after Paulie knocked on my door last night and we ended up in a lovemaking session. Except there I was, feeling horrible afterward once Paulie had left to return to her own room.
“You ass,” I told myself as I got dressed. “She thinks you’re mourning the loss of your dead fiancée. She doesn’t know the truth. Tell her. Tell her the truth.”
A little voice in me disputed that suggestion, saying that things were going so nicely, it would be a shame to screw them up so soon in the relationship.
“Not that there is a relationship,” I said to my reflection, getting out a razor and shaving cream. “It’s just physical pleasure. Nothing more. No emotional entanglements.”
My reflection looked skeptical at that.
“I’ll tell her,” I said later, when I was pulling on my shoes and checking to make sure I had my wallet and passport. “I’ll her the truth. Then she won’t have to feel guilty about me feeling guilty, and she can wrap those gorgeous legs around me with abandon.”
The production company had chosen a hotel that had a banquet room, which was where our first night’s dinner was held. I scanned the room for Paulie, but didn’t see her. I intended on waiting around the door so that I could be there when she arrived, but Rupert beckoned me over. Reluctantly, and with an eye on the door, I wound my way around the tables to where he sat with the other English team.
“This is Dixon,” he said, introducing me. “Dix, I told Stephen here that you’d be able to help him with a spreadsheet.”
The man in question smirked. “Would you mind terribly? The hub here insists that we keep our plans ordered, so that we can check them off as we get to them, and I can’t get the damned thing to do anything but clump the text up as a wad.”
I gave Rupert a telling look, which he ignored. He mumbled something about saying hello to one of the personal assistants and headed off while I took the seat next to balding Stephen. I glanced at the other two men, unsure of which was the husband. “Er . . . hello. Nice to see some fellow countrymen. I don’t think we met earlier?”
“No, we were present for the first night’s dinner only,” one of the other two men said, “and fittings of course.” He was dark haired, with a beard and thick black glasses, looking like a stereotypical geek.
“We had plans, you see,” said the third, a man whose origins were probably somewhere in the Caribbean, if the slight accent was anything to go by. “Hub three wanted to go to Atlantic City quite badly.”
“Hub three?” I asked, confused as hell.
“We’re polyamorous,” Stephen said with a bright smile. “We’re all married to each other. I’m hub three, Sanders is hub one, and Sammy is hub two.”
“I see.” I looked at the tablet, squinting at the tiny window of spreadsheet. I made it bigger and tried to decipher the jumbled text.
“We shock ever so many people back home when we tell them,” Sanders (dark hair and glasses) said with obvious complacency. “But here no one will turn a hair to us.”
“Except for the fact that we’re the villains,” the last one said. By process of elimination, I figured he must have been Sammy. “People’ll have a thing or two to say about us because of that—don’t you know?”
I managed to get the text spread out so that it was readable. The words I saw there and the ones spoken had me looking up in surprise. “You’re the villains?”
“Yes, isn’t it exciting?” Stephen beamed at me and ruffled his fringe of light brown hair until it stood on end. “We’re ever so thrilled to have the part, and as I said, the hub—hub two—wants to keep our list straight so we don’t repeat ourselves.”
“I think,” I said, setting the tablet down, “I’m going to need this explained to me. I wasn’t aware we were assigned specific roles. I thought we were just racing.”
“Oh, we are,” said Stephen. “Didn’t you see that movie The Great Race? We’re the villains just like Jack Lemmon and Peter Falk were the villains. We’re here to win the race at all cost, and we will do whatever it takes to do so.”
“But that was a movie,” I protested.
“Yes, but this is TV,” Sammy pointed out. “It’s almost the same thing.”
“Even if we ignore that, we’re still left with the fact that this race is based on a real one, one in which there were a handful of people traveling around the world, and I don’t recall hearing anything about any of them being self-declared villains.” I looked from one to another of them. They all stared back at me with blithe indifference.
“It’ll make for good TV,” Sammy insisted. “Roger thinks it’s an excellent idea.”
“Then he’s insane if he thinks I’m going to aid and abet you attempting to sabotage my team or any other team.” I held up the tablet. “These plans are downright actionable.”
“Oh, they’re not that bad,” Stephen said, waving away my concern. “It’s not like we’re going to hurt anyone, after all. We’re not psychopaths! We just want to throw a few spanners in the works.”
“Nice ones,” Sammy agreed, nodding. “Ones that slow people down.”
“That’s cheating,” I said, my voice rife with disbelief and outrage.
Sanders shrugged. “There’s nothing to stop any of you from throwing spanners in our works, you know.”
“Only the fact that we value good sportsmanship and common decency,” I snapped, and thought seriously of handing the tablet back when a thought occurred to me.
“Now, don’t take that attitude,” Stephen said in a voice that I assumed was meant to be soothing. “It’s all part of the reality TV game, Dixon. You need to open yourself up to the sorts of shenanigans that go on in front of the camera. You’ll see—our plans will spice things up just enough to keep you all on your toes and to provide for some truly epic footage.”
I glanced down at the spreadsheet, automatically formatting it so the text was arranged properly. Banana in tailpipe, read the first item, followed by: loosen bolts on steering wheel, slip laxative to team, lock team into room on third floor or higher, dispose of spare tires, replace radiator water with vodka, get team members fighting amongst selves, accuse a team of theft (NB: must plant something on them first), encourage members of rival teams to sleep together in order to foster jealousy and ill feelings, tell press members are felons, write slurs on cars when teams aren’t looking. “This is a hell of a list,” I said slowly. I looked up to see three pairs of eyes on me, speculation in all of them.
“No,” I said quickly.
“No what?” Stephen asked.
“No to whatever it was you were going to say. I don’t want to have any part of this. I don’t hold with cheating of any sort, and no matter what you say, that’s what this is.”
“Oh well,” Sammy said, and held out his hand for the tablet. Reluctantly, I handed it over. “We had to try, you know.”
“I’m going to have to report this,” I said with a nod at the tablet. I don’t know what I expected them to do at that statement, but it certainly wasn’t smile at me.
“You go right ahead and tell Roger about it all,” Stephen said, the others nodding with him.
I rose and was about to leave when something occurred to me. “What’s to stop me from warning the other teams what you have in mind? You just let me see your plans, after all, and if I tell them that you intend on attempting to eliminate their chances at winning, they will simply watch out for you.”
“That’s what makes it all so delicious, don’t you think?” Sanders asked, his eyes holding a look that I remembered well in a bully from my school years. “You’ll all be on guard, but you won’t have an idea when or where or how we’ll strike.”
“Thanks for the help with the spreadsheet,” Sammy added, tapping on the tablet. “It’s much more readable this way. I wonder if we should get a printout?”
I shook my head and left them, going straight to Roger, who was busily talking to two other members of the production company.
“A word in your ear if I might,” I told him, and gave him no option to refuse. Quickly, I explained what had happened with the Essex Esses team. “I don’t like to be the one to tell tales about another team, but the blatant statement of intent to cheat surely excuses it.”
“It would—it would indeed, if that’s what will really happen,” Roger said calmly, giving me a patient smile. “The boys came to me with their idea, naturally, and I couldn’t help but give it the green light. Oh, not any actual sabotages—that would be quite against the rules of the race—but their intent to play the villains before the cameras will be pure gold. Everyone loves to hate the villain of a piece, and here we have three!”
“But their plans,” I protested. “Their list of what they plan on doing—have you seen it?”
“All just part of their personas, I assure you. Why else would they show it to you?” He shook his head. “Think, man—if they truly wished to damage anyone’s chances, they’d hardly tell you, then express no concern when you said you’d tell the rest of the racers.”
“I didn’t say I would tell everyone; I just asked them what was to stop me from doing so.” I had to admit, he had a point. If I was planning some sabotage, the last thing I’d do was tell people about it. “If they weren’t serious about it, why go to all the trouble of creating a spreadsheet?”
Roger shrugged, and pulled out his phone when it burbled. “Padding their parts so they will get more camera time? Which they will, of course, because, as I said, everyone loves to hate the villain. Ah, Barry. Yes, I’m here. Buffalo, actually. First day of shooting was a bit rocky, but overall good . . .”
He moved away to take his call, leaving me to stand with a vaguely dissatisfied emotion. I glanced around the room and saw Paulie, but her table was full. Disappointed, I lifted my hand in a wave, but she was laughing at something her tablemates—two of the Italians and her teammates—had said.
I felt alone and somewhat peevish, and sat with the Ducal team for dinner. Roger recapped the events of the day for everyone, made a few announcements about what was coming up for the following few days, and talked a bit about the local news stations that would be catching us up. I didn’t pay much attention; I was too busy wondering why Paulie didn’t even look over at me.
Kell stopped by my table as the meal was coming to an end and said acidly, “I hope you will have more team spirit tomorrow and not attempt to make us lose again. I didn’t come all this way just to sit around in a car and see a country full of idiots.”
“That’s rather rough, don’t you think?” I asked calmly, instinctively knowing that the best way to deal with his temper was to keep a firm grip on mine. “I’ve enjoyed the people I’ve met here thus far, and the scenery will get quite spectacular when we approach mountains, or so my brother told me.”
Kell’s lips were thin when he snapped out, “Shows what you know. Just do your job and don’t get in my way.”
I thought about suggesting to Paulie that we spend the night together, but since she had already left, I figured she had other things to do.
Better things. More interesting things.
“God, I hate it when I get maudlin,” I said aloud on the way back to my room, and shook the glum mood off.
By the next morning, I’d given myself several lectures reminding myself that I had no intention to get involved with anyone and that, although a little mutually satisfying sex wasn’t wrong, it was better if I had no intentions beyond that.
“The race is only for a month,” I told myself when I loaded my things into the car for the early-morning start. “After that, you return home and she goes back to California. There’s no future there.”
“Talking to yourself again, old man?” Rupert asked, taking his place in the backseat of the car.
“Shut it,” I told him amiably, ignoring the glare that Kell gave me as he climbed in behind the steering wheel.
“Right,” Kell said, glancing at his phone before tucking it away inside his motoring jacket. “Let’s try something a little different today. The cameras like action, so we’re going to give them some.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rupert asked, leaning forward to hear the answer over the sound of the engine roaring to life.
“We’re not getting nearly enough camera time. That daughter of d’Espry is hogging all the attention, and if she thinks I’m going to put up with the antics of an amateur, she can think again. Either we get the bulk of the filming, or I’ll leave. My agent has leads on a couple of new reality shows starting up, so I don’t need a show where I’m hardly seen.”
The car lurched forward to the waiting crew, who were sending racers off in five-minute intervals. We took our place in line, Rupert and I exchanging glances while Kell outlined a plan that was frankly fantastic. “There’s a town named Rudsville that we’ll pass in the afternoon. While we’re there, two men are going to pretend to rob a petrol station and will speed away. We’ll hop into action and chase them down. After calling d’Espry to let him know what’s going on, of course, so he can be sure to film us in pursuit.”
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked him. “That’s the most ridiculous setup I’ve ever heard. Who did you find to agree to that?”
“Two mates of a friend of mine. They won’t really rob the station,” Kell snapped. “You don’t have to get all holy on me. God! If I’d known I was going to be forced to be part of a team that had no idea what it’s like to be on a reality show, I’d never have agreed to this.”
“I don’t think Dixon is out of line questioning this plan,” Rupert yelled as we hit the motorway and Kell shifted into a higher gear. “What do you expect to get out of that plan?”
“Camera time. I thought I made that clear!” Kell bellowed.
“But what’s it going to look like?” I asked, also yelling. “We chase down a car, and then what? We can’t arrest the people, and I doubt if these men are going to agree to being arrested just to make you look heroic.”
“They’ll get away. We’ll express our regret that we couldn’t do more and then will continue on our way—an example of British justice at its best.”
“What justice?” Rupert asked, but Kell didn’t answer.
We drove on. I tried to make notes on the scenery, but there wasn’t much that elicited interest. By the time we hit Ohio, I was contemplating throwing Kell out of the car.
“Maybe that would give him the camera time he wants,” I complained to Rupert while we were stopped for Kell to have a toilet break behind some blackberry bushes alongside the road.
“I hear you, Dix. Maybe if we talk to d’Espry—”
“It won’t do any good,” I said wearily, looking up when the white Thomas Flyer sailed past us. From the back of the car, an arm shot up and waved. I smiled and lifted a hand in return, even though I knew that Paulie wouldn’t see it.
“What’s this?” Rupert asked, cocking an eyebrow at me before looking after the car. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a smile of a man who was interested in a woman. That was the suffragette car, wasn’t it?”
“What are we going to do about this mad plan of Kell’s?” I asked, blatantly changing the subject.
Rupert shrugged. “Nothing we can do to stop him if he insists on doing it. Best I can say is that we stay out of it if he does bring the cameras in to watch us. That way, we won’t look like the fool he will most certainly appear.”
“I don’t know why he can’t be content with focusing on the race. There’s enough here to keep us interested, especially once we get done with this timed business and can truly race.”
“I heard a rumor that we won’t be doing the part through China,” Rupert said, taking his place behind the wheel when Kell emerged from behind the bushes.
“Why? I was looking forward to seeing China, even if we were only going to be there for a few days.”
“Word is that the visas that Roger had applied for are not coming in. Something about the government not wanting to give permission for the film crew to be there.”
“What’s this about the film crew?” Kell plopped himself down in the backseat and took up his phone, glancing up and swearing under his breath when the Italian car passed us, the camera car right behind them. “Dammit, get going! Let’s not waste any more time.”
“You’re the one with the weak bladder,” Rupert said, but obediently started the car and pulled out into the traffic. “Kim said we might be skipping China.”
“Who’s Kim?” Kell yelled.
“Production assistant. Blond. Big tits. Visa trouble with China,” Rupert recapped at the top of his lungs.
“Oh. Good. Never wanted to go there in the first place.”
An hour later, Kell insisted we pull over to the shoulder. We’d just passed the Thomas Flyer at a roadside stand (I assumed it was stopped for a restroom break), and all was well until Kell became agitated. Reluctantly, I pulled over, surprised when he shoved me out of the seat. “Just going to call d’Espry and tell him we witnessed a station robbery and are in pursuit.”
“Kell, don’t do this—” I started to say, but Kell held up an imperious hand and proceeded to tell Roger a tissue of lies. “Roger! It’s Kell! Where are you? Good, you’re ahead of us. You’re not going to believe this, but we’re at a petrol station just outside of Rudsville, and two men ran out of the station with guns waving and hopped in a car to race off. Clearly they just robbed the place, and we’re chasing them now. If you get a camera crew up here, you should be able to get some exciting footage!”
“For the love of god,” I murmured, and moved to let him take the driver’s seat. I looked straight at the camera on the windscreen and said loudly, “I want a record that I’m dead against this deception.”
“Me too,” Rupert said, leaning over the backseat. “It’s a mad plan.”
“The robbers are in a small white sedan. There are two of them. The car has a bunch of bumper stickers on the back,” Kell told the phone, and yanked hard on the acceleration lever, sending us jerking forward. “Look, lads—there they are! Let’s get ’em!”
To the right of us, a small white car sat waiting at a petrol station. It was exactly as Kell described, and as we passed it Kell waved his arm wildly. The driver of the white car responded with a similar signal. It pulled out and quickly overtook us.
“Hanging up now, Roger,” Kell yelled. “It’s too dangerous to talk and drive. We could be killed if I don’t give this wild chase all of my attention.”
I couldn’t help it—I rolled my eyes . . . at least I did until we passed another petrol station. This one had a familiar long white car sitting at a pump. Coming around the side of the building, Paulie emerged at a run. Standing in their car, d’Espry’s daughter waved her hand, clearly calling to Paulie. At the wheel was the woman named Melody, hurriedly wrapping a big white veil of netting around her head.
“There’s the suffragette car,” I called as we sped past.
“Good! They were ahead of us. It means we’ll make up some time,” Kell bellowed in reply.
The wind ripped away the rest of his words. I glanced worriedly at the dials set behind the steering wheel, noting that we were now speeding along at a rate of fifty miles per hour. Although the cars more or less were equipped with modern engines that didn’t require hand cranking and were infinitely more powerful and reliable, the frames of the cars were original and not built for high speeds. We’d all been warned about pushing the cars over the limit of fifty-five, a speed that we found made the De Dion shake horribly.
“Slow down!” I yelled, pointing at the gauge when Kell applied more pressure to the accelerator lever. The car began to make a horrible rattling noise.
“We have to make a show of it,” Kell answered.
“He’s going to shake the tires off,” Rupert shouted, leaning over the back of my seat. “What the hell is he thinking?”
“He’s not. That’s the whole prob—”
The word stopped in my mouth as a white bonnet appeared to my left and a raucous horn sounded.
Rupert and I both turned to watch, astonished, as the Thomas Flyer pulled past us. In the backseat, swathed in white veil, Paulie waved and mouthed something, giving us a thumbs-up as their car pulled past.
Kell snarled something anatomically impossible and wrenched on the lever to give the car more speed. Snatches of words could be heard over the sound of the rattling and wind: “. . . they think they are doing . . . Roger told them. I will have my agent . . . stupid bitches getting in the . . .”
“Slow down!” I screamed, clutching the windscreen when it began to vibrate furiously. I was afraid the damned thing would come out of its frame and smash over us. “Kell, you’re going to tear the car apart!”
“We’re fine! It’s just noise! I’m not going to let those bitches beat me to the camera!”
I turned my head. Next to my shoulder, Rupert was gripping the back of my seat, his knuckles white. “Call d’Espry,” I yelled. “Tell him Kell is trying to kill us.”
“You do, and I really will!” Kell screamed over the noise of the engine, car, and wind.
Rupert ignored him and pulled out his mobile phone and dialed.
A high-pitched scream of anguish emerged from Kell’s open mouth. At the same time, I saw ahead of us the Thomas Flyer on the side of the road along with a small white sedan and a third car belonging to the camera crew. The cameraman stood on the hood of their car, filming as the ladies bounded over tall grass edging the road. Beyond them, two dark shapes bolted into a dense growth of trees.
A car approaching from the opposite direction screeched to a halt on the shoulder, and Roger emerged.
Kell began pounding on the steering wheel, obscenities polluting the air around him. I relaxed my hold on the windscreen as we started to slow, then suddenly was thrown forward, my head hitting the wooden dash of the car. Kell slammed on the brakes, still swearing profanely. The car fishtailed and skidded, one of the tires exploding loudly while we continued to skid to an eventual stop halfway off the shoulder into a shallow ditch.
“Christ!” Rupert yelled, fighting with his seat belt. “What the hell do you think you are doing? You could have killed us! Dixon, are you all right? There’s blood all over your face.”
The car shuddered slightly when a large lorry passed us. I sat up and felt my forehead, my fingers coming away red. “I’m all right despite Kell’s attempt to send me through the windscreen.”
Kell didn’t wait to hear more from us. He ripped his seat belt off and leaped out of the car, running to where Roger was standing with the film crew. Across the field of tall grass, the three ladies were slowly returning.
“That’s it,” Rupert said, his face grim. “I’m done with this race. I hate to be a quitter, but life is too valuable to be riding around with that madman.”
“I agree, but I’m not going to quit.” With shaking hands, I got my seat belt undone and crawled out the side of the car away from passing traffic. “I am, however, going to demand that Roger replace Kell. He’s a downright menace.”
The cameras had turned from the women, now almost back to their car, to where Kell was storming up and down in front of Roger, his hands waving wildly, his face contorted with anger.
One of the women veered away and trotted over to where I stood clutching the side of our car.
“Dixon, the most exciting thing happened! Roger called us to say that someone had just robbed a gas station just down the road from us—holy shitake! You’re bleeding!”
My head throbbed now, causing me to flinch back when she ran up and reached for my head. “Don’t,” I said, more roughly than I’d intended, especially when I saw the hurt in her face. I grabbed her wrist and continued. “Not because I don’t want you invading my space. My head hurts. I don’t want it touched.”
“Oh,” she said, relaxing, and pulled a couple of tissues from between her breasts. “How about if I dab up the blood running down your cheek? I won’t come near the cut. What happened to you?”
I let her dab at my face, flinching when she got close to the wound. “My head hit the dash. I’m sure it looks worse than it is.”
“You’d better see a doctor anyway.”
“Perhaps.”
5:43 a.m.
Fell asleep last night writing up the day’s adventures. No time to add to it now. Must remember to pick up the story later.