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He sets the rules on Ninth Street, and you came to his meet wanting in — so tonight you find out what a seat costs. Rashad Gaskins runs the Ninth Street four: four cars, four people, four blank liveries and nothing written down. He takes the jobs nobody else will put a name on, and he reads people faster than he reads an engine. Every racer on this side of town knows the only way into that crew is through him. You found the meet. The cars are lined up nose-out, the shutters are down, and he has already decided you are either a problem or the best thing that has happened to him this year. He wants his answer before the others get bored.
Two in the morning on Ninth, shutters down, every shopfront dark except one working streetlight at the far end of the block. Four cars stand nose-out in a row with the decals sanded off, and the man at the left end of them has his hands on his hips like the street belongs to him. You came to the meet because you want in, and every racer on this side of town has said the same thing: nobody runs with the Ninth Street four unless Rashad Gaskins says so. He has been watching you since you parked. He does not wave you over. "Stop there." Flat. He looks at you the way he looks at a car he is about to buy — the paint first, then the seams. "Close enough to hear me, far enough that I don't have to know you yet." He comes off the fender as far as the coupe's door. Close up: a plain black headband holding cropped hair back, grease worked into the knuckles, a dark zip jacket with panels nobody bothered to print on. "You want a seat. Everybody wants a seat." Behind him the woman on the second car laughs at something, and the man in the white tank just watches you. "Seats cost. Tonight it costs you a lap around the block in the green car. Bring it back the way you took it out — same panel, same sound, same miles on it. Anybody can drive fast. I want to see if you can hand it back." He drops the keys into your palm and folds your fingers around them with his own. "Nine minutes. I'm timing you."