Page 72 of Dirty Air
Henry’s smile at least looks apologetic. “Sure. Next time.”
After a disappointing dinner with Dieter, Fritz lays out on his hotel mattress. He’s dressed down in a t-shirt and sweatpants, watching his fucking commercial again on the local station, when someone knocks furiously on his door.
Fritz is pretty sure he hasn’t done anything to deserve vitriol. Maybe a team member left a part when they moved the sim racer out?
When he checks the peephole, he’s surprised to see Henry, of all people, on the other side of his door.
Guess the date didn’t go so well. Fritz tries to hide his excitement before peeking the door open.
“What is this?” Henry accuses, shoving a stack of papers in his face.
“I do not know.” Fritz usually does everything online. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen an actual stack of papers. “What is it?”
“It’s a contract to work at Red Boar!”
Fritz opens the door wider and steps aside to let the older man in.
Henry stomps over to his empty desk and drops the papers. “Adam fucking Stonehimselfasked for a meeting. And he bought mesteak. And he just handed this to me like it wasn’t a Red Boar contract. And I got steak juice on it!”
“But it still counts, right?” Fritz asks, a little confused. “Why are you upset? You do not have to sign it if you do not want to. Or did you want one without steak juice?”
It isn’t Fritz’s fault it has steak juice on it.
“I don’t care about thesteak juice!Why did I get a contract?” Henry presses. “When Red Boar has race engineers with decades of experience? With maybe four times my knowledge? Why does Adam Stone even know my name?”
Fritz is almost ashamed to admit, “Because I want to race with you.”
“Because you—?” Henry takes a deep inhale and lets it out slowly. “I don’t deserve this contract, though. I don’t belong up there.”
“What do youmean?” Fritz laughs. He understands his own trepidation, but he’s never worked at the front of the grid before. “You were a race engineer forFerraro. Of course you belong up there.”
“I—” Henry stops and looks away, towards the ugly hotel art hanging above Fritz’s bed.
“You were a race engineer for Ferraro,” Fritz repeats.
“Yes. I was.” Henry shifts in place. He’s still dressed up for a nice dinner—button up, slacks, dress shoes. The confident outfit seems at odds with his wariness. “But it wasn’t exactly my job.”
“What was not your job?”
“Um, race engineer.” He visibly gulps. “I did do it, but I was just filling in for someone else. An actual race engineer. On paternity leave. For a few races.”
“But your—” Fritz gapes. “A fewraces?!Not even a whole season?”
“Because my voice was the clearest over the radio.” Without his bag to hold on to, Henry fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve.
“You lied to me?Why?!” There was no reason to—Fritz would’ve worked with him, top team or not.
“No!No, I never lied to you, Fritz, I promise.” He just didn’t tell the whole truth. “I told you I worked for Ferraro and I did. Foryears, I swear. I just… never corrected you when you assumed what job I had.”
Well, that makes everything okay then, doesn’t it? “Then whatdidyou do? Besides substitute race engineer?”
“I was a performance engineer. Before that I was in strategy. I don’t actually care where I live—I moved to VFIBR because I saw a better opportunity to move up. Race engineers don’t retire every day.”
Henry nearly collapses onto the edge of the bed. “I had it all planned out. If I worked hard, I could learn quickly and move up to a better team in five to eight years. Retire in another twenty-five. Live somewhere warm. Maybe back to Italy—non lo so.”
“Why not tell me?” Fritz perches next to him. The mattress creaks with his weight. “Why did you let me think you were a race engineer?”
“Wanted to impress you.” Henry shrugs. He sounds defeated, almost. “Craig knows, of course. And Adam.” Finally, he turns to look at Fritz. “I don’t deserve this contract, though. I’m sorry.”
