It was true. I only stood out in this country because I was white, and because of my height. That anonymity was the initial appeal of moving down here. Having said that, my exit from racing had been a pretty big deal, and I could only imagine ESPN getting their hands on a copy of Pepper’s “Island of the Dolls” episode and airing a clip of me with the headline: “NASCAR Rookie of the Year, Jack Goff, Turned Paranormal Investigator for Mexican TV.”

“I’m not going on film,” I repeated.

Jesus stopped at a red light. I pulled up beside him. I was staring ahead at nothing in particular, going over the directions to Xochimilco in my head, when I heard the Jag’s engine rev.

I looked past Pita and saw Jesus grinning at me. He revved the engine louder and longer.

“Is he serious?” I said.

“Don’t you dare think about racing him,” Pita said.

“I’ll cream him,” I said, grinning myself.

Jesus started blipping the throttle, making the Jag go vroom vroom and sound sporty.

I depressed the clutch, shoved the Porsche into gear, and brought the engine up to 5k RPM.

“Jack!” Pita shouted above the noise. “You’re not racing him!”

“The road’s clear.”

“Jack—!”

Jesus jumped the start before the light changed. I dumped the clutch and nailed it. The tires let out a brief squeal, the revs went to redline. My head snapped back. Jesus’s head start had given him a fender length on me, but I gained it back on the shift to second.

We remained side by side through to third gear. I wasn’t worried because I knew I would out-per-mile him when I hit fourth.

And sure enough, by the time we were both in high gear, I’d put a car length on him with no trouble.

“Slow down, Jack!” Pita said.

Given I was doing ninety in a forty zone, and now two car lengths ahead of Jesus, I figured I’d proven my point. I let off the throttle.

Instead of backing down, however, Jesus ripped past me.

“Little prick,” I grunted, gunning it again.

“Jack!” Pita said.

We were approaching an onramp to the freeway that ran east-west across the middle of Mexico City. Jesus hit it without slowing. I did too.

Pita was still shouting over the roar of the flat-6—only now she sounded more scared than angry, her shrieks punctuated with “Stop!” and “We’re going to die!” But there was no way I was backing off. Not until I put the poser in his place.

Jesus and I moved into the left lane, passing traffic at more than a hundred miles per hour. I parked myself on his ass, riding his slipstream.