Playing with Fire

a special shout out to my beta readers - you know who you are

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▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄ 1976 ▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

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he sees you as a race car

a finely tuned machine

a temperamental instrument

sleek with a glossy sheen

he runs his hands along your curves

he starts and warms your core

then he gets inside you

and pins you to the floor

he steers you, he shifts you

he drives you 'round the bend

up and down and 'round and through

no relent he intends

he takes you to the very edge

teetering on a knife

and if you should fall off

you just might lose your life

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>>>

MONACO

The people leaned over the rails of their terra-cotta apartment balconies against the clear bright blue sky. She aimed her lens and framed them up, some with necks craning this way and that, some with sunglasses, some with mouths chattering or sipping from drinks. She zoomed in and clicked, then zoomed back out to add some sky, stopped down and clicked again. A handsome young man with thick dark hair and sideburns, his powder blue shirt half open, leaned his elbow on the rail taking in the scene with a casual intensity. The woman next to him was in a yellow spaghetti strap summer dress with blonde hair pulled back to show dark roots. Her eyes followed a mechanic hurriedly rolling a tyre down the street to his pit box. The couple were totally unaware that their picture was being taken. None of them were, at least not at that moment, although everyone knew that the cameras were about.

The smells of gasoline, oil and rubber dominated the air. An engine roared to life behind her, deafening despite her plug-stuffed ears. The white car with the red stripe up the front had started up like a phantom, it's cockpit devoid of a driver. The mechanics were hunched over its uncovered motor, tinkering and analyzing as it revved.

She moved down to the next block. The block of flats next to the Credit Foncier was more modern, a four-storey rectangular block of balconies jutting out over the street above the store fronts. She got below it at the near corner and aligned the flush front of the balconies with the heads and arms of the spectators protruding against the starkly vivid blue and snapped.

WHOOSH!

Spinning herself around with a gasp, she saw the intense orange flames balling upwards into a thick black cloud. The white car with the red stripe had suddenly burst into flames. A man ran past her, checking over his shoulder, and another was running toward her, fleeing the fireball. Instinctively she raised her camera to her eye, snapped and snapped again.

"Feu!"

"Au feu! Au feu!"

"Spara!"

"Fire!"

She moved closer, within twenty yards, and the heat of it hit her in the face. Voices were shouted from the pit boxes and clamored in alarm from the balconies above. A mad dash of legs ran both from and to the scene. She clicked away, shutter capturing the chaos and bright flames in the darkening light as the black could cast shade, the gentle Mediterranean breeze coaxing it across the street, causing the onlookers above to head inside and shut doors and windows. She turned her camera on it's side for a portrait of the ascending smoke and clicked away. At ground level, hand held fire extinguishers shot expanding plumes of white cloud upon the base of the blaze. Bracing herself down on one knee she kept snapping until she ran out of film. With no time to change, she just switched over to her second camera hanging from her neck. Loaded with the faster film, these shots would be less defined but would contain no less drama.

A bleating siren grew louder behind her and she turned to see the fire truck coming up the street. Scurrying to the barrier at the side, she made way for it as it screamed by and stopped.

"Allez! Allez!" A policeman was waving away onlookers. She stepped forward to see around the fire truck as they laid out two hoses and shouted. The race car had already reduced to a black smoldering. She got in one more shot before a hand grabbed her shoulder. "Allez!" the policeman ordered.

"I'm with the press," she argued, holding up her lanyard.

"Mademoiselle, allez! Go! Out!" he commanded as he took her by the elbow and directed her away.

"But... but..."

"Out!" he pointed adamantly and handed her over to another officer who took her other elbow and marched her away down the street.

Anyone who wasn't essential to the race teams were penned down at the end of the pits for the next half hour while crews cleaned up the mess. Several of the media and an assortment of fans headed for the cantina. The race itself was delayed a half-hour as well. Once they re-opened things, she headed back in. The pre-race was a great opportunity to get closeups of drivers and mechanics and the like.

The scarlet red cars drew lots of attention. Their glossy lines gleaming in the sunshine certainly looked fast with big white numbers one and two on their noses. Next was the black and gold cars with the gold spoke wheels. One was up on jacks as its black and gold clad mechanics hovered around it, and one of the drivers in a black and gold race suit pointed and chatted. Like all of the cars, its tyres were fat and smooth with no treads. One of the blue cars was being rolled out next to its mate for its position at the start, one of its white shirted mechanics leaning in to steer while several others pushed behind. White was the most popular color of cars, some with stripes of blue and red, or with large patches of green. Sponsor names and logos were everywhere - gas and oil companies, tyre companies, a German bank, a Japanese electronics manufacturer, lots and lots of cigarette brands. The number twenty-six car was yellow and black with its driver in a white suit. He was donning a silver and blue helmet over his balaclava, his green eyes flashing as he chatted in French with someone who looked to be a manager of some sort. After a quick exchange of words, the manager patted him on the shoulder, the driver climbed into the car and a mechanic leaned in to help tighten his belts. She collected pictures of them all.

She passed the space where the white car with the red stripe had caught fire. The tarmac was covered in an ashy stain, both blackened by the blaze and lightened by the powder that had been spread upon it to soak up the chemicals and swept up. It smelled black like charcoal left in a barbecue grill far too long.

Up ahead were two baby blue cars, striking as the Mediterranean sun fell across their right sides, the shadows of the flats across the street creeping across their lefts. A driver sat in one, his helmet white with two thin red stripes wrapped around it, as his mechanics rolled him out to the start. The other car sat empty. She got up close, adjusted her f-stop and snapped. Then she knelt down for a low angle. As she focused, the car's driver approached blurry in the background. She paused and looked up from the viewfinder.

"Snap away, gorgeous," he smiled. His accent was American. His hair was blonde and feathered trailing down the back of his neck and his smile was calm and assured, flippant even. He walked up to the car in his white coveralls with baby blue stripes along the sleeves and legs and unzipped halfway down, and placed his helmet on the side radiator. It was blue with a bold white five-point star on the side and the bottom edge was red with white block lettering. Under the chin read 'U S A'.

"Lucky," she read aloud the stencilled font beneath the white star.

"Luke," he said, and sat himself on the side radiator next to his helmet. She took out her programme pamphlet and scanned the names.

"Luke Brashford. Car number nineteen," she read and raised her eyes to him. "Beverley Crane," she introduced herself.

"Beverley," he said, tasting the sound of her name. He grinned as he unapologetically checked her out, her long willowy features, her white t-shirt with its green neck and sleeve hems, just thin enough to faintly make out the shape of her white brassiere on her modest chest beneath, tucked into faded bellbottom jeans. "So, what's a tall leggy English chick with a camera doing in the French Riviera on race day?" he asked.

A car engine suddenly started up with a hellacious roar further down the street, putting a jump into her bones. Luke chuckled quietly at her flinching and she smirked back. The car revved a few times and then shut off.

"I'm taking pictures for

Still Life

," she told him.

"

Still Life

?" he shrugged. "That's not a racing magazine. Not even a sports rag."

"Yes well, it's the most popular photography magazine in Europe and there are plenty of good photos here."

"Yeah, I guess," he said. Then he pointed at his face. "Go ahead," he urged. Beverley smirked at his cheekiness again before changing the angle of her crouch to shoot up at him while getting his helmet into the frame. She clicked. He looked up at someone in a balcony with his blue eyes not much darker than his car as the palm fronds waved in the sun above. She clicked again, adjusted the shutter speed and f-stop and clicked one more time.

"Maestro Extra Milds," she read the sponsor's black and white stencilled font on the side of the car's engine cover.

"Yeah," Luke scrunched his nose. "You might like 'em," he shrugged. "Extra Milds are for chicks. But hey, they pay the bills. I just drive the car."

"I've never tried them," said Beverley.

"You know anything about racing?" he asked, still looking up at the balconies above.

"Not really, no."

"Then what made

Still Life

give you this gig?"

"I spent most of February in Rhodesia to capture fast moving cheetahs chasing gazelles. Somehow that made me an expert on race cars," she explained. "I must say that I'm using a lot of the same equipment, long lenses and fast film and shutter speeds."

There was a smattering of applause from the balconies above, a small ovation. Beverley looked up the street to see a driver walking towards them. He wore a red racing suit with green and white stripes from shoulder to boot down his left side. He was tall and lean with thick dark bushy hair and sideburns. His smile was affable but smug, his jaw arrogant. A metallic gold helmet hung from his grasp against his thigh.

"Who's that?" Beverley asked, nodding towards him as he approached.

"Emilio Canaglia," Luke enunciated with a slow disdain.

"He's popular, I take it," she said as she checked her programme. Canaglia was from Italy and drove car number one, one of the red ones that she had taken pictures of at the other end of the pits.

"He won the championship the past two years. That'll make you popular," said Luke. "And he won the opening race in Argentina last month." Then he fixed his blue eyes upon her with his jaw set. "I'm here to even the score."

"What's the score?"

"You get nine points for winning a race. Then on down to one point for sixth. Anything worse than sixth place, nuthin'," he explained. Canaglia strolled past, eyeing Luke with a condescending grin and nod. Beverley framed up the Italian driver in portrait and snapped. The champ didn't seem to mind the attention of her lens as Luke narrowed his gaze and nodded back at him. "He's got nine, I got one," he said after making sure that his rival had passed.

"You guys don't get along?"

"He barely knows me," said Luke, "but not for long."

"You think you can beat him?"

"I know I can. I will. I'm just as fast as him."

"But you haven't beaten him yet."

"The past two years I haven't had a fast enough car," he said. "This year I have the car." Luke patted the cockpit cowling of his baby blue race car affectionately.

"Blame your losses on your car, hm?"

"Never," he said resolutely. "To get a fast car you gotta prove that you're fast enough for one. I spent the past couple years provin' it. Now I got one." Luke's eyes narrowed to fix upon her like a viewfinder. "I'm gonna beat that sonofabich. This is my year," he said, his tapered jaw set with determination.

"All right playboy," said a stout Englishman with a grey mustache and tufts of greying hair protruding from a navy blue flat cap. His arms were folded across his chest. "Womanize on your own time. You got a job to do."

"I'm on it Teddy," said Luke as he stood. The young blonde American wasn't very tall. He turned back to face her. "Teddy's the boss. Don't worry 'bout him. He just doesn't like it when I call him Teddy," he winked. The boss shot her a glare and then motioned for a couple of mechanics to help get Luke prepared. "Love those braids," he smiled as he zipped up his suit and shook out his balaclava. Beverley blushed. Her light brown hair was straight and waist length. The two braids down her chest were merely practical but they seemed to have an effect on him. "See you after the race." He donned his balaclava and tucked in his hair, his blue eyes aglow betraying his anonymity, and leaned down to pick up his helmet.

"Where? Here?"

"Sure," he said. Then he pushed his helmet down onto his head and tightened the strap, and she took more shots of him stepping into the cockpit and lowering his hips through the narrow opening and into the seat.

The architecture of Monaco was a peculiar mix of old renaissance stone and modern concrete and glass, built up on the coastal mountainside. Even the people were a mix of aristocratic jet setting upper crust and the legions of common folk who had descended upon the principality to line the streets for the race. She had picked out some spots around the track from which to take photos and had decided on the hairpin as her first vantage point. There was a staircase at the east end of the casino that afforded a bird's eye view of the corner and was special access only. She was told that the hairpin would be where the cars moved the slowest so she could get away with some slower film there.

Unseen perhaps a kilometer away behind the casino, the hotel and across the harbor, she could hear the first engine starting up, then another. As they revved, more joined in, forming an overture of ferocity like she had never heard before. A few more onlookers gathered around her at the stone railing upon which she had her mini tripod mounted, ready for the cars to come 'round. For several seconds the engines revved and snarled in the distance, like savage beasts yanking on taut leashes eager to attack and pounce the moment that they were set loose. Then they exploded into a symphonic roar and she knew that the race had started. The sound shifted and grew louder. They were getting closer. She could hear them stampeding and raving unseen up the hill to her left. At any second they would be passing by. Adrenaline coursed through her blood. Then the first engines carried with a certain clarity, unmuffled by the stonework and trees between her and them and she knew that they were coming down the hill. The red one with the gold helmeted driver - Canaglia - was first, its tyres skittering as it hit the brakes for the sharp hairpin bend. It passed from the shade of the hedges to gleam into the sunlight and she clicked. The rest of the cars followed, a procession so terribly loud that it rattled her teeth and shook her bones. She kept snapping as the cars passed, the second red car behind the first, then one of the blue cars and one of the black and gold. The fifth car was the baby blue nineteen with the American star helmet. It was Luke. They all screeched into the hairpin, one right after the other, turning away to follow the sharp left bend and disappear down the hill. As the last roar subsided somewhat, Beverley realized that the dozen or so people around her not only were cheering and applauding but had been doing so all along.

The pavement seemed a little blacker with the rubber laid down by the cars on their first lap. Beverley aimed down at the tarmac, focused on the multiple streaks and clicked. A minute later, they all came 'round again, Canaglia's lead a few yards longer and Luke still in fifth place.

It repeated again and again. The cars would roar louder on the hill above and then rush down into the sunshine of the hairpin, tyres skittering and screeching for their photos before dashing away. Every so often a couple of the spectators would chat amongst themselves, pointing out a change in the running order that Beverley had not noticed, but Canaglia still led and Luke was still fifth.

On the ninth lap there was drama. As Luke came down the hill, the two cars behind him were side by side. The blue number eight screeched down the inside, forcing the number twelve out wide. As they went around the corner the blue car went ahead but it's rear tyre bumped the the number twelve's front tyre on the way by, jolting the white car with the big green wings to a stop next to the sidewalk. Beverley snapped a few shots of the action and of the stalled car with its bent front wheel. The driver clambered out and hopped over the fence. His race was over. When they came around again a track worker was standing in front of the stricken car waving a yellow flag. Beverley wondered how much he was paid to stand in the road with screaming race cars. Once they all passed, a full crew hopped over the fence and pushed the car down the hill to a gap in the barrier and behind it.

After the first dozen or so laps, the cars began to space out, the faster ones pulling away from the slower ones. There seemed to be fewer of them as well. Beverley picked up her tripod and case and climbed the steps behind her to head to her next location. It was a ten minute walk past the opulent stone and tall windows of the casino and opera house. Three other photographers were already there when she arrived. The spot was behind the rail at the top of the hill next to l'Hôtel de Paris. It was a terribly dangerous spot and in fact, thick black skid marks scrawled across the tarmac where one of the cars had crashed into the barrier during the practice the day before, the metal guard rail itself hammered and battered back into shape. She had been advised that it would be safer there later in the race rather than earlier when there were fewer cars left. She set herself up and moved her tripod just behind the barrier, to nudge her longer lens with the fourteen inch barrel between the rails and catch straight on closeups of the cars coming up the hill. She would be shooting into the afternoon sun but at least l'Hôtel wasn't throwing shade over the corner yet.

The first car to appear in her viewfinder was the blue and red striped seventeen. It popped up over the crest of the hill and she snapped it just before it careened around the bend before her, tyres shrieking in protest and leaving behind a trail of dirty exhaust for her to swallow. The next cars followed soon after and she shot them as they popped up and screamed past. Beverley felt safer running with cheetahs in the African savannah but that was what it was all about. If a photographer wanted the best shot, she had to dare. Her blood rushed and her skin tingled.

The next cars roared up the hill and crested the rise. She clicked, zoomed in and with aperture wide, clicked again. It was Luke with the yellow and black car just behind him over his right shoulder. As they passed, bits of rubber tyre flicked into her face. Beverley winced and wiped her eye with her wrist.

For the next few laps, the cars kept coming 'round spaced with irregular intervals and as her fear slowly subsided only her adrenaline rush remained. Beverley settled into the thrill of it all, snapping closeups of the drivers helmets, their gloved hands gripping their wheels as they wrenched their cars skidding left into the corner. She had never given car racing much thought before but being crouched behind the barrier up close to the action gave her an instant understanding of the spectacle and its appeal. Canaglia slowly stretched out his lead with the number two car in second place. The red cars seemed to be the fastest. Then on one particular lap there was a longer gap behind the leader and the next car up the hill was the blue number seven. She checked her pamphlet. Number two was a Canadian named Desbiens. He had apparently dropped out while Mike Pierce of Australia had been promoted to second place. Luke had left the yellow and black car behind and was now challenging the black and gold number three for third.