Three Times Lucky by Sheila Turnage Read Free Book Online Page A

fifth seat from the front? Blond hair, bad at math, wears a lot of black?”
    “Of course I remember Dale.”
    “His brother, Lavender, drives the thirty-two car.”
    “I’ll be sure to watch for him,” she said, edging away. “Well, this has been nice, Mo, but my friend is waiting, and—”
    “Friend?” I gasped. “You got friends? I figured when the school year ended you’d go home and watch TV, maybe read. I never considered friends.”
    She smiled. “Of course I have friends, Mo. See you soon,” she said, and faded into the crowd. I wound my way back to Dale, who stood just one person away from the concession stand.
    “You won’t believe who I ran into,” I said. “Miss Retzyl.”
    “That’s nothing,” he said. “Look over there.” I followed his gaze.
    The second shock of the evening fell like an ax. “Miss Retzyl and …”
    “Joe Starr,” he said, his voice grim. Detective Joe Starr handed Miss Retzyl a hot dog, and smiled. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
    Miss Retzyl and Joe Starr? Together? Had the world gone mad?
    “What’ll you have, baby doll?” the lady behind the counter rasped, her cat-eye glasses sliding down her narrow nose as she glanced at Dale.
    “Six fried baloney sandwiches, three orders of fries, and as many M&M’S as I can get with whatever’s left,” he said, pushing the twenty-dollar bill toward her. “You want anything else, Mo? I got our reward money from Mr. Jesse,” he said, tugging his pocket open to show off two five-dollar bills.
    I snagged a five and shook my head.
    We made our way to the infield clutching greasy bags of race chow. I was right about Sam’s friends: a couple of big-haired, thin-faced twins named Crissy and Missy. They sat on lawn chairs in the back of the GMC, sipping Diet 7UPs and winking at Lavender and Sam. Dale stepped gallantly forward. “Care for a baloney sandwich?”
    Crissy peered into the bag. “No thank you, sugar; we’re dieting. But
you’re
so sweet, I could eat you with a spoon.”
    Dale turned red as their nail polish, shoved his bag at me, and bolted for Lavender. I sauntered behind him, queen of the eats. “Watch the inside of the fourth turn,” Sam was saying, over by the car. “It’s running loose, you’re liable to slide.”
    Lavender grabbed a sandwich. “Mo, Dale, I want you two on the truck.”
    “With the twins? Buffy and Muffy?” I asked, passing fries to Sam.
    “Their names are Crissy and Missy and I’m not marrying either one of them, so play nice,” he said. “Dale, I’d like for you to time the laps,” he said, handing him a stopwatch. “No rounding off. Mo, I need the times in this ledger, please, ma’am. I want to see how we’re running, lap by lap. Okay?”
    I nodded. Dale stuck out his hand. “You can count on us.”
    Lavender hid a flicker of surprise. “I know I can,” he said, shaking his hand. “That’s why I asked you.”
    As Dale and I settled on the GMC’s tailgate, our backs to the twins, Lavender stepped into his well-patched race suit, wiggling it over his hips and shrugging it across his shoulders. He clamped his helmet on, swung his legs in through the driver-side window of number 32, and fishtailed onto the track.
    “Look,” I said, elbowing Dale. Across the way Starr plowed through the tide of race fans like a tugboat, Miss Retzyl bobbing along in his wake. “They’re gonna miss the race,” I said as they exited the gate. I caught a flash of siren-blue light in the parking lot. “I hope Miss Retzyl ain’t under arrest,” I gasped as a siren wailed.
    “For what?” Dale asked. “Bad taste in boyfriends?”
    Lavender jostled in the pack, revving his engine. “He’s headed to the starting line!” Dale shouted. “Here we go.”
    The flag fell.
    The night roared.
    The race was on.
    Dale called out the times, lap after lap. On the twenty-eighth lap, Sam waved Lavender in, shouting and pointing at the rear left tire. Lavender slammed his palm against the