Barbie held a hand mirror so Regina could admire her new hair style.

"I don't know, " Regina said with misgivings. "It's shaped exactly like one of those helmets the race-car drivers wear. "

"The newest rage, " Barbie beamed. "It's called a NASCOIF Isn't that just too chic? And you'd pay a pretty penny if you got one in a salon, assuming you could get an appointment or even on a waiting list during the race season. "

"If it's so chic, then why don't you have a NASCOIF?" Regina wanted to know.

"Oh, my features are far too delicate, " Barbie said. "Now let's get you in the tub. "

Thirty

Hooter was also devoting the day to getting ready for the race. She had spent hours unraveling her dreadlocks and processing her hair, which this minute was cooking under a snug head-rag as she glued on new acrylic nails that looked like long, curled American flags. Then she struggled into skin-tight black imi-tation-snakeskin stirrup pants, and over these she pulled on a pair of puffy silver boots that fastened with velcro and were designed to have an astronaut look.

Completing the ensemble required much careful deliberation, and she decided on a simple black tube top, and for the piece de resistance, the beaded jacket with Kodak, DuPont, and Pennzoil logos in bright colors that she had found in the NASCAR section of a knock-off fashion boutique on East Broad Street, between the Affordable Gun Store and the Nocheck Check Cashing and Pager Shop.

Andy was paying close attention to his attire as well, but not for reasons of vanity or sex appeal. He had never been to the Richmond International Racetrack and wasn't exactly sure what a drunk NASCAR fan might wear, but he figured the less conspicuous and more heavily protected and armed he was, the better. So he put on scuffed cowboy boots and baggy jeans that easily concealed a pistol in an ankle holster he fastened at a boot top, and over his body armor he wore a Redskins sweatshirt and leather jacket. He had been smart enough not to shave this morning, and with his stubble, ponytail wig, mirrored sunglasses, and a nine-millimeter pistol tucked out of sight in the back waistband of his pants, he felt secure in his appearance. Smoke wouldn't recognize him. In fact, nobody would.

He had just begun the process of splashing himself with beer when his doorbell rang.

"Who the hell…?" he muttered, slightly alarmed, because he certainly wasn't expecting company. "Who is it?" he gruffly said through the locked front door.

"It's me, " a muffled female voice replied, and at first, Andy did not place it and thought of the serial killer who had left the evidence on his doorstep.

"Who's me?" he asked.

"Hammer. "

"Wow, " he said in surprise as he opened the door. "I'm sorry I sounded rather unfriendly, but I had no idea it was you. I mean, I didn't at first. So I almost didn't recognize your voice, because I… "

The blood didn't seem to be flowing to his brain as he looked her up and down. Hammer was dressed like an Outlaws motorcycle gangster, all in black studded leather, black Dingo boots, and a Harley jacket. Slung over her shoulder was a Harley tote bag that no doubt contained a small arsenal. She had hardened her handsome face with gaudy layers of make-up, and her hair was teased.

"Don't give me a hard time, " she said right off as she walked inside the house. "The last thing I want to look like is a cheap motorcycle slut, but I had to do something. I'm just worried about our arriving by helicopter looking like this, " she added as she took in his disguise. "And we can't get any undercover troopers out to Tangier because the only pilots I have are you and Macovich, and both of you are busy, and the ferries aren't running because of the goddamn restrictions the governor has imposed because of your Tory Treasure essay. That's why I decided to drop by right away and ask you to consider if maybe we should reconfigure what we're doing. "

She followed him into the dining room, and they sat in his makeshift office. As Hammer noticed the computer, printer, filing cabinets, and piles of research materials, it gave her a strange feeling to realize this was the secret headquarters of Trooper Truth, even though she knew very well who Trooper Truth really was and where he worked and lived. It oddly occurred to her that even she had begun to bond with the fantasy writer and to wish she could meet him.

"This is ridiculous, " she said.

"I know, " Andy agreed. "I look pretty stupid and I'm sorry I smell like beer and haven't shaved, and you're probably right. A state police helicopter may not fit with our disguises. "

"What I meant was, it's eerie sitting in the place where you write your essays. I feel as if I've just walked behind the curtain and discovered the Wizard of Oz or am in the

Bat Cave or something. And I must say, a part of me is very disappointed because I think I must have started believing in Trooper Truth, too. Oh good God, don't tell me I was becoming a fan!" She shook her head and sighed. "I must be losing my mind. In the first place, I'm a fan of no one and think being a fan of anything or anyone is irrational and silly. Why would a rational human being inflate someone to Mount Olympian proportions, think they're a god, and hang up posters of them?

"How does it make sense for someone to adore and even want to go to bed with a perfect stranger?" she went on as Andy stared down at his hands, ill at ease and hurt that she had, perhaps, liked Trooper Truth better than him. "I guess what this means is there are probably thousands, if not millions, of perfect strangers out there who read Trooper Truth and worship him and entertain sexual fantasies about him, " Hammer continued. "I know Windy certainly feels that way, only in her case, she's convinced that Trooper Truth is at least eighty years old and has to use a walker. I guess the gig is up, " Hammer announced by slapping her hand down on the table.

"What gig?" Andy replied with a hint of pain and anger. "There's no gig and never has been. It doesn't matter what nom de plume I use or if I use one at all. I'm still the one who has written the essays. I am Trooper Truth!"

"Trooper Truth doesn't exist, " Hammer said.

"All right, let me ask you this, " Andy said, trying to regain his composure. "If you never thought of me as Trooper Truth, then who was Trooper Truth to you? Did you have some fantasy about him, huh?"

"We need to disengage ourselves from this pointless, inane conversation right this minute, " Hammer said.

"We've got a major operation about to happen and need to focus on that, for God's sake. "

"You're absolutely right, " he said in a steadier tone. "It truly doesn't matter to me that you are or aren't a fan of Trooper Truth or anyone, including me. I'm not a fan of anybody, either. Never have been, " he added as the telephone rang.

"Wooo! We got us a real problem, Brazil, " an excited Macovich said over the line. "The guv don't want to take the helicopter to the race!"

"You're kidding, " Andy said. "Why the hell not? You'll just have to talk him into it. Tell him for security reasons he must fly in… "

"It won't work. Seems like he's all of a sudden got it in his head he's gotta have a big litter box for this little horse he just got. I think that damn ugly pool-shark daughter had something to do with it. I ain't never heard something so stupid in my life, but there's nothing we can do. He's got troopers to fill the back of his limo with woodchips and we can't talk him out of it. So he and the First Family are going by limo and that's final. I got to drive him. I'm real sorry, I don't know what else to tell you. "

"But what about Smoke and the road dogs?" Andy protested. "What are they going to do when the helicopter doesn't show up to take them to the race? And they've got Popeye!"