RETROGRADE

TALLADEGA, ALABAMA

NASCAR!

The National Association of Stock Car Auto Racing. Up until recently I didn’t even know what the acronym stood for, didn’t really know it was an acronym. Strange because I’ve lived in Alabama off and on for most of my life, born and raised in Birmingham just over fifty miles to the west of Talladega and the NASCAR Superspeedway. But it never interested me, not in the least. And, to be honest, it doesn’t interest me now, not really, but for the first time in my life, I am actually attending the Talladega races this mid-October weekend as the temperatures are finally starting to come down and approach something close to normal for fall.

It’s Sunday, bright and beautiful with a clear sky and temperatures in the low seventies. Most people are still wearing shorts and short sleeves but I see a lot of jackets being carried around just in case the wind picks up, as it is apt to do around the speedway. I’m actually dressed in a suit, black, gray button-down shirt, and black slip-on dress shoes. Kind of overdressed for attending the races, but I’m not actually attending the races. I’m working today, which is the only reason I’m here, believe me.

A week ago, I got a call from Lolita Rossier, President and CEO of Rossier International, one of the largest private security firms in Atlanta. I’ve done work for Rossier a few times and she’s always been impressed with my work, or so she keeps saying. And for that reason, she gave me a call when a client of hers informed her that he was coming to Alabama this weekend to attend the races at Talladega. The client is a very wealthy oil sheik from Saudi Arabia, a minor prince actually, with very close ties to the government, and he’s a NASCAR fanatic, follows all the races very closely, and likes to attend whenever he’s in the U.S. and time permits. He had been all over the country to different racecourses, but never to Talladega. He was adamant about attending, and this was not a man used to being denied anything.

Because of his wealth and his nationality, the sheik was a prime target for kidnapping and/or assassination. He never went anywhere without a heavily armed protective escort, and whenever he was in the U.S. that escort was supplemented by agents from Rossier International, often with Lolita Rossier leading the details herself. Lolita asked if I was available to be the local backup during her client’s visit and I told her that I was, having just wrapped up a two-week assignment for a client up in Memphis. She sent me all the information she had on the client, including an up-to-date threat assessment that I found both thorough and a little disturbing. It seemed that this particular sheik had many enemies, most probably because of his extreme indulgence in all things Western, especially American. Apparently, many of his fellow countrymen didn’t like his tastes or his cozy American relations. Maybe they didn’t think he showed their culture the respect it deserved. And reading his file made me think that they were probably right. One curious item I noticed was that while he was married to a woman from a well-to-do traditional Saudi family, the sheik always insisted that his mistresses—and there were many—be American. I guess the man really did like to buy USA.

In the past, there had been no less than nine attempts to either kill or kidnap him, and several of his bodyguards had died during those attempts. How very nice for them. The assessment seemed to suggest that he was under greater threat in his native land than in the United States, but with the way a lot of people in this country felt about Arabs and Muslims these days, his security team wanted to take no chances. And neither did Lolita Rossier. I thought that was probably a prudent course to take, considering we were talking about Alabama. Even Twenty-First Century Alabama looked a lot like Twentieth Century Alabama in many respects, especially when it came to people being different.

I grew up here, came back here after I left the Air Force more than a decade ago, and there are many things that I can say about the state that are kind, but there are equally as many that I can say that are not. Progress does not come quickly in the south, and in particular not in the area of racial and ethnic relations. For the most part a lot of it stays buried, but not far beneath the surface, and it doesn’t take much to stir up racial tensions and old prejudices. And let’s face it, NASCAR brings out the rednecks—and proudly so. Apparently, it also brings out a thirty-nine year old billionaire Saudi oil sheik with a fondness for American women. A good thing too, because it means another good paycheck for me. And that’s always nice. For me.

The last couple of days have gone well. The sheik is actually staying in Atlanta and flies over every day on a private jet which lands at Talladega Airport just on the other side of the speedway. I meet the party there with three vehicles and fully vetted security drivers, and then we come over to the southwest side where the private viewing suites are located, one specially reserved for the client and manned by security personnel twenty-four hours a day, swept by bomb-sniffing dogs thirty minutes before the sheik’s arrival.

One thing I wish the man would do while he’s here, since he loves America so much, is get rid of his Saudi duds and put on jeans and a T-shirt and cowboy boots or something like everybody else is wearing. But he doesn’t. Apparently, he likes to look like Lawrence of Arabia and everybody who sees him stops and stares, and a few of those stares have not been particularly friendly, but we manage to get him inside his suite quickly before any trouble ensues. And after today, this job will be over and I’ll be four grand richer. My finances taken care of for this month. Excellent.

I was posted outside the upstairs luxury suite along with two uniformed guards. Actually, I wasn’t really posted anywhere. I was roving, checking the area for any potential problems and making sure that all the other security personnel assigned to the team were where they were supposed to be and doing what they were supposed to be doing. However, right now I was outside the suite with the two guards, having just stepped out from having a quick word with Lolita Rossier. She was inside the suite with the sheik and several other bodyguards—and a special friend who looked like she might be twenty-one. Lolita had informed me that the client would be ready to leave in about an hour, before the final race concluded. He had business to attend to later on in Atlanta and would have to leave early. I told her that was fine by me; it meant we wouldn’t have to deal with all the crowds of people trying to get out of the stadium at the end of the race.

I checked my watch. Almost three o’clock. Time for another quick tour of the area, maybe check on the drivers to make sure they were doing all right, and maybe I’d stop by the bathroom on the lower level before coming back up. I had consumed more water than I should have at lunch, but staying hydrated was important when working long hours. If I had to I could wait, it wasn’t an urgent situation at the moment.

I nodded at the guards and then headed for the back stairs, coming down quickly and then pushing through the glass double doors at the bottom and emerging on a concrete walkway that led out from the west tunnel that gave access to the private suites. There were two more guards stationed here and they nodded when they recognized me. I waved and then walked out toward the sunlight, taking out my shades as I went.

Across the way, I could see the three dark SUVs that belonged to my team, and the three drivers were standing outside talking to one another. I decided not to disturb them, as long as they were keeping an eye on their respective vehicles I didn’t care what else they did.

For about fifteen minutes I walked around the small perimeter in the VIP area. Nothing seemed out of place. No angry hordes preparing to storm the complex. But outside things were a hell of a lot louder though, and the smell of gasoline fumes was nearly overwhelming. I strolled around for another five minutes and then decided that was enough. I also decided that I did have time for a quick trip to the bathroom; then I’d head back upstairs to wait until the client was ready to leave.

I followed the signs for the restrooms and found them after about five more minutes. There wasn’t a line right now and I was glad because suddenly I really had to pee, feeling that slight burning sensation start in my bladder. I pushed through the door to the men’s room and made right for the back where the stalls were. If I can avoid using a public urinal, I always do, preferring the security of a locked stall, even if all I have to do is urinate.

While I stood over the toilet and did my business, I heard the restroom door push open and slam into the wall. This was followed by loud cussing in a deep drawl and then even deeper laughter. Three voices I think. They were talking about the race, how it was the best one they’d been to in a while, but how they still missed Dale, Sr. The best there ever was and would be. Damn right!

One of the stall doors on my right opened and closed, and almost immediately, I heard someone else start to do his business. Unfortunately, not all of it ended up in the toilet. I shook my head, finished up, and flushed.

When I stepped out of the stall, I glanced around for a moment and then walked up to the front where the sinks were located. There were two men standing at the urinals, both wearing dirty sneakers, cutoff shorts, and different color tank tops, both fitting the stereotypical definition of an Alabama redneck, but I do try not to generalize.

I went to the sink and turned on the hot water, giving it a few seconds to warm up before putting my hands under the stream. One of the men at the urinals said something that I didn’t quite catch, but his buddy found it hilarious and they both laughed loudly. When they finished they turned and came to the sinks. I was standing at the middle one and they each moved to the ones on either side of me. I noticed the one on my right glance over. I nodded at him and finished washing my hands.

“Nice suit,” the man on my right said.

“Thanks,” I said, turning off the water.

“You don’t come to many of these here races, do you, son?” the man said, grinning over at his buddy.

I stepped back from the sink and moved around the man to the paper towel dispenser on the wall to his right.

“Nope,” I said, and then unwound a length of paper towel, drying my hands.

The man at the other sink glanced over at me now and stared hard, suddenly the grin fading from his deeply tanned and red face.

“I saw you earlier, fella,” he said. “Didn’t I? Yeah, you was with that A-Rab guy gettin’ out them fancy SUVs yesterday! Damn raghead! He back here today? The fuck an A-Rab doin’ here anyway? Ain’t nobody racing no goats! And why you with him? You an A-Rab, too? Or maybe you just like gettin’ fucked in the ass by ’em!”

Oh yeah, now this is the Alabama many people like to pretend doesn’t still exist. I should have held off going to the bathroom until I was at the airport. Hindsight.

I finished drying my hands and dropped the paper towel in the trashcan to my left, all the while keeping an eye on both gentlemen at the sink. Neither of them was washing their hands anymore, both staring directly at me; and none too friendly. Off to my right the third gentleman from the stall in back had come forward and was now between me and the exit. He was fastening his belt and staring at the three of us with an expression of confusion on his face.

“Hey what’s goin’ on, Jay-Bob?” he said to one of them.

“I tell you what’s goin’ on, Slim,” the man who had recognized me said in a snarl. “This fuckin’ nigger here is a raghead lover! Remember I tole you yesterday about that raghead I saw comin’ in? Well this nigger was with him. Look at how fancy his baldheaded ass is. Got them clothes workin’ for the fucking ragheads! Terrorists, all of them! We shoulda just bombed all them mother fuckers, kill ’em all and let the good lord Jesus sort ’em out later! Right along with all them who support ’em. Like that nigger A-Rab in the White House!”

The man standing next to the speaker nodded and said damn right.

Reason was probably not going to win out here, but I suppose I could give it a shot.

“Guys, let’s just agree to disagree and go our separate ways,” I said in an easy voice, making sure to keep all three of them in my line of sight, my arms down by my sides, relaxed but ready. “You fellas finish washing up and I’ll head out. This is the last day of the race and we don’t have to see each other anymore. Everybody just has a nice life.”

“Oh we gonna have a nice life all right,” Jay-Bob said. “Slim, watch the door while me and Emmet here teach this nigger raghead lover how real Americans feel about his kind.”

Slim nodded and moved over to the door. He was actually kind of a big guy, as most guys named Slim usually were. Big gut, big chest, and big arms, maybe three inches taller than me. He had on faded blue jeans and an orange tank top that was stretched tight across his belly. At one time, he had probably been in pretty good shape, but no longer. He folded his arms across his chest and gave me the hard eye.

His buddies seemed to be in slightly better shape and they had the look of meanness and cruelty about the mouth and eyes. Something told me they didn’t intend for this to be a fair fight. That was good, because neither did I.

One of the chief differences between amateur brawlers and professional fighters is that pros understand the need for speed, brutality, and ruthlessness in a fight. They don’t waste time; if a confrontation can’t be avoided then they go for it with everything they have in an effort to quickly vanquish their opponents.

Jay-Bob came at me first, looping a sloppy right hook at my head. I ducked under it and drove my left fist into the right side of his gut, twisting on contact and sending the force of the blow upwards into his spleen. Jay-Bob groaned in pain, turned, and fell over the sink, whimpering and moaning at the same time.

Emmet was momentarily stunned by what had happened to his friend and this gave me a chance to close the distance. His eyes widened and he brought his left hand up to throw a punch, but too late. I was already driving a fore-knuckle strike into the left side of his stomach, pushing all the way through him, and he doubled up, gasping for air. As he bent down, I raised my left knee into his nose and then stamped down hard on his right foot before pushing him backwards. Emmet hit the tiled floor hard and cried out in pain as blood began to pour from his ruined nose.

Jay-Bob was trying to push himself up off the sink as I turned around and rammed my left elbow into the center of his back, knocking him to his knees as his chin banged against the back of the sink.

As I stood straight once more and adjusted my suit jacket, I was staring over toward the door where Slim stood. His arms were now down by his sides and he was not looking nearly as hard or smug as he had been before.

“You’ve got two choices,” I said simply. “I’m game either way.”

But apparently, Slim was not, he quickly moved to the wall on his right, flattening his back against it and making sure that I could see his hands at his sides as I walked by. I glanced over at him once as I reached the door.

“Your friends are gonna be fine, just a little busted up. You might tell them that they should work on their people skills a little though. And also, just for your personal edification, I got this suit from JC Penny’s almost three years ago.”

Slim stared at me with an expression approaching stark terror and he couldn’t speak, but he managed a nod. I nodded in return and left the restroom.

Checking my watch, I realized that it was about time for the sheik to leave. Perfect.

I adjusted my jacket once more and then started back toward the VIP suites.