BM03 - Crazy Little Thing Called Dead by Kate George

communicate so Jim motioned me to follow and we made our way down the stands and back out into the parking lot. The guy was almost a foot shorter than me and when Jim started to go the wrong way he had to tug on Jim’s arm to get his attention. It was like following Sheldon and Leonard.
    We made our way to a motorhome on the hill behind the track reserved for camping. The guy opened the door and ushered us inside. The race noise was considerably muted inside and I thought the rig must have special noise-reducing walls. I could even hear the hum of the air conditioning. It was dark and cool and the air smelled of old beer. Clearly a guy’s RV. I almost didn’t see Grant Fraser in a grungy t-shirt sitting slouched in the dinette.
    “Oh, hi,” I said.
    The weasel said something to Jim that sounded like “girl plant steak, pervert Guinness,” which I translated to mean, “Girl can’t stay, private business.” I headed toward the door.
    “Bree. You can stay.” Jim caught me by the arm.
    Weasel Man’s face turned red, “But…”
    “She stays until I deem it prudent for her to leave.” He had my hand tight in his now.
    “But…” Weasel guy was sputtering.
    “Believe me; she’ll get in far worse trouble out there than in here.” He was moving me toward the table.
    “Jim!” I hated it when he insinuated I would get myself in trouble if not watched.
    “Listen, Willard, she’s with me. If she goes, I go. Do you need my advice or not?” He stopped and when Willard didn’t immediately respond he turned for the door.
    “Fuck. Fine.”
    Jim motioned me to sit and slid in next to me. Willard the weasel sat next to Grant, who seemed as if he might be hung over. Maybe he partied with someone else last night. But then I thought about it and couldn’t remember him drinking a single beer or mixed drink.
    “Hey Bree,” he said to me. “Seems like yesterday.” He managed a feeble grin.
    “Grant, this is James Fisk,” Willard the weasel cut in. “He’s a lawyer.”
    “Grant Fraser.” He stuck his hand out for Jim to shake across the table.
    “Tell me Grant, why am I in a beer-soaked RV instead of sitting with my date at the races?”
    He deflated, sinking back into the brown upholstered cushions. “Some kind of trouble. I got a phone call telling me to throw the big cup race next weekend.”
    “Who told you to throw the race?” Jim asked.
    “I’m not sure. There was this woman. French I think. Margaret something.”
    French . My heart pounded faster. There were too many coincidences.
    “Willard,” He nodded to the weasel. “Is my business manager, he said I should tell you what happened. I don’t know if I should take it seriously or not.”
    “When did this happen?”
    “For God’s sake, what does that matter?” Willard was wild eyed and agitated.
    “Let him answer my questions.” Jim laid his hand on Willard’s arm and Willard jumped. “Take it easy.”
    “After the race in Kentucky.” Grant said. “I got a call on my cell.”
    “What did she say?” Jim asked. I could feel him tapping his foot under the table.
    “If I throw the race she’ll pay me $50,000. As if! I told her no way in hell.” Grant’s voice was low and angry. If you’d have asked me at the bar I would have said he never lost his temper.
    “That’s it. She offered to bribe you?” Jim had taken out a pocket notebook and was scribbling in it.
    “No. When I told I don’t take bribes, she showed up at the RV.”
    That sounded like a predator to me. Separate your prey from the pack.
    “I told her no again, and she said fine, I’d just saved her fifty thou, but if I don’t throw the race, she’ll kill me.”
    “Why don’t you just withdraw? Get the flu. Or contact the race authorities?”
    “I had some, uh, incidents last year. If I screw up, I’ll lose my job. And the crew, man, they are so excited. We could win this race.”
    “So what? Find another job,” Jim said.
    I looked at Jim. What the hell ? More