"Smith, Guy N - Blood Circuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'Stern.'

There was a harsh note of unwelcome in the former racing driver's tone, a tightening of his lips, an urge to slam the receiver back on its cradle. Yet curiosity prevailed. He knew only too well what Seamark's racing-team manager wanted, but he felt himself compelled to listen. A last throw on Seamark's part, more harsh words, and then it would all be over for good. In no way would Mark Slade ever return to the circuits.

'I rang earlier.' A hint of annoyance, presumption. Stern had always expected everyone to jump to his immediate command, almost as though Slade should have sat by the telephone in anticipation. No, the implication was that the driver should have made the call in the first place.

'How the hell did you find me?'

'I made enquiries.'

Slade let it pass. Stern would not reveal the source of his information. It was pointless pursuing the matter.

'I heard the phone ringing.' Slade seized upon the earliest opportunity to provoke the other. 'I just let it ring. That's my policy now. I'm going to contact the engineers tomorrow. Get 'em to take it out. I don't need it. I've no calls to make, and I don't anticipate receiving any, either.'

'You're bloody crazy, Mark,'

'That's my privilege.'

Slade was tempted to slam the receiver down. There was no point, though. Stern would only ring again. Persistently. He was another, like Slade himself, who never gave up. Never took no for an answer. Well, this was one time he would have to.

'Daytona is only next February. The Riverside rounds begin in January. There isn't much time.'

'So what?'

'What d'you mean, "so what"? You can't lay off much longer, Mark. You've got to get behind the wheel again pretty quick. Martin tested a car yesterday. A Chevy, tuned to the specifications laid down. He clocked 170. We can do it this time, Mark. No doubt about that.'

'Let Martin drive at Daytona, then.'

'Don't be fucking stupid. He's fine on a test-run. No competition experience, though.'

'Well, start training him. He's got the makings of a top-class IROC driver.'

'We don't bloody well want Martin to drive at Daytona. There isn't time, anyway. He hasn't the experience, maybe not the nerve when it comes to the real thing.'

Mark Slade sighed audibly. When would everybody stop talking about nerve? He contemplated telling Stern the truth, changed his mind. No, he'd taken his last bow in his own way. Conned everybody.

'I've made my pile.'

To hell with that. Your contract. . . '

'My contract ended with Seamark the moment I crossed the finishing line at Daytona last year. You know that as well as I do. Same goes for all the perks. I've put paid to the after-shave advert by growing some face-fungus.'

'Let me finish, will you?' Stern was becoming angry. There was also a note of frustration in his voice. Slade enjoyed that. He could visualise the other's pencil-line moustache twitching, uneven teeth scraping the lower lip the way it always did when Stern failed to get his own way. He fawned on Seamark, and that gave him a sense of power. Basically, that was what it was all about. Power.

'There's nothing more to say. I've said it all. Take it or leave it.'

'Just listen, damn you!' Harsh, abrupt, an order, but still Slade did not replace the receiver. 'We know your contract ended at Daytona last year. We've drawn up a new one. A hundred and fifty grand, two hundred if you win. Seamark's already signed it. It only needs your signature. . . '

'Sorry, nothing doing. I wouldn't be interested if it was a million. Like I've already said, I've made my bread. So you'd better start training Martin up.'