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Beep beep.
Wile almost didn’t see it at first, the bright blue Lambo rocketing down the highway so fast it was a blur. But his speedometer didn’t lie. The car clocked in at 150 miles per hour. That’s when he knew. There’s only one car in Albuquerque that can drive that fast, and only one driver so reckless as to actually push it to its limit. He had never seen the person behind the wheel before, but he knew the plates by heart.
RDRNNR. Personalized, like only an asshole with a Lamborghini would have. The car was bright sky blue with orange wheels and a sticker on the back that just said BEEP BEEP! Who the hell puts a sticker on a car like that, anyway? It’d almost be funny if Wile were richer.
Wile Edward Coyote had been a state highway patrol officer for ten years. Every day, he parked just off to the side of I-40 in Albuquerque. Every day, without fail, RDRNNR would speed by, always going at least 90 when the speed limit clearly read 65. Every day, he’d go chasing after the car, sirens blaring, pushing his poor old Chevy Tahoe to the brink of engine failure. And every day, the Lambo would outdo him, and he’d be left in the dust, breathing hard, and the Tahoe would start smoking.
Not today, he swore to himself. Today, he was going to catch RDRNNR. Just yesterday, he had received a new Tahoe– the newest model, in fact. It could drive at speeds up to 200 miles per hour without engine issues, and it could go from 0 to 100 in just three seconds.
Wile sprang into action; he knew he didn’t have any time to waste. His foot slammed into the gas pedal, and the Tahoe took off, leaving a cloud of dust and sand in its wake.
He knew the roads of ABQ like the back of his hand, so he was able to focus only on the car in front of him. All he had to do was get in front of RDRNNR and set up some road spikes to keep them from driving away. He took an exit onto a parallel road, putting pedal to the metal, completely ignoring the other cars. They had to stop when he approached regardless.
Wile managed to pull ahead of the Lambo by about a mile, so he drove back onto the highway. He didn’t have a lot of time before RDRNNR got ahead of him again. He rummaged through the trunk of his shop until he found the spikes, and ran across the highway as fast as humanly possible, setting the other end down.
Not even three seconds later, RDRNNR hurtled across the trap, either not noticing it or simply not caring about their tires. Wile winced at the sound of metal on asphalt as the car came to a sudden halt. Slowly, he walked toward the car he’d been chasing for a decade, one hand on his taser. He was pretty sure RDRNNR wasn’t a violent criminal, just a reckless driver, so he didn’t need his gun.
The window was already rolled down by the time he got there. And the person behind the wheel was not at all what Wile expected.
Wile E. Coyote was Native, of course. Apache, to be specific. He grew up on a reservation, but since his dad was a cop, he was lucky enough to go to school with the white people rather than attending the run-down school on the rez. White people, he had learned, are reckless. They don’t care about each other, they don’t care about their belongings, and they certainly don’t care about the land they inhabit. Combine that with a bright blue Lambo, and he was certain RDRNNR was going to be white.
But the man sitting before him, leaning back with his hands behind his head as if he hadn’t just had all his tires blown out, wasn’t white at all. He was Native, too. Diné, judging by the small woven flag hanging from his rearview mirror. Wile ignored the questions he had for the driver and stuck to his script. “Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”
The other man raised one dark eyebrow. “You didn’t pull me over. You blew out my tires.”
Wile rolled his eyes. Smartass. “Do you know why I had to do that?”
“You’re the officer. You tell me.”
“You were going 150 miles an hour,” Wile said. “License and registration, please.”
RDRNNR, who had a single feather braided into his long hair, shrugged and handed over his documentation. Wile read the name on the license carefully, committing it to memory. Wapi Naatsédlózii. The registration matched, so at least he wasn’t breaking the law that way. Wile handed the papers back.
“You’ve done this every day, ever since I joined the patrol. Were you breaking every speed limit in the world before I got this job, or are you specifically trying to torture me?” Wile asked.
Wapi frowned. “I thought we were just playing a game. I didn’t figure you were actually trying to catch me, Officer…” He leaned in, reading Wile’s badge. “Wait, your last name is Coyote? Seriously?”
“Isn’t your last name roadrunner?”
Wapi looked down at his license for a moment, then laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He paused. “Well, you caught me. What are you going to do now?”
Wile paused. He wasn’t sure, actually. He’d been so focused on trying to catch Naatsédlózii that he hadn’t really considered what he’d do after he did. Did he write a ticket? Given how many times he’d seen the Lambo break the speed limit, the fine would have to be pretty damn high. 584,000 dollars would be the low end, and even if Mr. Naatsédlózii could afford a car that expensive, Wile doubted he could pay a ticket that high. Plus, all the combined points added to his driver’s license would pretty much ban him from ever being able to drive in New Mexico again. Wapi hadn’t caused any damage to people or property; if anything, Wile had damaged property trying to chase him down. Sitting in front of him was a man barely two years younger than Wile, who had probably bought the Lamborghini the second he turned 18, who hadn’t harmed anything other than his own tires, and who was staring into Wile’s eyes with a look of guilt and a hint of fear. And he was cute. Surprisingly, annoyingly cute.
Wile’s resolve crumbled, and he pinched his nose, sighing. “Okay, I’ll give you one chance to explain yourself. Why, exactly, have you been doing over 90 on I-40 every day?”
Wapi’s face lit up with a grin. “It’s for my job.”
“What job could you possibly have that requires you to drive that fast?”
Wapi’s grin stretched wider, if that was possible, and he pulled out an issue of the Albuquerque journal from his glove compartment. It read, in the big, blocky letters typical of newspapers, Hometown Hero Naatsédlózii Wins United States Grand Prix, First Native American to Take Home Trophy.
“Wait.” Wile crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you were practicing this whole time?”
“Yeah,” Wapi said. “Because it’s F1, it’s better for me to practice on actual roads rather than a circular track. Also, I’ve gotten kicked out of every speedway in the state.”
Wile barked out a laugh. “And why’s that?”
“They hate fun.” At Wile’s look, Wapi huffed. “Okay, fine. I’m not good at driving on circular tracks. And for some reason, everyone who races me on a circular track ends up crashing. But I don’t know why they’re mad at me; I didn’t do anything!”
Wile rested one elbow on the roof of the Lambo, thinking. He didn’t want to throw Wapi in jail, nor did he want to fine him over half a million dollars. There had to be some way to resolve this issue…
Finally, the lightbulb went off. “Alright, Mr. Naatsédlózii, I’ll tell you what. Twice a week, I’ll section off a part of I-40 for you to practice on. Everybody else will take a detour, I’ll keep an eye on you, and you can drive as fast as you want. How does that sound?”
“Really? You’d do that?” Wapi asked. “Wait. Is that legal?”
“I’ll get a permit.”
“You are a lifesaver. Oh, and by the way, I go by Lucky. It’s my first name in English, and none of the other racers in Austin know enough Diné to pronounce my name, if any at all.” He rolled his eyes. “White people.”
One corner of Wile’s mouth quirked up in a smirk. “You are pretty lucky.”
“Certainly luckier than you, Officer.”
Wile shook his head. “Call me Wile E. Everyone else does.”
Lucky tilted his head to the side, looking more like his avian namesake every minute. “Is that because you’re wiley?”
Wile grabbed his radio from his hip, ignoring the other man. “Dispatch, this is Coyote. I’m going to need a tow truck at my location. Don’t worry, it’s not my shop again.”
“A tow truck?” Lucky’s brown eyes were wide with incredulity. “My car can’t get towed, it’ll damage the paint job!”
“More than putting a sticker on it?”
“Obviously.” Lucky crossed his arms, putting his feet up on the Lambo’s dashboard. “Does this mean I get to ride in the cop car?”
“Do you want to?”
Lucky shrugged. “That depends on whether or not I’m in the front seat.”
Wile thought. Patrol cars were very different compared to civilian cars, and not just because of the partition separating the backseat from the front. His Tahoe had a laptop attached to the passenger seat so he could search plate numbers while on patrol. He knew it could fold up, but he had just gotten the damn thing and hadn’t had time to read the entire manual.
He held up a finger, walking back over to his shop. After about a minute of clanging and muffled cursing, he came up to the Lambo, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You can sit in the front.”
Lucky clapped his hands, grinning. “Cool!” He exited the car, which gave Wile the opportunity to really look at him for the first time.
Shit, he’s hot. The ends of Lucky’s hair were dyed blue, and he was wearing a faded Damon Hill shirt(that he clearly cropped himself) with a pair of baggy jeans. His ears were pierced with silver and turquoise, and he was a good three or four inches taller than Wile. He reached back inside the Lambo through the window, grabbing a beat-up messenger bag, which he slung over his shoulder.
“Alright, Wile E., how long d’you think it’ll be until the tow truck gets here? I’m not leaving my prized possession out in the middle of the road,” he said, snapping Wile out of his haze.
He coughed, looking to the side. “Five minutes tops.”
Lucky hummed softly. “So,” he said, “Why are you a cop? No offense, but I’m not the biggest fan of the law.”
“Me neither,” Wile replied. “My dad was a cop, so it runs in the family. I chose to be a highway patrol officer instead of a regular cop because I didn’t want to have to deal with the legal system, and he almost disowned me.”
“Seriously? What a jackass. What did you want to do?”
“Mechanical engineering.” It was true. Wile had always had an affinity for machinery. Even as a child he would create elaborate traps. He had gotten into trouble at school for putting his bullies in cages more than once. He still made little things as a hobby: something to modify his shop, roller skates with rockets built in to make him go faster, things like that.
“You said he was a cop,” Lucky said. “Is he dead or something?”
Wile’s eyes widened. “Not yet, jeez. He’s retired.”
“So why don’t you quit?”
He shrugged. “It’s a part of who I am now. I don’t know who I would be without this job. Besides, I still make things on the side.”
“I would love a racecar-themed Rube Goldberg machine.” Lucky said, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.
Wile raised an eyebrow. “How much am I getting paid? I’m not doing all that for free.”
Lucky frowned, thinking. Then his face lit up with a grin. “If you build me this, I’ll go on a date with you.”
Wile choked on air. “Pardon?”
“I saw you staring at me. If this was a cartoon, your heart would be beating out of your chest. I’m not an idiot, Wile E. But you’re hot, and I want a Rube Goldberg machine, so I figured I’d use it to my advantage. So, what do you say? Friday at 7:00? I’ll pick you up.”
Wile shook his head. “Tomorrow is Friday. Your car won’t be back by then.”
“I’ll have to wait until Monday?” Lucky asked.
“Cops work on the weekend, you know,” Wile said. “It’ll be brought to your place on Saturday morning.”
“Saturday, then.”
A honk caused both of them to turn, Wile jumping slightly. The tow truck had showed up a minute or so early. The driver backed up to the Lambo, and Lucky climbed up on the driver’s side door(while the car was in motion) and knocked on the window. After they had rolled the window down, he said, “You listen to me. If my car gets dinged, you’re dead. If there’s a single chip in the paint, you’re dead. If I find anything wrong with it–”
“I’m dead. I get it, doc, no need to go ballistic.” the driver said. “I’ll take care of your car.”
“Good.” Lucky got down from the side of the truck, and he and Wile walked over to the Tahoe. He climbed into the passenger seat, looking at Wile with a smirk. “Alright, Officer. Take me home.”
Wile laughed. “As you wish.” He put the Tahoe in gear and drove off, the shop disappearing into the sunset.