Debutant. Chapter 10. Eureka! Part 2

This novel is fictional; there is no need to look for intersections with historical events. This is a continuation of “Debutant” by Nikita Savelyev, the first readers of which were readers of F1News.ru…

Chapter 10. Eureka! Part two

Henry looked ahead and did not notice how he came across a young man of small stature with an excessively large head. He looked around for something, probably also looking for a place.

“Sorry,” Henry apologized politely.

The man responded with a quick glance at Henry, as if taking measurements, and asked:

-Are you a racer, dude?

“I’m sure I was like that in the morning too,” Henry was smug. – FYI: technicians don’t often wear overalls…

– Do you like these slackers? – interrupted the short unceremoniously, nodding to the cheerful company of pilots.

“Yes, but…” Henry felt a little offended for his comrades.

– Let’s sit down, have a bite to eat and tell us how you’re doing. Don’t shake, half of it is mine, the smart acquaintance assured him.

Henry opened his mouth to dismiss the ignorant, but drew attention to the gold watch on the wrist of his interlocutor. The time he spent with Manuel’s boys taught him something about fashion. Doesn’t look fake. One watch like this could buy the entire Baker team. He took a closer look: the snow-white shirt and dress trousers were clearly not bought at a sale. Most of the regulars in the paddock invested every extra pound in racing and did not dress like couturiers and care little about their appearance. Racing is not a social event, but a hard man’s activity, they said.

They sat down at the table. Henry was busy arranging cups and plates from the tray.

-What do you have? – the table companion pointed to the small stripes on the chest – the only inscriptions on Henry’s light overalls. What is this intolerable habit of asking randomly?

“The brand of tires we use, and this is the name of the engine oil,” Henry explained patiently. If this is still a serious person. A rebuke, admittedly not from a Cambridge graduate, but who can understand these rich people?

“Progress,” the bearer of a fortune on his wrist remarked to something. – Do they pay you?

– WHO? – Henry didn’t know.

“Your manufacturers,” the little man chuckled, as if surprised at Henry’s incomprehension. – Who else?

– For what? For stripes? Why? – Henry was surprised.

“They couldn’t write it any smaller,” grumbled the interlocutor.

-Who are you anyway? – Henry asked interestedly. – I’m pilot Baker, we, a small but proud private company…

“I didn’t hear,” the man interrupted again.

– Are you coming to watch the race? Henry tried to be polite.

– Do I look like a loafer, do you think?

– Then – what fate?

– I sell used cars, we have an exhibition stand not far from the race track. “I came to refresh my memory,” the little man replied again incomprehensibly.

But Henry was interested in something else. Co-worker…

– Second-hand cars! How interesting. Me and…

– Interesting – you find it at the entrance, a sticky sign, you can’t pass it. There’s a slob named Billy, in an ill-fitting jacket, who backs away, he’ll show everything. I warn you: we are not cheap.

Henry was offended, how can he know that he doesn’t have a cent to his name, and besides, the overalls are indistinguishable from other pilots’ clothes, what if Henry is actually the Crown Prince?

“I’ve dealt with used cars myself,” Henry muttered. – I know all the secrets of this company.

“But in the end I chose racing,” the interlocutor chuckled, not reacting to the hairpin bend. – Did you make a mistake?

– Something like that…

-Are you private? Do you buy chassis and spare parts externally?

– Yes.

– Why don’t you build it yourself?

– It’s expensive, we’re a very small team. We’ll take over from Thomson.

– I don’t remember them winning the title last year. Was there nothing better?

– Crocus, they say, will provide everyone with exactly the same cars as theirs from the new season.

“That’s nonsense,” the short one snapped. – Or they are fools themselves. Crocus? Is Charlie Rodwell in charge now?

– It’s him.

“I remember Charlie – such a funny young man, he kept drawing some diagrams on napkins,” the man leaned back in his chair and for some reason became lost in memories.

-Who are you anyway? It feels like you haven’t been here in a while?

– Cut to the chase, dude. From the age of eighteen he raced both motorcycles and sports cars. Then it was impossible to deal with spare parts without participating in races,” an incomprehensible shadow came over the imperturbable face of the little man. – But he stopped. I look – nothing has changed in six years.

“You know better,” Henry looked respectfully at his conversation partner. There is no way to make money from such walkers in races unless you become a champion. For some reason, despite his rudeness, this hard man seemed attractive to him. He looked businesslike and collected, in contrast to the imposing denizens of the paddock with their endless eloquent discussions about racing.

– And old Mario? How is he doing?

– I’ve never seen him, he runs everything from Italy. The manager is in charge here, but the team is terrified of Mario, even from a distance. There are many contradictions in the team, they try to keep up with Crocus, but they manage to come up with new products faster than others try them.

– Known.

“Can you imagine the situation we have here…” Henry suddenly wanted to tell this incomprehensible person about the problem with permission to start, some advice wouldn’t hurt.

– Who decides how much prize money participants receive? – the interlocutor asked instead, after listening.

“The race organizers,” Henry shrugged. – They negotiate individually with each team. The smaller the stable, the smaller the payout.

“On every team,” the little man drawled, thinking about something. – Everyone has their own conditions. No order. And the final word does not belong to the teams, but to the circuit.

– And also…

“You look like a smart guy,” the unnamed table neighbor interrupted again. – You will never achieve results with a used car. If you gather ten donkeys in one place, will they outrun a thoroughbred Arabian horse? Didn’t you finish it yourself?

– Yes I understand it…

“But I don’t do anything about it,” the little man grinned. – Try it. For lunch.

And evaporates. With astonishing speed for a small person. Henry thoughtfully counted the coins thrown onto the tray, exactly half of the order amount. How did he guess?

Henry, in confusion, threw a piece of poorly cooked cutlet at the funny shaggy dog ​​hovering around the table. This is for your courage, flea.

== To be continued…