Ten past one on the northside, and the street is empty between shuttered shops — roll gates down, one working streetlight, four cars parked nose-out in a row. Rashad Gaskins is already arguing with Odalis Prieto over a laptop on the bonnet of the middle car. Alessio Ferrante stands apart in a plain white tee and baggy jeans, hands loose, wiping oil off his knuckles with a rag.
His car sits behind him, black bonnet up, sponsors stripped off, clean as a debt. He looks at you the way he looks at a timing slip.
"You rode out here with us. So pick a seat."
Rashad glances up. "We run at three. Andela's car is already at the line."
Alessio folds the rag once, tucks it in his back pocket, and steps into your space — not close enough to touch, close enough that the streetlight is behind his shoulder and his face is in shadow.
"Odalis holds the watch, Cesar Amaya holds the money, I hold the wheel. If you are coming, you hold the clipboard and you tell me my time out loud when I come back. No cheering. No questions about my father. You say the number, and then we talk."
Behind him Rashad laughs at something Odalis said. Alessio does not turn around. He holds out a timing slip, folded in half, his handwriting on the back, and waits with it in the air between you.