“There’s something very high stakes here. Something we don’t understand,” I said to Hooker. “There has to be more going on than cheating at a race.”

“I agree. I think we need to find out why Ray killed his brother.”

“You were thinking Madam Zarra and her crystal ball would tell us?”

“I was thinking Ray would tell us. All we have to do is kidnap Ray and beat the crap out of him until he talks to us.”

I felt my mouth drop open, and I guess I must have looked as horrified as I felt.

“What?” Hooker said.

“Do you have an alternative plan?”

“Not at the moment.”

“What makes you think he’ll talk if we beat him?”

“I’ve been beat on a lot, and I always talk.”

“Let’s go on the assumption that the chip has something to do with the murders. Ray really wants that chip back.”

“If we gave the chip to NASCAR, he could lose the championship,” Hooker said.

“Yeah, but he’s never cared about the car side of the business before. Why does he care so much about the championship now? And his dead brother would take the hit. Ray would say he knew nothing about it. Ray would come out clean. And anyway, NASCAR would impose a fine and some sanctions, but they wouldn’t take the championship away. They’d have to undo too many things that are already in motion. Photo ops and satellite radio tours and television appearances. Not to mention party favors for the banquet next week.”

“So?”

“I think there’s something else going on with the chip.”

“Like it has some secret James Bond code on it that can be used to destroy the world?”

“Nothing that glamorous. I was thinking more about the things Steven told us…a breakthrough in computer technology. Or a new and better battery.”

Hooker looked doubtful. “Do you think someone would kill for a better battery?”

“A better battery could be worth a lot of money.”

Hooker kissed the nape of my neck.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“I’m getting friendly.”

“There’s no getting friendly. We don’t get friendly anymore.”

Hooker was a good lover for the same reason he was a good race-car driver. He never gave up. It didn’t matter whether he was closing in on the leader, or if he was twenty laps down, he put out the same effort. And if he was in cruising mode, it was only because he was pacing himself and reorganizing. Hooker wasn’t a quitter…not in a car and not in bed. And apparently that characteristic carried over to not giving up on failed relationships. Or hell, what do I know? Maybe he just didn’t spend enough quality time in the bathroom this morning.

“Suppose we go to jail? Suppose the bad guys find us and kill us? Don’t you want to get one last orgasm in?” Hooker asked.

“No!”

Hooker kissed me, and somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, his hand had wandered to my breast. Turns out race-car drivers also aren’t good with no. No isn’t a word they entirely comprehend.

“Not in front of the dog,” I said to Hooker, pushing his hand away.

“The dog isn’t looking.”

“The dog is looking.”

Beans had climbed out of the cargo area and was sitting with his butt on the backseat. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

“Would you get friendly if the dog wasn’t looking?” Hooker asked.

“No. Could you please put your libido on hold? I have some ideas. We could talk to Spanky’s spotter.”

“You mean we could beat the crap out of him.”

“Yeah, okay, we could beat the crap out of him. Anyway, it seems like there’s some potential for information there. Or we could break into Huevo R and D…”

“Huevo R and D is in Mexico,” Hooker said. “Not that Mexico is impossible, but the police probably have my plane grounded. We’d have to fly commercial. And that would be chancy.”

“How about residences. Does Ray Huevo have a house in the Concord area?”

“Oscar had a house on Lake Norman. I’m not sure how much he used it. I know Mrs. Oscar wasn’t in love with North Carolina. Sometimes I’d hear that Oscar was in town, but I never saw him out and around. I think it was…take care of business and get out of Hicksville. I don’t think Ray has anything here. There might be a corporate condo somewhere.”

“Am I missing anything?”

“The goons. Horse and Baldy. Huevo’s henchmen. We could try to get something out of them.”

“You mean like get them to confess to murdering two people?”

“Yeah,” Hooker said. “Of course we’d have to beat the crap out of them.”

“I’m seeing a pattern here.”

“My talents are limited. Basically, I’m only good at three things. I can drive a car. I can beat the crap out of people. And you know the third thing. It involves a lot of moaning on your part.”

“I don’t moan!”

“Darlin’, you moan.”

“This is embarrassing. Let’s get back to beating the crap out of people. Who would you like to take on first?”

“The spotter, Bernie Miller.” Hooker dialed a number on his cell phone. “I need some help,” he said. “No. Not that kind of help, but thanks, I might need it later. Right now I just need some information. I need an address for Bernie Miller, Spanky’s spotter.”

Hooker cradled the phone between shoulder and ear, listening while he rummaged around in the console and the door pocket. He came up with a pen and a crumpled Dunkin’ Donuts napkin, handed them over to me, and repeated the address. He disconnected and put the SUV in gear.

“Miller is recently divorced, so with a little luck, he’s alone in his house.”

“Who did you call?”

“Nutsy. He offered the use of his plane if I needed to get out of the country fast.”

Nutsy drives the Krank’s Beer car. He’s one of the older drivers and is a real good guy. He knows everyone and has probably forgotten more about racing than I could possibly learn.

“That address you gave me is on the lake,” I said to Hooker. “That’s a pricey neighborhood for a spotter.”

“Maybe he can give you some financial advice while we’re beating on him,” Hooker said, cranking the engine over and putting the SUV in gear.

It wasn’t a long ride to Bernie Miller’s house in terms of miles, but I was having an anxiety attack and the trip seemed endless. It was midday when we cruised into his cul-de-sac. The house looked new. Probably not more than two years old. The yard was neatly trimmed, with sculpted flower beds and bushes that hadn’t yet reached lush status. A gray Taurus was parked in the driveway.

“So, how do we go about this beating thing?” I asked Hooker. “Do we just go up and ring the doorbell and then sucker-punch him when he answers?”

Hooker grinned at me. “Getting into this whole brutality mind-set?”

“Just wondering. Maybe that approach would be too aggressive for a guy with a gray Taurus parked in his driveway. Maybe that’s the approach we’d use if we were talking to a guy in a double-wide.”

“I used to live in a double-wide.”

“And?”

“Just throwing that into the mix,” Hooker said.

“Did you get sucker-punched a lot?”

“No. I used to answer the door with my gun in my hand.”

I looked over at the house. “That could slow down our interview progress. Might be hard to beat the crap out of a man who answers the door with his gun in his hand.”

We’d been idling in the middle of the road, not in front of Miller’s house but one house down. Hooker slowly rolled past Miller’s house and continued down the block to the corner. He hung a U-turn at the corner and came back down the street. He pulled to the curb and parked. We were now on the opposite side of the street from Miller. And again, we were one house down.

“You don’t seem too anxious to do this,” I said to Hooker.

“Scoping out the scene,” Hooker said.

“I thought maybe it was cold feet.”

“I don’t get cold feet. Creepy-crawly scrotum and tight sphincter, a lot. Diarrhea, sometimes. Never cold feet.”