Motor Mouth

a seven on his bullshit-o-meter. I’d actually placed it a couple points higher on mine. I buckled myself in, cranked the engine over, and waited for Hooker to roll. I gripped the wheel and whispered under my breath, “Take it slow.” When the hauler crept forward, my grip went white knuckled and my breath caught in my chest.
    Hooker was smoothly moving the truck across the back lot, toward the front of the building, inching along without lights. He eased the hauler into the exit lane, and I fell in line behind him. This was the moment of no return. In minutes he’d be on the highway in a hijacked truck. Time for honesty. If we got caught, we’d be out of NASCAR and into Florida penal.
    My heart was pounding so hard it was blurring my vision. Even Beans was instinctively alert, no longer panting. I checked him out in my rearview mirror to make sure he was okay and we locked eyes. Probably it was my spooked imagination, but I swear he looked as terrified as I felt.
    Hooker left-turned the hauler off the diner property and his rear tires ran over the curb and took out a four-foot-tall pygmy date palm and an entire flower bed. I looked around in panic, but didn’t see anyone rushing out of the diner after him.
    “I didn’t see that,” I said to Beans. “You didn’t see it either, right?”
    Hooker maneuvered the truck out of the flower bed, onto the feeder road and then onto the highway, heading south. He turned his lights on, brought the rig up to speed, and we both went into cruising mode. After a few minutes, I realized cars were pulling up to the truck to get a better look. Every inch of a car hauler is a rolling advertisement for the car and the sponsor. They’re works of art. The 69 was decorated in Spanky’s colors with a bigger-than-life-size picture of Spanky and his race car.
    I called Hooker on his cell phone. “We have a problem,” I told him. “Everyone’s interested in the hauler. Some people are taking pictures. You should have brought the briefs to put over your head.”
    “Hard to feel righ teous when you’ve got your underwear on your head,” Hooker said. “Anyway, I’m taking the next exit. I saw a sign for ser vices. I’ll find a dark place to hide, and you can go to a gas station and steal something helpful.”
    Hooker crawled off the exit, turned right, and rolled down the road. After about a half mile, he came to a small strip mall that was lights off for the night. His turn signal went on, he slipped into the lot, and he disappeared behind the buildings. I made a U-turn and drove back to a gas station and convenience store.
    Ten minutes later, I pulled around the end of the strip mall and caught Hooker in my headlights. The hauler was at idle. The headlights and running lights were off. Hooker was lounging against the hauler.
    I parked and ran over with a small screwdriver I’d bought at the convenience store. I ripped the packaging apart and gave Hooker the screwdriver.
    “This was the best I could do. The garage was closed.”
    Hooker rammed the screwdriver between the bay door and the outside rim of the truck and leaned into it. The metal bent and the lock gave. We searched the bay. No remote.
    “Try forcing the side door,” I said to Hooker. “We can’t get to the ceiling hatch or the back door because the aisle will be filled with the tool carts, but I can get to the lounge and maybe find a key for the other locker. Or maybe they left the remote in the lounge.”
    Hooker popped the side door, and I jumped inside and flipped on a light. I rapped on the ceiling and yelled up to Gobbles, “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah,” Gobbles yelled back, his voice muffled by the sheet-metal slab under him. “What’s going on?”
    “We can’t find the remote to open the back door.”
    I searched all the drawers and cabinets. No remote. No key. No helpful crowbars lying around. No power equipment that would slice through metal.
    Hooker appeared in the doorway. “I broke the screwdriver trying to get the second bay open. Did you find anything in here?”
    “No.”
    Hooker looked at his watch. “The drivers are probably out of the diner by now, calling the police.”
    “They won’t call the police,” Gobbles yelled down. “There’s something in here that’s worth a billion dollars, and they don’t want anyone to find it.”
    Hooker looked up at the ceiling. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
    “I wish,” Gobbles said. “I heard them talking outside the hauler. They